“These men are your friends and know your secret,” whispered Posadowski
to the prince, as they approached Rukacs and Posnovitch, who were
standing boldly in the glare of an electric light by the side of the
carriage.
He who called himself Count Szalaki was somewhat paler than usual, but
his step was firm, and there was that in his bearing that caused a
pang of regret in the mind of his companion. It takes a very hardened
conspirator to cast youth into captivity without a touch of remorse.
“Rukacs, Posnovitch,” said Posadowski, in a low tone, as the quartette
formed by the sidewalk’s edge, “you know who this man is. What is our
duty toward him.”
“To protect him and defend him with our life-blood, when the need shall
come,” answered Rukacs and Posnovitch in concert.
Count Szalaki’s dark eyes glowed with the effort he was making to search
the souls of the men around him.
“What do you wish from me?” he asked haughtily, withdrawing himself from
too close contact with his companions.
“We have no time to lose, your—your majesty,” whispered Posadowski,
impressively. “It is growing late. If you doubt our sincerity, a short
drive will take us to my rooms. We have in our possession letters and
diagrams taken—to be frank with you—from certain of our countrymen living
in this city. These documents will prove to you that a plan has been
perfected that puts your life in peril.”
“Why did you not bring the papers with you?” asked the prince
suspiciously.
“It would have been a reckless thing to do,” answered the gigantic
Posnovitch.
Posadowski put up his hand deprecatingly.
“Allow me to explain,” he said, in a firm voice. “We dare not let this
evidence leave our hands. It would cost us our lives if your enemies
found that we had betrayed them. And they are very keen-witted. They
have placed you under surveillance at your hotel: if you examined these
documents at your rooms they would know of it, and our efforts to protect
you would be vain.”
Count Szalaki’s face wore an expression of bewilderment and uncertainty.
He was frank and unsuspicious by nature, but the atmosphere of a
court had done much to destroy that confidence in his fellow-man that
pertained to his temperament and his years. The men surrounding him
impressed him favorably. They seemed to him to belong to that class of
Rexanians—merchants and men of affairs who desired no change in the
government—who had always been in Rexopolis the firmest friends of his
house. But he hesitated to put himself in their power. In a strange land,
surrounded by customs and conditions with which he was unfamiliar, he
began to feel that he might be in even greater peril than that which
surrounded him at all times in the palace at Rexopolis. It was simply a
choice between two evils that confronted him, and he had about decided
to defy the danger which, he had been told, menaced him from a general
conspiracy, rather than place himself in a closed carriage with the
bewhiskered men at his side, when Posadowski, observing the prince’s
indecision, said:
“It is not surprising, your royal highness, that you find yourself in a
quandary. We say that we are your friends. That is no proof that we tell
the truth. But time is precious. We can wait no longer. I will convince
you on the instant that you can trust us.”
The arch-conspirator drew a letter from a pocket in his coat.
“One moment,” he said, moving nearer to the light, with the letter in his
hand. “Is there anything familiar to you in my face?”
The youth from whose grasp a throne was slipping glanced keenly at
Posadowski’s countenance.
“Truly,” he said, “I seem to have seen your face before. Your name is——?”
“Posadowski,” answered the Rexanian.
A puzzled expression crossed the prince’s face. “I thought,” he said
musingly, “that Posadowski died.”
“I did not die,” cried the other. “I left Rexania and came to this city.
Time presses. Here is a letter to me from your father. It will prove to
you that I have always been, as I am to-night, loyal to you and to your
house.”
The prince seized the letter that Posadowski had read to Posnovitch in
the elevated train.
“It is enough,” he exclaimed, smiling cordially as he returned the
epistle to Posadowski. “I believe that you are my friends. If you play
me false, great will be your punishment. If you are true—and I think you
are—your reward shall be worthy of my father. Come! Let us go.”
With a countenance that showed intense relief and a light heart that
beat with pleasure at the sight in that distant land of his father’s
signature, the prince entered the carriage. He was followed by Posnovitch
and Posadowski, who took the seat opposite to the crown prince. Rukacs
mounted the box beside Svolak. The latter, turning his horses around, hit
them a clip with the whip, and the vehicle bounded at a rapid rate up the
avenue.
There was silence inside for a time. Finally the prince, taking out his
cigar-case, offered it to the men in front of him. Posadowski refused to
smoke, but Posnovitch and the prince at once began to fill the vehicle
with the fumes of tobacco. The latter felt the need of something to quiet
his overwrought nerves. He found himself in a curious state of mind.
Fully did he realize that it was incumbent upon him to keep his attention
fixed upon his companions and his surroundings, for the position in which
he was placed had revived the suspicions that had beset him before he had
read his father’s note. But, try as he might, his will refused to direct
the current of his thoughts. He found himself dwelling with strange
pleasure on the events of the evening. The face of Kate Strong, with
its clear-cut features, brilliant eyes, and a golden glory of waving
hair, smiled at him in the darkness and made him impatient of the night.
He had come to America to study politics; he found his whole heart and
mind engrossed with a girl he had seen but once, and whom the conditions
of his birth placed as far out of his reach as if he had been born an
African slave. The prerogatives of royalty seemed to him at that moment
to be worthless. That he must wed for policy, not for love, he well knew,
and a spirit of rebellion against the hard fate that had made him a crown
prince arose in his soul. He puffed his cigar nervously as the thought
forced itself upon him that, while a duke might marry an American girl,
a king could not. His romantic face grew melancholy as his revery became
more sombre. The air was oppressive, and distant thunder added to the
dismal influences surrounding him.
Suddenly the prince aroused himself. Pulling out his watch, he saw that
the hour was late. The carriage at that moment was crossing a long
bridge, and the youth caught the gleam of lightning as it was reflected
from the water beneath them. His forebodings instantly reawakened. The
carriage had left the bridge behind it, as the prince placed his hand on
the knob of the door and said sternly to the silent conspirators before
him:
“Stop the carriage. I wish to talk to you before we go farther.”
A revolver in the firm grasp of Posadowski gleamed, as the lightning
flashed again, and the prince heard a harsh voice say to him:
“Be quiet! Make another motion, and there will be one king less in the
world. Do you understand—now?”