A STRANGE ACCUSATION.
Meanwhile how fared it with Cecil, and what was now his fate?
He had permitted the cold, damp earth to be heaped upon him, only
moving sufficiently--unseen in the gloom of the night and of the hole
wherein he lay--to keep his body, though partially buried, from being
so entirely; fortunately, the would-be assassins were satisfied that
they had effectually concealed him from the troops, who were
certainly in motion close by, and then retired for a time, intending,
as they stated, to return shortly, and make sure of their prey.
The moment they were gone, though scarcely daring to breathe, and
oblivious of many a sore and bruise, of which he became conscious
hours after, Cecil rose, clambered out of the hollow, shook his
clothes as free as possible of the soil that had covered him, secured
his pistols in his belt anew, and on looking to his sword, thanked
heaven that, in his fall, the steel scabbard had saved the blade from
injury.
Drawing a long breath, a sigh of relief, he prepared for immediate
flight, though giddy, bruised, and weak. Lights were flitting to and
fro in the farmhouse close by, and he could actually hear the voices
of Guebhard and his Montenegrins, so not a moment was to be lost in
retiring. Even the farmer and his people were to be sedulously
avoided, and though Cecil did think of his horse, it was chiefly with
reference to the impossibility of recovering it.
A sound made him shrink behind a bush, and then he saw one of his
late assailants creeping towards the hole, softly, slowly,
stealthily, on his hands and knees, with a yataghan in his teeth, and
his eyes turned more than once towards the house from which he had
stolen on deadly intent, to anticipate his leader and companions, by
finishing off their victim if any life remained in him, and obtaining
the valuable diamond ring of Palenka, the despatches and other
plunder.
A moment he paused in his progress, irresolutely, for the voice of a
cuckoo, roused by the recent noise, was now heard in a tree close by;
and the Black Mountaineer, affrighted by an idea of the _vila_, which
often assumes, as the Servians also believe, the form of that bird,
let the yataghan fall from his mouth.
Ere he could pick it up, Cecil, whose blood was now at fever-heat,
passed his sword twice furiously through the body of the wretch, with
his foot spurned it head-long into the hole (where, to the
bewilderment of Guebhard and his ruffians, it was found some time
after), and then, animated by a species of despairing energy, he
hurried, breathless and panting, stumbling heavily at every step,
into the thick wood that lay near, intent only on immediate escape
and concealment for a time--at least till day broke, and he could
look about him; nor did he pause in his flight until he felt assured
that some miles lay between him and his enemies.
A great weariness, the result of long and over exertion of mind and
body, came over him; and on finding a dry and sheltered place, under
the branches of a great laurel bush or tree, he fell fast asleep,
fearless of the wild hogs, of which vast numbers feed in the woods.
When he awoke, stiff and benumbed, a silvery mist was rising from the
dark green foliage of the forest, and above the mist was the blue sky
and the clear bright morning sunshine, as he began to search for a
path, which he hoped might lead him to a highway, though such he
knew, in Servia, were only to be found in the neighbourhood of towns.
The sound of a cavalry trumpet at no great distance caught his ear.
It gave him a species of electric shock, and he remembered, that to
the fears expressed by Guebhard of troops being in the vicinity, he
no doubt owed his life. He pressed eagerly, anxiously forward in the
direction whence the sound had come, the rabbits scuttling briskly
out of his way, as he hurried along a narrow track; and at length he
was rewarded by reaching a regular beaten road, on which was a long
string of horses and mules laden with provisions, forage, and stores,
proceeding under an escort of Russian Lancers from Belgrade to the
front--direct to Tchernaieff's headquarters, as the officer in
command--a _capitan_--informed him.
The latter, a handsome man, kid-gloved and glazed booted, wore a very
dashing uniform; a green tunic, piped with scarlet, faced with black
velvet and laced with gold, and on his breast glittered the medals he
had won in the expeditions to Khiva and elsewhere, with the orders of
St. Andrew and St. Vladimir.
Cecil made his position, his wants, and his recent troubles known in
French, which the Ruski spoke fluently. The latter summoned a
sergeant, who procured a horse and some food--_i.e._, biscuits and
brandy--for Cecil; and now his heart grew lighter as he rode on and
felt himself in perfect safety, but not the less intent on having
public or private vengeance upon Captain Mattei Guebhard.
He saw once more the Morava, and after a few hours' riding, was
thankful when the escort passed the outposts of the Russo-Servian
army at Deligrad, and he could proceed without delay to the quarters
of General Tchernaieff.
Inspired more than he had ever been since he came to Servia by the
sights and sounds around him--the tents, the huts, the batteries of
artillery with their limbers all drawn up wheel to wheel; the
cavalry, their horses picketed in close ranks or at exercise upon the
plateau; the strains of a magnificent Russian band playing the 'Blue
Danube,' and then the 'Manolo'--he ceased to think or question
himself, like Mr. Mallock, 'Is life worth living?' He was too young
yet to find that there was nothing in it. Since that bright summer
day when Warren Hastings, 'then just seven years of age,' as we are
told, 'lay on the bank of a rivulet, which flows through the old
domain of his house to join the Isis,' and registered a vow that he
would, one day, be lord of Daylesford, how many vows of anticipated
honours, wealth and greatness have been registered, that may never
have been fulfilled!
But some such emotion--some such hope of a brilliant future, swelled
up in the heart of Cecil, as he dismounted from his horse at the door
of an edifice, two sentinels before which, and the Russian flag
flying thereon, indicating it to be the headquarters of General
Tchernaieff.
Officers and orderlies belonging to every arm of the service, horse,
foot, artillery, engineers, hospitals and ambulances, were passing in
and out, when Cecil sent in his name to the general, who had just
come from vespers in the little iron church, which had been sent to
him by the ladies of Moscow, and in which he had been depositing two
or three standards recently taken from the Turks, prior to their
transmission to the Emperor at St. Petersburg.
Cecil's jaded aspect, his tattered uniform, soiled, sodden, and of no
particular colour now, for the brown of the tunic and the scarlet of
the facings and braid were all of one dingy hue, attracted some
attention among the gorgeous, and almost fantastic, costumes of the
Russian staff and cavalry officers in the ante-room, through which he
was quickly ushered into the presence of Tchernaieff.
The latter, who wore a short, brown shell-jacket, with a rolling
collar laced with gold, and crimson overalls, was smoking a huge pipe
and seated at a table littered with papers and printed journals, from
which he started up as Cecil entered, and, drawing himself up to the
full height of his short pudgy figure, while all his short, stubbly
hair seemed to bristle, and his wiry moustaches to stick out like
those of a cat, he eyed him with considerable sternness, indignation,
and surprise, mingled in a face that was never at any time a very
handsome one.
Count Palenka, who was writing at the table, laid down his pen and
eyed Cecil with cold hauteur, even hostility, and did not accord him
the vestige of a recognition.
'What on earth can be in the wind now?' thought the latter, as his
late bright hopes vanished into thin smoke. Mechanically he took the
despatches from his sabretache, and said respectfully:
'I have the honour to deliver to your excellency these documents,
entrusted to me by his Majesty the King.'
'His Majesty the King does not owe you many thanks for the haste you
have made!' replied Tchernaieff, as he somewhat rudely snatched the
papers from Cecil's hand, while his eyes literally glared at him.
'I do not understand this bearing of yours, general,' said he,
haughtily.
'You may understand, however, Herr Lieutenant, that you loitered for
many days idly at Palenka.'
'A dislocated arm--dislocated when fording the Morava--detained me
there.'
'A likely story, truly,' said Tchernaieff, with growing indignation;
'why ford a river that has bridges, and why the devil ford it at all,
before coming to the town of Tjuprija?'
'I lost the direct road and fell into the river in the night. The
family of the Count----'
'Knew not that they were harbouring a traitor,' said Palenka, grimly.
'A traitor, Herr Count!' exclaimed Cecil.
'I have said it; so don't repeat my words.'
'There must be some strange misconception in all this,' replied
Cecil, more bewildered than indignant, perhaps; 'the way was
beset----'
'By Captain Mattei Guebhard,' interrupted Tchernaieff.
'You know it!'
'From his own lips. He is now in camp, and very properly and duly
reported to me that he had done so; but that you escaped him, he
knows not how, after killing one of his men, and causing, by
misadventure, the death of another.'
Cecil was more and more bewildered by the strange candour of Guebhard
in acknowledging the outrageous conduct of which he had been guilty;
but the injurious treatment now so unexpectedly accorded him, after
all he had undergone, filled him with just anger and indignation.
'Who dares to accuse me of wrong, or even of error?' he demanded.
'That you will discover in time.'
'Of what am I accused?' he continued.
'That also you will learn in time; and in time you may see the mines
of Siberia, if you escape death! Meanwhile you will withdraw, and
remain under close arrest. Count Palenka, take his sword.'
'The officer of the nearest guard can do that. Your excellency must
hold me excused,' was the haughty and contemptuous reply of Palenka;
and a few minutes afterwards Cecil found himself disarmed and a
prisoner under close arrest, with special sentries guarding the door
of the house, in an apartment of which he was left to his own bitter
and confused thoughts.
That he was the victim of some strange and malevolent report made by
Guebhard to the general and Count Palenka, he could not doubt; but of
what nature could that slander be? Palenka had called him a
'traitor.' He could only be so to King Milano Obrenovitch, and he
felt certain that no act of his own could draw such an epithet upon
him, so to Guebhard now did the whole tide of his fury turn.