_'Twixt Cup and Lip_
He took her in his arms and she lay there very quietly, her head upon
his shoulder, in the lethargy of exhaustion. She clasped her hands
about his neck as a very tired child would do. The curve of her cheek
lay near his lips and, though he yearned to do so, he would not kiss
it. He did not speak to her, but was satisfied to hold her there in
silence. The feel of her heart beating against his, the warmth of her
breath as it brushed his bare throat, the perfume of her hair--those
things were enough now. After the last long weeks of doubt, after the
last day of gruelling fear, after the terror of the last half hour,
such things as these were soul-satisfying. So he allowed himself to
stand a few minutes there in this dark cell which to him had become
suddenly fairer than any garden. Then he spoke softly to her:
"Come," he said, "we will go out into the sunshine now."
She raised her head, looking at him through half-closed eyes.
"I--I don't want to move, David."
He unclasped the hands from about his neck and, placing an arm about
her waist, led her slowly out into the corridor. She followed his
guidance, resting her weight upon him. And he who had come into this
foul place in terror and despair walked out in a dizzy bewilderment of
joy. As he passed the open door of Sorez' cell he hesitated. The evil
prompting of his heart was to pass by this man--so to let him go
forever out of his life. He had but to move on. He could find a refuge
for the girl where she would be safe from this influence, but this
would not be possible if he stopped to take Sorez with them. Once the
girl knew the man was alive and in this condition her sympathies would
be so aroused that she would never desert him. Wilson knew that he
must decide instantly. To leave that prison without him was to leave
him to his death. He turned towards the cell door; he had promised.
The man had evidently recovered his strength somewhat, for he sat upon
the edge of the wooden bunk staring about him. He was alone in the
cell--the Priest was gone! On the whole, Wilson was glad of this. He
felt the better for not having the burden of his death, however richly
it was deserved, upon his hands. The girl apparently was still in too
much of a daze to recognize Sorez. Wilson spoke to him.
"Can you walk?"
"God," he cried. "Who are you? You speak English!"
Wilson repeated his question impatiently.
"If you can walk, follow me and I'll take you out of this hole."
The man tottered to his feet, groping with his hand along the wall.
"Here," said Wilson, overcoming a shrinking repugnance he now felt for
the man, "take my arm."
Sorez grabbed it and with this much help was able to get along. And
so, with the girl he loved upon one arm and the man he hated upon the
other, Wilson made his way along the slippery subterranean galleries.
He was practically carrying them both, but the lightness of the one
almost made up for the burden of the other. The only thing for which
he prayed was that none of those whimpering things he had loosed from
their cells should cross his path. This was granted; for all he saw or
heard he might have been treading the catacombs.
When he came again into the sunlight he was blinded for a second,
while the other two clapped their hands over their eyes, suffering for
quite a few moments intense pain. Except for being a bit pale, the
girl did not look badly. Her hair had become loosened and her gown
begrimed, but Wilson still saw her as she was that night when she lay
curled up asleep in the big chair. As for Sorez, whether it was the
pain of the torture or what, his hair, which before was an iron gray,
had turned almost white.
The three made their way across the courtyard and again into the
palace. He heard noise and confusion on the floors above. The halls
were rank with the smell of powder. As they went on they found the
floor covered with splinters, and on either side saw the panels rent
and torn as though by a huge iron claw. There was still hoarse
shouting and the occasional snap of a pistol above, which showed that
Stubbs had not yet succeeded in controlling the men.
He had no idea as to where it was possible to take the girl and Sorez,
but he hoped that he might come upon a room in the palace here where
it would be safe to leave them until it was possible to get out into
the city. Perhaps, too, if he reached the entrance, he might find
Stubbs. Sorez was beginning to weigh heavily upon his arm, and he
resented having to sacrifice to him any of the strength he needed for
the girl. So he staggered on to the very room where a short while
before he had fought for his life. But here he was checked by a noise
from without--cheering as from the advance of several hundred men. Was
it possible that reenforcements had arrived for the government? If so,
this meant immediate danger. They would exact vengeance swiftly and
surely upon any man known to be associated with the revolution. This
would leave the girl in as bad a plight as that from which he had just
rescued her. He shook off Sorez and, picking up the girl, started into
the small anteroom; but before he was out of sight the first of the
soldiers had sprung up the steps. With an oath three of the men seized
him and drew him back, the girl still in his arms, to the door. Jo
roused herself and struggled to her feet, facing the strange soldiers
without a sign of fear. Wilson reached his holster, but the girl
checked his hand, realizing, even in her torpid condition, the
uselessness of it. In a minute others flocked up the stairs and around
them with noisy demonstration, and soon, following these, the main
body of the regiment with a snappy gray-haired officer at their head.
The crowd, save for the two guards, gave way from before the trio and
left them confronting their leader. By some description of Danbury's
or by instinct, Wilson recognized him as none other than Otaballo.
This then was the main body of the Revolutionists! Before he had time
to speak Wilson saw that his own identity was beginning to dawn on
Otaballo. He stepped forward and spoke the single word:
"Americans?"
The effect was magical. The soldiers drew back to respectful
attention.
"Americans," answered Wilson.
The general spoke in broken English.
"How came you here?"
"I am with Danbury," answered Wilson. "The girl and the man were in
the dungeons below."
"Ah! These are the two captured by the--the late government?"
"Yes. I would like shelter for the girl. She is very weak."
"_Dios!_ you shall have refuge at once."
He turned to one of his lieutenants and in Spanish gave his command.
"In the name of the Queen seize the house opposite."
He turned back to Wilson.
"I will leave you five men; is that enough?"
"Thanks."
Otaballo at the head of his men proceeded to sterner business,
throwing out guards through the palace and making the victory secure.
Half carrying the girl, Wilson followed the soldiers across the
street. Two of them supported Sorez. The house opposite was empty, the
occupants having deserted it at the approach of the enemy. It was a
rambling, story-and-a-half structure, somewhat elaborately furnished.
Wilson placed a guard at the front and rear of the place with orders
to admit no one until he had first seen them, and then carried the
girl upstairs. She was not asleep, but so nearly numb with the strain
that she could neither think nor speak. It seemed to him that there
was only one thing to do--let her sleep. Rest at present was more
necessary than food. On the second story there was a fine large
bedroom, with a big bed covered with snow-white linen. He placed her
upon this.
"Sleep as long as you wish," he bade her, though he knew she scarcely
heard his voice. "I shall be outside."
Before he closed the door he turned and saw her breathing deeply with
closed eyes. It seemed only humane to care for Sorez. On the first
floor he found a divan and, with the help of the soldiers, arranged
him upon this, where he, too, was soon fast asleep.
Then he returned to the second floor and, lying down before her door,
was soon unconscious himself. How long he lay so he could not tell,
but he was aroused by the sound of shouting outside the house.
Springing to his feet, he listened at her door; there was no sound. He
opened it and looked within; she lay where he had left her, still
sleeping. Going to the window he looked out and was surprised to find
the street crowded with citizens. It must have been long after noon,
as he could tell by the sun. From all appearances this was some sort
of a patriotic demonstration before the old palace. He watched it with
indifferent interest until a closed carriage drove up. At this moment
he saw Stubbs himself step from the palace and at the side of Otaballo
approach the carriage. Here was his opportunity to make known his
whereabouts to his partner. He tiptoed to the stairs and descended to
the first floor. He warned the guard at the exit once more to admit no
one and hurried out to push his way to Stubbs' side. The crowd
recognized him as an American from his dress and opened up a path for
him. But even so he would not have reached his goal had not Stubbs
seen him and, with a glad shout of welcome neglected his diplomatic
duties to grasp the hand of the man he thought dead. At this moment
the princess herself stepped from the vehicle and, ignoring the
applause of the multitude, turned her attention to Wilson. She
hesitated a moment, and then addressed him, speaking faultless
English:
"Pardon me, but are not you one--one of Mr. Danbury's friends?"
"We both are," answered Wilson.
"Your name is----"
"Wilson."
"Ah, how fortunate! It is you of all men I wished most to see. If----"
A shout from a thousand throats rent the air. She looked dazed.
"If your Highness would bow," suggested Otaballo.
She turned to the gathering, smiled, and bowed. But her scant courtesy
was scarcely finished before her eyes were again upon Wilson and the
anxious look uppermost in them.
"I must see you," she commanded. "Follow me into the palace."
She raised the hem of her light dress and tripped up the stairs
looking more like a schoolgirl than a queen. Wilson and Stubbs
followed after Otaballo, who appeared somewhat worried. They entered
the palace, and at her request a guard led them into the privacy of a
small room--as it happened, the room which Wilson had twice before
visited that day.
"I asked you to come," she began a bit nervously, "because you seemed
to be the friend of whom Dicky talked to the last----"
"The last!" exclaimed Wilson.
"Oh, not that," she assured him, grasping his fear. "He isn't--isn't
dead. But you knew he was wounded?"
"No," he answered quickly, "I had not heard."
"Before the palace here and--he was brought to me. His wound isn't so
very serious, the doctor says,--it's in his leg and he won't be able
to walk for some time."
"I am sorry for him," said Wilson, sincerely. "If there is anything I
can do----"
"There is! There is! I have had him carried to his boat. He was
unconscious and the doctor gave him something to make him sleep."
"Drugged him?" he demanded roughly.
"Only so that he would go quietly. Then I gave the sailors orders to
sail back home with him."
"But why did you wish him to go back?"
"I must tell you, and you will understand. Oh, please to understand!
He wanted to--to stay and--and I wanted him to stay. I think if--if it
hadn't been for this trouble we--we would have been married. But
now----"
"Your station forbids it," he finished for her with a note of
harshness in his voice.
She answered very quietly--so quietly that it chided him.
"No, it is not that. He doesn't need any title men might give him. I
would have him King--but my people would only kill him. That is the
reason."
"Pardon me," begged Wilson. "I--I did not understand."
"They are very jealous--my people. He would have many enemies
here--enemies who wouldn't fight fair."
"And he made you Queen for this!" gasped Wilson.
"He didn't know--did he?"
"I should say not."
"Now I want you to talk to him if he returns, and tell him he mustn't
come back and get killed. Won't you?"
"I will talk to him if I see him, but--he will come back just the
same."
"He mustn't. You don't understand fully the danger."
"You couldn't make _him_ understand."
"Oh!" she cried.
She put her clasped hands to her hot cheeks a moment.
"If we could keep him away for a month--just a month. Then perhaps I
could let someone else--be--be here."
"You mean to abdicate?"
"Yes, couldn't I? The General told me that if I didn't send him away
at once you would all be killed; but perhaps later--when things have
quieted----"
"There will always be," he warned, "a republic in the heart of your
kingdom. The quieter--the more danger."
General Otaballo had remained in the rear of the room doing his best
to control his impatience, but now he ventured to step forward. He
saluted.
"Pardon me, your Highness, but they wait to make you their Queen."
"Don't! Don't!" she pleaded. "Leave me for to-day just a maid of
Carlina. To-morrow----"
"Your Majesty," answered the General, with some severity, "to-morrow
may be too late for all of us."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"That the situation now is a great deal more serious than your Majesty
seems to understand. We are victorious, yes. But it is as difficult to
maintain a victory as to win one. To-day the crowd throw up their caps
for Beatrice, but if Beatrice spurns them and ignores their loyal
cheers, it takes but a trifle to turn their thoughts the other way.
Let me escort your Majesty through the city; let me establish you in
the palace which has been graced by so many of your kin; let them see
you where their grandfathers saw your brave aunt, and the last drop of
blood in their veins is yours."
She pouted like a child, her thoughts still upon other things than
crowns of human make.
"But I don't want their blood. I don't want to be Queen. I want to be
left alone."
She looked out the window to the blue sky so full of gold and peace,
where the birds tumbled at will, their throats bursting with song.
"General," she said, "leave me to-day, at any rate. That is all I
ask,--just to-day."
"Your Majesty," he answered slowly, "it is not mine to grant, not
yours to take. Many things may happen in a night,--too many. There
will be much talking in the cafes this evening, many gatherings of
men, much afoot before dawn. The forces brought in by General Danbury
already belong to anyone who will pay them. It is not his fault,--they
fought well for their money; but now they are equally ready to fight
again for someone else. You alone can hold them to your cause.
President Arlano escaped us and is doubtless busy. If we gain the
crowd, we are safe against anything he may do; without the crowd, we
are in jeopardy. Once the people see you crowned--once they can shout
for Beatrice with her before their eyes, a living thing to fight
for--they are ours forever."
"But----"
"Your Majesty has not fully considered the alternative; it is that you
and I and all the brave men who fought to-day for you will be at the
mercy of Arlano,--at the mercy of the man whose father slew your
aunt,--at the mercy of the man who tortured to death Banaca. It is a
bloody mercy we would get. Beside your own, a thousand lives depend
upon what you do before night."
The girl drew back from him in fright. With the memory of her quiet
yesterday in the sun; the drowsy yesterdays which preceded it; with
the picture of this very man who in the past had never stood to her
for anything but a pleasant companion at tea, the present situation
seemed absurd and unreal. What was she that her insignificant actions
should be of such moment? She had but one object in mind: to place
Danbury without the power of all this strife, and she was even balked
in that. For the first time she realized fully what a serious crisis
he had precipitated. But it was too late for her to check its results.
If she went now with General Otaballo, it would leave no possible
outlet for her to avoid assuming the title of Queen; she must mount
the throne at once. To do this meant to give up the greatest thing in
her life. There was no possible escape from it. Only by renouncing
Danbury utterly, by keeping him from Carlina, could she save his life.
The only alternative was to fly, but this meant the sacrifice of too
many other lives dear to her. The loyal, aged man before her who had
thrown the remnant of his years into the cause was in itself enough to
banish such a thought from her mind.
And this was what Dick had come across the seas to accomplish. It was
a cruel jest of Fate. In his desire to secure for her all that he in
his big heart thought she deserved, he had cheated her of the very
thing her soul most craved. Yes, it was cruel, cruel. It would have
been easier if he had not told her of his love, if he at least had
left it a thing merely to be guessed at, a pleasant dream which she
could have kept always as a sort of fairy possibility.
Her cheeks lost their color as she faced the man who watched her with
fatherly solicitude. He stood waiting like some Nemesis,--waiting with
the assurance that she would act as all the royal women of her race
had always acted, bravely and loyally. From without there came a fresh
cheer from the impatient men who waited for her.
"You hear?" he asked gently.
Her lips scarcely moved.
"Yes, I hear."
For a moment she smothered her face in her hands. This meant so much
to her. It was not a matter of a day, a week, a year; it was for a
whole weary, lonesome lifetime. Then she faced him.
"I will come," she said.
He raised her fingers to his lips.
"Your Majesty has the blood of her race."
She turned a white face to Wilson.
"That's it," she said. "They call me Queen, but you see how helpless I
am. You must tell him this and you must not let him come back."
Otaballo held the door wide for her and she passed out. From the
bottom of his heart Wilson pitied her, but this very pity brought to
his mind that other woman whom he himself had left behind. He hurried
out of the building after telling Stubbs where he could be found, and
across the street. He took the stairs joyously, three at a time. The
door of the room where he had left her stood open. The bed within was
empty.