At the moment at which Norman Benedict had come to the decision recorded
at the close of the preceding chapter, a ceremony unprecedented in the
history of the New World had reached a crisis in Westchester County.
Rudolph, the lodge-keeper, who was more thoroughly Americanized than his
fellow-Rexanians—perhaps because of his long association with the stray
urchins who haunted the lodge gate—had characterized this function to
his fellow-conspirators as the “putting of a disorderly king through the
third degree.”
Rudolph’s phrase, however, was not quite accurate, for Prince Carlo
of Rexania, far from being disorderly, had become convinced, after
thoroughly investigating his environment and weighing the possibility of
escape, that his only hope lay in a diplomatic concession, for the time
being, to his captors’ wishes. It was not lack of courage and daring that
had caused him to reach this conclusion. He possessed not only a bold
heart but a clear head. But he fully realized that at the present stage
of the game his opponents held all the trumps. Examining his belongings,
after his luggage had reached his room, he found that all his money had
been taken from him. Even the loose change that he had carried with him
on the night of his capture had been removed from his pockets while he
slept.
Just how far he had been carried from New York he did not know. He
realized clearly enough, however, that, without money and unacquainted
with the customs of the country, he would be in a most embarrassing
position even if he could elude his vigilant guards and escape to the
city. He had sworn to his father to preserve his incognito, and to keep
from Rexanian consular and diplomatic agents the knowledge of his absence
from his native land. Prince Carlo was at heart a loyal reactionist, and,
having pledged his royal word to his royal father, it never occurred to
him that circumstances might arise that would make the breaking of his
promise justifiable. He possessed a kingly regard for truth that was
absurdly quixotic, and which hampered him in dealing with men who had had
considerable experience in American politics.
Shortly after three o’clock on the afternoon that found Ludovics too
loquacious and a newspaper reporter quite worthy of his profession,
the balcony jutting out from Prince Carlo’s sleeping apartments and
overlooking the Sound served as a stage for a one-act melodrama that
might find its place, perhaps as a curtain-raiser to a tragedy.
Kings there have been who sought the New World as an asylum from the
dangers that surrounded them at home. Crowned heads in Europe have bowed
in sorrow over events that have taken place on this side of the Atlantic.
Wherever monarchs rule, the very name of America sends a shudder through
the palace that shakes the throne itself. But never before, in the
strange, weird history of human progress, had a captive king gazed at the
blue waters of Long Island Sound and listened to the burning words of
those who denied his divine right to rule.
“It is well,” said Posadowski, glancing kindly at Prince Carlo, who was
seated in an old-fashioned easy-chair, around which the arch-conspirator
and his colleagues, Posnovitch, Rukacs, and Rudolph, had grouped
themselves, “it is well that we should come to an understanding as
quickly as possible. And, before we go a step farther, let me reiterate
and emphasize what I have told you once before, that there is not one of
us here who does not feel kindly toward you as a man. We are determined
that no harm shall befall your person. But we are bound, also, by another
oath. You must know by this time what it is. We have sworn that you,
Prince Carlo, shall never mount the throne of Rexania.”
The youth, whose clear-cut face was pale and drawn, gazed musingly at
the blue waters that grew gloriously cerulean as the autumnal sun crept
westward. Brushing the black curling locks back from his troubled brow,
he seemed to invoke the God of his fathers to give him strength in his
hour of trial.
“What would you have me do?” he asked, firmly. “State clearly your
wishes.”
Posadowski’s face was almost benignant, as his eyes rested sorrowfully on
the disturbed countenance of the prince.
“I regret to tell you, Prince Carlo, that your father is very
dangerously ill,” said the arch-conspirator, gently.
The young man sprang up from his seat in dismay.
“My God!” he cried, “can you find the heart to lie to me at such a time
as this? My father, the king, is not ill. You are deceiving me, for some
purpose I cannot grasp.”
Posadowski drew himself up to his full height and gazed at the prince
with wounded dignity.
“I do not lie to you, Prince Carlo,” he said firmly, in a low voice. “I
received a cable despatch in cipher direct from the palace this morning.”
Prince Carlo had sunk back into his chair, and was glancing feverishly
from one Rexanian to another, seemingly in the hope that one of them
would come to his aid and give the lie to Posadowski. But there was that
in the faces and manner of the men surrounding him that slowly but surely
impressed him with the conviction that he was not again a victim of
subterfuge—that what Posadowski had told him was indeed the truth.
The youth’s hand trembled and his cheeks burned as he felt the tears
welling from his eyes. Recovering himself instantly, he gazed earnestly
at Posadowski, as though he would read the man’s very soul.
“Do you mean to tell me that you are in communication with the palace at
Rexopolis?”
“I am,” answered the arch-conspirator, simply. “I have been for some
years past.”
The prince forgot for a moment that he was anything but a son, soon to be
fatherless, a son who had not been too loyal or obedient at the end.
“Tell me—tell me,” he implored, “is there no hope? Are you sure?”
“There is no hope, Prince Carlo, unless a famous specialist from Paris
can perform a miracle. To-morrow I shall know what this man has done for
the king.”
A sob broke from the overburdened heart of the youth, and tears of honest
sympathy filled the eyes of his countrymen. Suddenly Prince Carlo sprang
up, his face ghastly in its pallor and his eyes aglow with the fervor of
his hope.
“You will let me go to him? My countrymen, for the love of God, for the
love you bore your fathers, let me go to him! I must—I must see him
before he dies.”
Posadowski’s lips trembled and his voice faltered, as he said, “We cannot
let you go, Prince Carlo unless—unless——” His voice failed him.
“Unless what?” whispered the prince eagerly.
“Unless you will promise us to abdicate the instant your father dies.”
A dazed look settled on the youth’s face for an instant.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, hoarsely, “that you would take my
word for such a thing as that?”
A murmur born of suppressed excitement, perhaps of protest, broke from
the conspirators, but Posadowski raised his hand for silence.
“We would take your word, Prince Carlo. There is not a Rexanian in all
the world who would not.”
The youth’s face twitched with the effort he made to suppress the emotion
of mingled astonishment and gratitude that filled his soul.
“And yet,” he cried, “you would take from me my throne, deny my right
to lead the people I love, who love me! What madness blinds your eyes?
Would you bring ruin on the land you pretend to cherish? Think you that
there is in Rexania a republican leader whose word you would accept as
you would take mine? But I am too deeply grieved at the news you give me
to argue with you now. Plain as your inconsistency is to my eyes, this
is not the time to point it out to you. Please leave me for a while. I
must think—think—think. Wait just one moment. Do not leave me with a
false hope in your heart. Though my father—God be with him!—were dying a
thousand deaths, I would not, could not, blindly sacrifice the trust that
falls to my care to gratify your will, and gain my worthless freedom.
Better for me, better for you, better for Rexania, that I sink beneath
the waters of yonder sun-kissed sea than go hence a false and recreant
prince, damned for all time as a traitor, a coward, a renegade. Leave me
to my sorrow and my tears. Go, and may the God that loves our fatherland
speak to your hard hearts and lead you from the error of your ways. Go!”
Silently the four conspirators turned and left Prince Carlo to his lonely
grief. Their faces were pale with the conflicting emotions that tried
their souls. The gigantic Posnovitch trembled, as if with cold.
“He’s grand,” he muttered, as the quartette reached the lower hall. “He’s
every inch a king.”