Prince Carlo’s face was pale and drawn and his eyes gleamed feverishly
as he turned from the ghastly sight in front of him and gazed at the
Rexanians who had thronged upstairs and into the room. Their presence was
a relief to him at that moment.
Posadowski pushed forward through the crowd of silent and awe-stricken
men. Approaching the prince, he said:
“Your royal highness, believe me, we did not know that this man,”
pointing to the prostrate form of the suicide, “had left the city.”
Prince Carlo turned toward the group, whose white faces in the flickering
light thrown out by the wind-pestered lamp seemed to haunt the room like
ghosts. The youth’s countenance was stern and menacing. He had held up a
hand and haughtily enforced silence upon the cowed conspirators.
“You know not, my countrymen,” said Prince Carlo, in a low, penetrating
voice, and speaking in the Rexanian tongue, “how deep is the grief that
stirs my soul. Yonder madman sought my life. His murderous hand was
turned against himself. Who shall say what power it was that intervened
to save me from his wrath? Do you call it chance? If such it was, there
is no God. But in my heart of hearts I know that in this room we see the
impress of a mighty hand. The fiat of the King of kings has been obeyed.
You plot to thwart His will. As well attempt to wound the stars with
stones! You hold me here a prisoner. You think, blind, feeble children,
that you can mould a nation’s destiny, can dictate to the Omnipotent
the future of a race: look upon the bloody form of that unhappy man and
learn the lesson that God reigns. Listen! There is a voice that tells me
that I must mount my father’s throne. It tells me that in the universal
plan that makes for higher things the part that I must take lies far
from hence. I am no tyrant: I do not crave the awful power that he who
wields a sceptre may usurp. My countrymen, I will be frank with you. To
live in peace in this fair land, to lose my name and all the burdens
that it bears, to forget that on my shoulders the welfare of a nation
rests—ah, this were sweet. But a sterner fate is mine. I must go back
to the land we love so well. I must some day take up the weary task
that falls from my father’s tired hands. I must sacrifice all things
that most men love to the long service of a people not yet fitted for
self-government. Think you that this is selfishness? I tell you that, if
my love of country and of duty were not greater than my love of self, no
power on earth could force me back to Rexania—to the land that offers
me a throne upon which no man can sit to-day in peace. A crown? A crown
of thorns awaits me. Power? Only so long as it is used in the service
of God and my people. Homage? The only homage that makes glad the heart
of kings comes from those who praise the man rather than the monarch.
Think not, my countrymen, that I am pleading to you for freedom. Whether
you grant it or withhold it now, it is sure to come. But when I am gone
you will reflect that I go not to a bed of roses, but to a couch made of
iron, around which mighty shadows lurk. Pardon me for so long detaining
you, but remember me in the days to come as one who forgives you in your
errors, and who bears you no ill-will.”
While the prince had been speaking, two men had joined the group at the
doorway, Ned Strong and Norman Benedict. They gazed with amazement on
the scene before them. Pushing his way through the yielding throng, Ned
Strong stood before the prince.
“Count Szalaki,” he exclaimed, extending his hand, “this is the last
place on earth in which I had expected to find you. But, as your host, I
give you welcome.”
“Mr. Strong!” cried Prince Carlo, in astonishment: “I do not understand.
You say I am your guest?”
Ned Strong smiled grimly as he cast his eyes over the group of startled
Rexanians.
“I fear,” he sad, sarcastically, “that my welcome cannot include so large
a party. I suppose,” he went on, addressing Posadowski, who had not slunk
back into the throng, “I suppose that Rudolph Smolenski is responsible
for your presence here?”
The arch-conspirator bowed sullenly.
“And who is this man, my guest—Count Szalaki?” asked Strong, sternly.
“He is the Crown Prince Carlo, heir-apparent to the throne of Rexania,”
answered Posadowski, a note of triumph in his voice.
Ned Strong turned and met the large, sad eyes of the youth who had
been relegated in his mind to that _terra incognita_ where frauds and
adventurers lurk and plot. The blood rushed to his face as he realized
that his recent words of welcome had been tipped with sarcasm wrought by
suspicion.
“Permit me to explain, Mr. Strong,” remarked Prince Carlo, quietly,
while Norman Benedict, glancing excitedly at his watch, pushed forward
toward the central group. “These men are dreamers. Less mad than yonder
suicide, whose death shall serve them for a warning and a sign, they plot
to change the laws of God and man. How they learned my secret matters
not. All that is essential now is that a power greater than earth holds
has rendered vain their plots and schemes and crimes. Let them reflect
upon the mystery that surrounds the ways of God. They brought me to this
house. Behold, I find myself the guest of the one man in many millions I
have cause to call my friend! One of their brethren breaks through yonder
window, bent upon my death. As I stand erect before him, the bullet that
was meant for me goes crashing through his brain! Oh, blind and foolish
children, learn that there are mysteries ye cannot solve. Plot no longer
to change the fate of the country you have wronged, a country that found
you faithless years ago and drove you from her heart. You love Rexania?
Then show your love by leaving to her loyal sons her future and the
future of my house. No man can serve two masters. Faithful to the land
of your adoption, you cannot also be of service to Rexania. Abandon your
plots and stratagems, and abide by the lesson of this night’s work.
Farewell.—Mr. Strong, I am at your service.”
Prince Carlo turned abruptly from his countrymen and placed his hand upon
Ned Strong’s arm. The latter looked about him for Norman Benedict, but
the reporter had disappeared.
“Prince Carlo,” said Ned Strong, “I will take you to the lodge, where my
sister will be very glad to renew her acquaintance with you.”
“Miss Strong is here?” exclaimed the prince, eagerly. “Indeed, the Fates
are kind to me to-night.” A smile of delight played over his pale, drawn
face.
“Will you wait here until I return?” asked Ned Strong of Posadowski.
“There are several matters about which I must consult you.” He made a
gesture toward a black shadow in a corner near the window.
“I will stay here with two or three of my men,” answered the
arch-conspirator deferentially. “We are truly anxious, Mr. Strong, to
save you from all further annoyance.”
As Prince Carlo and Ned Strong crossed the lawn and made toward the
lodge, they found themselves followed by several Rexanians, who clung
close to them but maintained a respectful silence. Suddenly Ned Strong
turned and faced them.
“What will you have?” he asked, angrily. “Is it not enough that you have
been kidnappers and housebreakers, without becoming permanent nuisances?”
“Pardon us, Mr. Strong,” answered the gigantic Posnovitch, deferentially;
“we have no wish to annoy you, but it is fitting that the Crown Prince
of Rexania should have a body-guard.”
Ned Strong placed his hand upon the arm of his royal friend.
“Your countrymen, Prince Carlo,” he murmured, “are strangely
inconsistent. They would crucify you at one moment and crown you the
next.”
“’Tis true, my friend,” returned the prince sadly. “They illustrate the
fickleness of the human race both in its dealings with kings and with
God. But God reigns, and kings still live.”
At this moment they entered the corridor of the lodge and groped their
way toward the room in which Kate Strong and Mrs. Brevoort listened
apprehensively to the sounds of approaching footsteps.