“Go back to the city at once, and report here to-morrow afternoon at
four o’clock,” said Posadowski to Svolak, the gate having been opened by
Rudolph and the carriage drawn up in front of the lodge.
The arch-conspirator had left Posnovitch to guard the crown prince inside
the vehicle.
“Who is with you?” he asked hastily of Rudolph, as he placed his hand on
the handle of the carriage door.
“Ludovics,” whispered the lodge-keeper, very softly. “Look out for him.
He is drunk and desperate.”
A few moments later the four Rexanians—Posadowski, Posnovitch, Rudolph,
and Ludovics—surrounded Prince Carlo in the parlor of the lodge. The
prince’s face was pale, but his mouth bore a determined expression and
his gleaming eyes did not flinch as he gazed searchingly at his captors
in the dim light of the inhospitable apartment.
“I repeat, your royal highness,” said Posadowski, impressively, “that
you are among friends or enemies as you choose to make us. We are your
friends if you will conform readily to our wishes. We are your enemies if
you offer resistance.”
“Milk and water,” muttered Ludovics sullenly. Posadowski glanced angrily
at the overwrought revolutionist, but said nothing.
“I am to understand,” remarked the prince, haughtily, “that I am your
prisoner, and that I can obtain my freedom only under certain conditions.”
“Precisely,” answered Posadowski. “Those conditions we will outline to
you to-morrow. Rudolph, is his highness’ apartment ready for him?”
“Yes; we will go up to the house at once, if you wish.” The lodge-keeper
walked to a window and looked out into the night. “The rain has ceased,”
he said. Approaching Prince Carlo, he asked, with marked deference, “May
I offer you some brandy? You have had a hard ride, your highness.”
The prince hesitated. He felt cold, and a depression of spirits that had
not affected him in the carriage overcame him at this moment. Courteous
as these men were to him, he realized that they were determined and
dangerous characters, the ringleaders in a revolt that, ten years
before, had made them exiles. That they would take every advantage of
the opportunity that chance and his own short-sightedness had thrown in
their way he well knew. But of all the dismal influences that surrounded
him there was none that affected him so unpleasantly as little Ludovics’
gaze. He could not escape it. Whichever way he turned his face, he
realized that the piercing eyes of the undersized Rexanian were upon him,
pitiless, revengeful, unflinching. Meeting Ludovics’ glance as Rudolph
held out to him a glass half-full of brandy, a chill more penetrating
than any he had ever felt struck to the prince’s marrow, and he drained
the liquor eagerly. His hand trembled slightly as he returned the glass
to Rudolph.
“Before we leave this place,” said Posadowski, drawing nearer to
his captive and speaking sternly, “you must understand that you are
absolutely powerless. The guard around you night and day will render
escape impossible. The house to which we go at once has long been
deserted, and none but a few tradesmen ever visit this lodge. An exile
in Siberia is no farther removed from outside aid than are you, Prince
Carlo of Rexania. But do not imagine for an instant that your life is
in the slightest danger. You are surrounded by your own countrymen, by
those who admire you personally, while they detest the institutions you
represent—institutions that, I can well imagine, a man of your age and
intelligence cannot, in his heart of hearts, uphold.”
The pale cheeks of the captive prince turned red at these words. He drew
himself up arrogantly, and the spirit of a regal ancestry gleamed in his
dark eyes as they rested defiantly upon the first man who had ever dared
to question his loyalty to monarchy.
“Have done!” he cried, imperiously. “Powerless though I may be, there are
words on your lips that I must refuse to hear.”
“Coward! coward!” shrieked Ludovics. “A king is always a coward! You’re
afraid of the truth! Coward! Coward!”
The gigantic Posnovitch placed his hand over the dwarfish drunkard’s
mouth.
“Put him to bed, and keep him there, Posnovitch,” cried Posadowski
savagely. “If he makes any noise thrash him. Come, Rudolph, we will
conduct Prince Carlo to his room.”
Ludovics glared madly at Posadowski. Twisting, with an agility begotten
by alcoholic stimulants, out of the grasp of Posnovitch, he made a
dash for the table, and, seizing the brandy bottle, would have dashed
it against the head of the crown prince if Rudolph had not stayed his
murderous hand at the last moment.
“We leave him to you,” said the lodge-keeper, stolidly, as he placed the
struggling Ludovics in the grip of Posnovitch again. “Don’t let him play
you the same trick twice.”
With Posadowski on one side of him and Rudolph on the other side, Prince
Carlo left the lodge and turned his weary steps toward the gloomy house
at the end of the driveway. The rain no longer fell, but the night was
black and oppressive, and now and again the lightning gleamed fitfully
across the distant waters of the sound. There was no invigoration in the
atmosphere. The storm had left in its trail a moisture that seemed to
take uncanny pleasure in emphasizing the heat. But, in spite of all this,
Prince Carlo felt again that grewsome sensation of cold that had affected
his nerves in the rooms they had just left. As the trio mounted the
broad steps that led to the piazza, beneath which gloomy shadows lurked,
this feeling of chilliness increased, and it was only by a strong effort
of will that he saved himself from trembling beneath the grasp of his
conductors.
Three men met them at the main entrance. “Silence!” cried Posadowski
to the Rexanians in the hall-way. “Two of you remain here. We will go
upstairs at once.”
One of the conspirators stalked up the broad staircase in front of the
prince and his companions. A lamp gleamed dimly at the landing, and,
grasping it as he turned into the upper hall-way, their conductor led
them through a doorway into a large, gloomy sleeping-room at the rear of
the house. The apartment exhibited signs of long disuse, disguised in
part by a hasty attempt to make it inhabitable. The old-fashioned bed
was made up with linen furnished by the lodge-keeper. The faded hangings
in front of the windows had been pulled back to conceal their tattered
condition, and, had it not been for the damp and heavy atmosphere of the
room, it would have presented many welcome features to a very weary man.
“Here we leave you, Prince Carlo,” remarked Posadowski, in a low voice.
“If our hospitality is lacking in luxuries, believe me, it is not our
fault. I assure you it is my sincere hope that you will rest well; for
there are weighty matters to be decided between us to-morrow. Good-night,
your royal highness; good-night.”
Prince Carlo bent his head slightly in recognition of the
arch-conspirator’s last words, and on the instant found himself alone.
The sound of a closing door and of a key turned in the old-fashioned lock
echoed drearily through the house as the prince stepped hurriedly to one
of the windows and attempted to raise it to air the room. The window was
locked. What it meant to be a prisoner broke darkly upon the young man’s
mind, and he threw himself in despair upon the bed and moaned in utter
misery.