MORE HASTE, LESS SPEED.
The dawn came slowly. Night, loth to unveil what the valley had to
show, hung there long after the wooded knobs that rose along the ridge
had begun to appear, looking like grey and misty islands in a sea of
vapour. Many cried for the light--what night passes that some do
not?--but none more impatiently than a woman, whose unquiet figure
began with the first glimmer to pace the top of the hill. Sometimes
she walked to and fro with her face to the sky; sometimes she stood
and peered into the depths where the fires still glowed fitfully; or
again listened with shrinking ears to the wailing that rose out of the
darkness.
It was the Countess. She had lain down, because they had bidden her do
so, and told her that nothing could be done while night lasted. But
with the first dawn she was on foot, so impatient that her own people
dared not come near her, so imperious that the general's troopers
crept away abashed.
The fight in the valley and the dreadful things she had seen and heard
at nightfall had shaken her nerves. The absence of her friends had
finished the work. She was almost distraught this morning. If this was
war--this merciless butchery, this infliction of horrible pain on man
and beast--their screams still rang in her ears--she had seen enough.
Only let her get her friends back, and escape to some place where
these things would not happen, and she asked no more.
The light, as it grew stronger, the sun, as it rose, filling the sky
with glory, failed to comfort her; for the one disclosed the dead,
lying white and stripped in the valley below, like a flock of sheep
grazing, the other seemed by its very cheerfulness to mock her. She
was raging like a lioness, when the general at last appeared, and came
towards her, his hat in his hand.
His eye had still the brightness, his cheek the flush of victory. He
had lain much of the night, thinking his own thoughts, until he had
become so wrapped in himself and his plans that his shrewdness was for
once at fault, and he failed to read the signs in her face which his
own soldiers had interpreted. He was all fire and triumph; she, sick
of bloodshed and ambition. For the first time since they had come
together, she was likely to see him as he was.
'Countess,' he said, as he stopped before her, 'you will do yourself
harm, I fear. You were on foot, I am told, before it was light.'
'It is true,' she said, shuddering and restraining herself by an
effort.
'It was foolish,' he replied. 'You may be sure that as soon as
anything is heard the news will be brought to you. And to be missing
is not to be dead--necessarily.'
'Thank you,' she answered, her lip quivering. She flashed a look of
scorn at him, but he did not see it. Her hands opened and closed
convulsively.
'He was last seen in the pursuit,' the general continued smoothly,
flattering himself that in suppressing his own triumphant thoughts and
purposes and talking her talk he was doing much. 'A score or more, of
them got away together. It is quite possible that they carried him off
a prisoner.'
'And Martin?' she said in a choking voice. She could not stand still,
and had begun already to pace up and down again. He walked beside her.
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I know nothing about him,' he said,
scarcely concealing a sneer. 'The man went where he was not sent. I
hope for the best, but----' He spread out his hands and shook his
head.
'Oh!' she said. She was bursting with indignation. The sight of the
dead lying below had stirred her nature to its depths. She felt
intuitively the shallowness of his sympathy, the selfishness of his
thoughts. She knew that he had it on his lips to talk to her of his
triumph, and hated him for it. The horror which the day-old
battlefield sometimes inspires in the veteran was on her. She was
trembling all over, and only by a great effort kept herself from tears
and fainting.
'The man is useful to you?' he said after a pause. He felt that he had
gone wrong.
She bowed in silence.
'Almost necessary, I suppose?'
She bowed again. She could not speak. It was wonderful. Yesterday she
had liked this man, to-day she almost hated him.
But he knew nothing of that, as he looked round with pride. Below, in
the valley, parties of men were going to and fro with a sparkle and
sheen of pikes. Now and again a trumpet spoke, giving an order. On the
hill, not far from where they walked, a group of officers who had
ascended with him sat round a fire watching the preparation of
breakfast. And of all he was the lord. He had only to raise a finger
to be obeyed. He saw before him a vista of such battles and victories,
ending--God knows in what. The Emperor's throne was not above the
dreams of such a man. And it moved him to speak.
The flush on his cheek was deeper when he turned to her again. 'Yes, I
suppose he was necessary to you,' he said, 'but it should not be so.
The Countess of Heritzburg should look elsewhere for help than to a
servant. Let me speak plainly, Countess,' he continued earnestly. 'It
is becoming I should so speak, for I am a plain man. I am neither
Baron, Count, nor Prince, Margrave, nor Waldgrave. I have no title but
my sword, and no heritage save these who follow me. Yet, if I cannot
with the help of the one and the other carve out a principality as
long and as wide as Heritzburg, I am not John Tzerclas!'
'Poor Germany!' the Countess said with a faint smile.
He interpreted the words in his own favour, and shrugged his
shoulders. '_V[oe] victis!_' he said proudly. 'There was a time when
your ancestors took Heritzburg with the strong hand. Such another time
is coming. The future is for those who dare, for those who can raise
themselves above an old and sinking system, and on its ruins build
their fortunes. Of these men I intend to be one.'
The Countess was an ambitious woman. At another time she might have
heard his tale with sympathy. But at this moment her heart was full of
anxiety for others, and she saw with perfect clearness the
selfishness, the narrowness, the hardness of his aims. She was angry,
too, that he should speak to her now--with the dead lying unburied,
and the lost unfound, and strewn all round them the ghastly relics of
the fight. She looked at him hardly, but she did not say a word; and
he, following the exultant march of his own thoughts, went on.
'Albert of Wallenstein, starting from far less than I stand here,
has become the first man in Germany,' he said, heedless of her
silence--'Emperor in all but the name. Your uncle and mine, from a
country squire, became Marshal and Count of the Empire, and saw the
greatest quail before him. Ernest of Mansfeld, he was base-born and
crook-backed too, but he lay softly and ruled men all his days, and
left a name to tremble at. Countess,' the general continued, speaking
more hurriedly, and addressing himself, though he did not know it, to
the feeling which was uppermost in her mind, 'you may think that in
saying what I am going to say, I am choosing an untimely moment; that
with this round us, and the air scarce free from powder, I am a fool
to talk of love. But'--he hesitated, yet waved his hand abroad with a
proud gesture, as if to show that the pause was intentional--'I think
I am right. For I offer you no palace, no bed of down, but only myself
and my sword. I ask you to share a soldier's fortunes, and be the wife
and follow the fate of John Tzerclas. May it be?'
His form seemed to swell as he spoke. He had an air half savage, half
triumphant as he turned to her with that question. The joy of battle
was still in his veins; he seemed but half sober, though he had drunk
nothing. A timid woman might have succumbed to him, one of lesser soul
might have shrunk before him; but the Countess faced him with a pride
as great as his own.
'You have spoken plainly,' she said, undaunted. 'Perhaps you will
pardon me if I speak plainly too.'
'I ask no more, sweet cousin,' he answered.
'Then let me remind you,' she replied, 'that you have said much about
John Tzerclas, and little about the Countess of Heritzburg. You have
given excellent reasons why you should speak here, but none why I
should answer. For shame, sir,' the Countess continued tremulously,
letting her indignation appear. 'I lost last night my nearest relative
and my old servant. I am still distracted with anxiety on their
account. Yet, because I stand alone, unprotected, and with none of my
kin by my side, you choose this time to press your suit. For shame,
General Tzerclas!'
'Himmel!' he exclaimed, forgetting himself in his annoyance--the fever
of excitement was still in his blood--'do you think the presence of
that dandified silken scarf would have kept me silent? No, my lady!'
She looked at him for a moment, astonished. The contemptuous reference
to the Waldgrave, the change of tone, opened her eyes still wider.
'I think you do not understand me,' she said coldly.
'I do more; I love you,' he answered hotly. And his eyes burned as he
looked at her. 'You are fit to be a queen, my queen! And if I live,
sweet cousin, I will make you one!'
'Let that go by,' she said contemptuously, bearing up against his look
of admiration as well as she could and continuing to move, so that he
had to walk also. 'What you do not understand is my nature--which is,
not to desert my friends when they are in trouble, nor to play when
those who have served me faithfully are missing.'
'I can help neither the one nor the other,' he answered. But his brow
began to darken, and he stood silent a moment. Then he broke out in a
different tone. 'By Heaven!' he said, 'I am in no mood for play. And I
think that you are playing with me!'
'I do not understand you!' she said. Her tone should have frozen him.
'I have asked a question. Will you answer me yes or no,' he persisted.
'Will you be my wife, or will you not?'
She did not blench. 'This is rather rough wooing, is it not?' she said
with fine scorn.
'This is a camp, and I am a soldier.'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'I do not think I like rough ways,' she
said.
He controlled himself by a mighty effort. 'Pardon me,' he said with a
sickly smile, which sat ill on his flushed and angry face. 'Perhaps I
am somewhat spoiled, and forget myself. But, like the man in the
Bible, I am accustomed to say to some, "Go," and they go, and to
others, "Do it," and it is done. And woe to those who disobey me.
Possibly this makes me a rough wooer. But, Countess, the ways of the
world are rough; the times are rough. We do not know what to-morrow
will bring forth, and whatever we want we want quickly. More,
sweetheart,' he continued, drawing a step nearer to her and speaking
in a voice he vainly strove to modulate, 'a little roughness before
marriage is better than ill-treatment afterwards. I have known men who
wooed on their knees bring their wives to theirs very quickly after
the knot was tied. I am not of that kind.'
My lady's heart sickened. Despite the assurance of his last words, she
saw the man as he was; she read his will in his eyes; and though his
sudden frankness was in reality the result of overmastering
excitement, she had the added horror of supposing it to be dictated by
her friendless position and the absence of the last men who might have
protected her. She knew that her only hope lay in her courage, and,
though her heart leapt under her bodice, she faced him boldly.
'You wish for an answer?' she asked.
'I have said so,' he answered.
'Then I shall not give you one now,' she replied with a quiet smile.
'You see, general, I am not one of those to whom you can say "Go," and
they go, and "Do," and it is done. I must choose my own time for
saying yes or no. And this time'--she continued, looking round, and
suffering a little shudder to escape her, as she pointed to the valley
below--'I do not like. I am no coward, but I do not love the smell of
blood. I will take time to consider your offer, if you please; and,
meanwhile, I think you gallant gentleman enough not to press me
against my will.'
She had a fan in her hand, and she began to walk again; she held it
up, between her face and the sun, which was still low. He walked by
her side, his brow as black as thunder. He read her thoughts so far
correctly that he felt the evasion boded him no good; but the
influence of her courage and pride was such that he shrank from
throwing down the mask altogether, or using words which only force
could make good. True, it wanted only a little to urge him over the
edge, but her lucky star and bold demeanour prevailed for the time,
and perhaps the cool, fresh air had sobered him.
'I suppose a lady's wish must be law,' he muttered, though still he
scowled. 'But I hope that you will not make a long demand on my
patience.'
'That, too, you must leave to me,' she replied with a flash of
coquetry, which it cost her much to assume. 'This morning I am so full
of anxiety, that I scarcely know what I am saying. Surely your people
must know by this time if they--they are among the dead?'
'They are not,' he answered sulkily.
'Then they must have been captured?' she said, a tremor in her voice.
He nodded. At that moment a man came up to say that breakfast was
ready. The general repeated the message to her.
'With your leave I will take it with my women,' she answered with
presence of mind. 'I slept ill, and I am poor company this morning,'
she added, smiling faintly.
The ordeal over, she could scarcely keep her feet. She longed to weep.
She felt herself within an inch of swooning.
He saw that she had turned pale, and he assented with a tolerable
grace. 'Let me give you my hand to your fire,' he said anxiously.
'Willingly,' she answered.
It was the last effort of her diplomacy, and she hated herself for it.
Still, it won her what she wanted--peace, a respite, a little time to
think.
Yet as she sat and shivered in the sunshine, and made believe to eat,
and tried to hide her thoughts, even from her women, a crushing sense
of her loneliness took possession of her. She had read often and
often, with scarce a quickening of the pulse, of men and women in
tragic straits--of men and women brought face to face with death, nay,
choosing it. But she had never pictured their feelings till now--their
despair, their shrinkings, their bitter lookings back, as the iron
doors closed upon them. She had never considered that such facts might
enter into her own life.
Now, on a sudden, she found herself face to face with inexorable
things, with the grim realities that have closed, like the narrowing
walls of the Inquisition dungeons, on many a gay life. In the valley
below they were burying men like rotten sheep. The Waldgrave was gone,
captured or killed. Martin was gone. She was alone. Life seemed a
cheap and uncertain thing, death very near. Pleasure--folly--a dancing
on the grave.
Of her own free will she had placed herself in the power of a man who
loved her, and whom she now hated with an untimely hatred, that was
half fear and half loathing. In his power! Her heart stood still, and
then beat faster, as she framed the thought. The sunshine, though it
was summer, seemed to fall grey and pale on the hill sward; the
morning air, though the day was warm, made her shiver. The trumpet
call, the sharp command, the glitter of weapons, that had so often
charmed her imagination, startled her now. The food was like ashes in
her mouth; she could not swallow it. She had been blind, and now she
must pay for her folly.
She bad passed the night in the lee of one of the wooded knolls that
studded the ridge, and her fire had been kindled there. The nearest
group of soldiers--Tzerclas' staff, whose harsh voices and reckless
laughter came to her ears at intervals--had their fire full a hundred
paces away. For a moment she entertained the desperate idea that she
might slip away, alone, or with her women, and, passing from clump to
clump, might gain the valley from which she had ascended, and, hiding
in the woods, get somehow to Cassel. The smallest reflection showed
her that the plan was not possible, and it was rejected as soon as
formed. But a moment later she was tempted to wish that she had put it
into effect. An officer made his appearance, with his hat in his hand
and an air of haste, and wished to know, with the general's service,
whether she could be ready in an hour.
'For what?' she asked, rising. She had been sitting on the grass.
'To start, your excellency,' he replied politely.
'To start!' she exclaimed, taken by surprise. 'Whither, sir?'
'On the return journey. To the camp.'
The blood rushed to her face. 'To the camp?' she repeated. 'But is the
general going to start this morning? Now?'
'In an hour, madam.'
'And leave the Waldgrave Rupert--and my servant?' she cried, in a
voice of burning indignation. 'Are they to be abandoned? It is
impossible! I will see the general. Where is he?' she continued
impetuously.
'He is in the valley,' the man answered.
'Then take me to him,' she said, stepping forward. 'I will speak to
him. He cannot know. He has not thought.'
But the officer stood silent, without offering to move. The Countess's
eyes flashed. 'Do you hear, sir?' she cried. 'Lead on, if you please.
I asked you to take me to him.'
'I heard, madam,' he replied in a low voice, 'and I crave your pardon.
But this is an army, and I am part of it. I can take orders only from
General Tzerclas. I have received them, and I cannot go beyond them.'
For a moment the Countess stood glaring at him, her face on fire with
wrath and indignation. She had been so long used to command, she was
of a nature so frank and imperious, that she trembled on the verge of
an outburst that could only have destroyed the little dignity it was
still possible for her to retain. Fortunately in the nick of time her
eyes met those of a group of officers who stood at a distance,
watching her. She thought that she read amusement in their gaze, and a
pride greater than that which had impelled her to anger came to her
aid. She controlled herself by a mighty effort. The colour left her
cheeks as quickly as it had flown to them. She looked at the man
coldly and disdainfully.
'True,' she said, 'you do well to remind me. It is not easy to
remember that in war many things must give way. You may go, sir. I
shall be ready.'
But as she stood and saw her horses saddled, her heart sank like lead.
All the misery of her false position came home to her. She felt that
now she was alone indeed, and powerless. She was leaving behind her
the only chance that remained of regaining her friends. She was going
back to put herself more completely, if that were possible, in the
general's hands. Yet she dared not resist! She dared not court defeat!
As her only hope and reserve lay in her wits and in the prestige of
her rank and beauty, to lower that prestige by an unavailing struggle,
by an unwomanly display, would be to destroy at a blow half her
defences.
The Countess saw this; and though her heart ached for her friends, and
her eyes often turned back in unavailing hope, she mounted with a
serene brow. Her horses had been brought to the top of the hill, and
she rode down by a path which had been discovered. When she had gone a
league on the backward road she came upon the foremost part of the
captured convoy; which, was immediately halted and drawn aside, that
she might pass more conveniently and escape the noise and dust it
occasioned.
Among the rest were three waggons laden with wounded. Awnings had been
spread to veil them from the sun, and she was spared the sight of
their sufferings. But their meanings and cries, as the waggons jolted
and creaked over the rough road, drove the blood from her cheeks. She
passed them quickly--they were many and she was one, and she could do
nothing--and rode on, little thinking who lay under the awnings, or
whose eyes followed her as she went.