In travelling either with Pharos or in search of him it was necessary to
accustom oneself to rapid movement. I was in London on June 7th, and had
found him in Naples three days later; had reached Cairo in his company
on the 18th of the same month, and was four hundred and fifty miles up
the Nile by the 27th. I had explored the mysteries of the great Temple
of Ammon as no other Englishman, I feel convinced, had ever done; had
been taken seriously ill, recovered, returned to Cairo, travelled thence
to rejoin the yacht at Port Said; had crossed in her to Constantinople,
journeyed by the Orient Express to Vienna, and on the morning of July
15th stood at the entrance to the Teyn Kirche in the wonderful old
Bohemian city of Prague.
From this itinerary it will be seen that the grass was not allowed to
grow under our feet. Indeed, we had scarcely arrived in any one place
before our remorseless leader hurried us away again. His anxiety to
return to Europe was as great as it had been to reach Egypt. On land the
trains could not travel fast enough; on board the yacht his one cry was,
"Push on, push on!" What this meant to a man like myself, who had lately
come so perilously near death, I must leave you to imagine. Indeed,
looking back upon it now, I wonder that I emerged from it alive. Looked
at from another light, I believe I could not have done so but for
Pharos. Callous as he had been to my sufferings hitherto, he could
scarcely do enough for me now. His first inquiry in the morning was as
to how I felt, and his last injunction at night was to the effect that
if I felt any return of fever I was to communicate with him immediately.
From this show of consideration on his part it would probably be argued
that I should at least have felt some gratitude toward himself. The
contrary, however, was the case. Ever since he had announced the death
of the Arab to me my fear and dislike of him had been intensified rather
than diminished. I was afraid of him very much in the same way as a man
is afraid of a loathsome snake, and yet with that fear there was a
peculiar fascination which I was powerless to resist.
We had reached Constantinople early on Thursday morning and had left for
Vienna at four o'clock in the afternoon. In the latter place we had
remained only a few hours, had caught the next available train, and
reached Prague the following morning. What our next move would be I had
not the least idea, nor did Pharos enlighten me upon the subject. Times
out of number I made up my mind that I would speak to him about it and
let him see that I was tired of so much travelling, and desired to
return to England forthwith. But I could not leave Valerie, and whenever
I began to broach the subject my courage deserted me, and it did not
require much self-persuasion to make me put the matter off for a more
convenient opportunity.
Of the Fraeulein Valerie, up to the time of our arrival in the city there
is little to tell. She had evidently been informed of my illness at
Karnak, for when I returned to the steamer she had arranged that
everything should be in readiness for my reception. By the time we
reached Cairo again I was so far recovered as to be able to join her on
deck, but by this time a curious change had come over her, she was more
silent and much more reserved than heretofore, and when we reached the
yacht spent most of her days in her own cabin, where I could hear her
playing to herself such wild, sad music that to listen to it made me
feel miserable for hours afterward. With Pharos, however, it was
entirely different. He, who had once been so morose, now was all smiles,
while his inseparable companion, the monkey, Pehtes, for whom I had
conceived a dislike that was only second to that I entertained for his
master, equalled if he did not excel him in the boisterousness of his
humour.
At the commencement of this chapter I have said that on this particular
morning, our first in Prague, I was standing before the doors of the
Teyn Kirche, beneath the story of the Crucifixion as it is told there in
stone. My reason for being there will be apparent directly. Let it
suffice that when I entered the sacred building I paused, thinking how
beautiful it was, with the sunshine straggling in through those
wonderful windows which in bygone days had looked down on the burial of
Tycho Brahe, and had in all probability seen John of Nepomuc standing in
the pulpit. Their light illumined the grotesque old organ with its
multitude of time-stained pipes and dingy faded ornaments, and
contrasted strangely with that of the lamps and candles burning before
the various altars and shrines. Of all the churches of Europe there is
not one that affects me so deeply as this famous old Hussite building.
With the exception, however, of myself and a kneeling figure near the
entrance to the Marian Capelle, no worshippers were in the church. I
stood for a moment looking round the building. Its vague suggestion of
sadness harmonised with my own feelings, and I wondered if, among all
those who had worshipped inside its walls since the days when the German
merchants had first erected it, there had ever been one who had so
strange a story to tell as myself. At last, having screwed my courage to
the sticking point, I made my way down the nave between the carved,
worm-eaten pews, and approached the figure I have referred to above.
Though I could not see her face, I knew that it was Valerie. Her head
was bent upon her hands and her shoulders shook with emotion. She must
have heard my step upon the stones, for she suddenly looked up, and
seeing me before her, rose from her knees and prepared to leave the pew.
The sight of her unhappiness affected me keenly, and when she reached
the spot where I was standing I could control myself no longer. For the
last few weeks I had been hard put to it to keep my love within bounds,
and now, under the influence of her grief, it got the better of me
altogether. She must have known what was coming, for she stood before me
with a troubled expression in her eyes.
"Mr. Forrester," she began, "I did not expect to see you. How did you
know that I was here?"
"Because I followed you," I answered unblushingly.
"You followed me?" she said.
"Yes, and I am not ashamed to own it," I replied. "Surely you can
understand why?"
"I am afraid I do not," she answered, and as she did so she took a step
away from me, as if she were afraid of what she was going to hear.
"In that case there is nothing left but for me to tell you," I said, and
approaching her I took possession of the slender hand which rested upon
the back of the pew behind her. "I followed you, Valerie, because I love
you, and because I wished to guard you. Unhappily we have both of us the
best of reasons for knowing that we are in the power of a man who would
stop at nothing to achieve any end he might have in view. Did you hear
me say, Valerie, that I love you?"
From her beautiful face every speck of colour had vanished by this time;
her bosom heaved tumultuously under the intensity of her emotion. No
word, however, passed her lips. I still held her hand in mine, and it
gave me courage to continue when I saw that she did not attempt to
withdraw it.
"Have you no answer for me?" I inquired, after the long pause which had
followed my last speech. "I have told you that I love you. If it is not
enough I will do so again. What better place could be found for such a
confession than this beautiful old church, which has seen so many lovers
and has held the secrets of so many lives. Valerie, I believe I have
loved you since the afternoon I first saw you. But since I have known
you and have learnt your goodness that love has become doubly strong."
"I can not hear you," she cried, almost with a sob, "indeed, I can not.
You do not know what you are saving. You have no idea of the pain you
are causing me."
"God knows I would not give you pain for anything," I answered. "But now
you _must_ hear me. Why should you not? You are a good woman, and I am,
I trust, an honest man. Why, therefore, should I not love you? Tell me
that."
"Because it is madness," she answered in despair. "Situated as we are we
should be the last to think of such a thing. Oh, Mr. Forrester, if only
you had taken my advice, and had gone away from Naples when I implored
you to do so, this would not have happened."
"If I have anything to be thankful for it is that," I replied fervently.
"I told you then that I would not leave you. Nor shall I ever do so
until I know that your life is safe. Come, Valerie, you have heard my
confession, will you not be equally candid with me. You have always
proved yourself my friend. Is it possible you have nothing more than
friendship to offer me?"
I knew the woman I was dealing with. Her beautiful, straightforward
nature was incapable of dissimulation.
"Mr. Forrester, even if what you hope is impossible, it would be unfair
on my part to deceive you," she said. "I love you, as you are worthy to
be loved, but having said that I can say no more. You must go away and
endeavour to forget that you ever saw so unhappy a person as myself."
"Never," I answered, and then dropping on one knee and pressing her hand
to my lips, I continued: "You have confessed, Valerie, that you love me,
and nothing can ever separate us now. Come what may, I will not leave
you. Here, in this old church, by the cross on yonder altar, I swear it.
As we are together in trouble, so will we be together in love, and may
God's blessing rest upon us both."
"Amen," she answered solemnly.
She seated herself in a pew, and I took my place beside her.
"Valerie," I said, "I followed you this morning for two reasons. The
first was to tell you of my love, and the second was to let you know
that I have made up my mind on a certain course of action. At any risk
we must escape from Pharos, and since you have confessed that you love
me we will go together."
"It is useless," she answered sorrowfully, "quite useless."
"Hush!" I said, as three people entered the church. "We can not talk
here. Let us find another place."
With this we rose and left the building. Proceeding into the street, I
hailed a cab, and as soon as we had taken our places in it, bade the man
drive us to the Baumgarten. Some of my pleasantest recollections of
Prague in days gone by were clustered round this park, but they were as
nothing compared with the happiness I now enjoyed in visiting it in the
company of the woman I loved. When we had found a seat in a secluded
spot we resumed the conversation that had been interrupted in the
church.
"You say that it is useless our thinking of making our escape from this
man?" I said. "I tell you that it is not useless, and that at any hazard
we must do so. We know now that we love each other. I know, at least,
how much you are to me. Is it possible, therefore, that you can believe
I should allow you to remain in his power an instant longer than I can
help? In my life I have not feared many men, but I confess that I fear
Pharos as I do the devil. Since I have known him I have had several
opportunities of testing his power. I have seen things, or he has _made_
me believe I have seen things which, under any other circumstances,
would seem incredible, and, if it is likely to have any weight with you,
I do not mind owning that his power over me is growing greater every
day. And that reminds me there is a question I have often desired to ask
you. Do you remember one night on board the yacht, when we were crossing
from Naples to Port Said, telling Pharos that you could see a cave in
which a mummy had once stood?"
She shook her head.
"I remember nothing of it," she said. "But why do you ask me such
strange questions?"
I took her hand before I answered. I could feel that she was trembling
violently.
"Because I want to prove to you the diabolical power the man possesses.
You described a tomb from which the mummy had been taken. I have seen
that tomb. It was the burial place of the Magician, Ptahmes, whose mummy
once stood in my studio in London, which Pharos stole from me, and which
was the primary cause of my becoming associated with him. You described
a subterranean hall with carved pillars and paintings on the walls, and
a mummy lying upon a block of stone. I have seen that hall, those
pillars, those carvings and paintings, and the mummy of Ptahmes lying
stretched out as you portrayed it. You mentioned a tent in the desert
and a sick man lying on a bed inside it. I was that sick man, and it was
to that tent that Pharos conveyed me after I had spent the night in the
ruins of the Temple of Ammon. The last incident has yet to take place,
but, please God, if you will help me in my plan, we shall have done with
him long before then."
"You say you saw all the things I described. Please do not think me
stupid, but I do not understand how you could have done so."
Thereupon I told her all that had befallen me at the ruins of Karnak.
She listened with feverish interest.
"How is it that Providence allows this man to live?" she cried when I
had finished. "Who is he and what is the terrible power he possesses?
And what is to be the end of all his evil ways?"
"That is a problem which only the future can solve," I answered. "For
ourselves it is sufficient that we must get away from him and at once.
Nothing could be easier, he exercises no control over our movements. He
does not attempt to detain us. We go in and out as we please, therefore
all we have to do is to get into a train and be hundreds of miles away
before he is even aware that we are outside the doors of the hotel. You
are not afraid, Valerie, to trust yourself and your happiness to me?"
"I would trust myself with you anywhere," she answered, and as she said
it she pressed my hand and looked into my face with her brave sweet
eyes. "And for your sake I would do and bear anything."
Brave as her words were, however, a little sigh escaped her lips before
she could prevent it.
"Why do you sigh?" I asked. "Have you any doubt as to the safety of our
plan? If so tell me and I will change it."
"I have no doubt as to the plan," she answered. "All I fear is that it
may be useless. I have already told you how I have twice tried to escape
him, and how on each occasion he has brought me back."
"He shall not do so this time," I said with determination. "We will lay
our plans with the greatest care, behave toward him as if we
contemplated remaining for ever in his company, and then to-morrow
morning we will catch the train for Berlin, be in Hamburg next day, and
in London three days later. Once there I have half a hundred friends
who, when I tell them that you are hiding from a man who has treated you
most cruelly, and that you are about to become my wife, will be only too
proud to take you in. Then we will be married as quickly as can be
arranged, and as man and wife defy Pharos to do his worst."
She did her best to appear delighted with my plan, but I could see that
she had no real faith in it. Nor, if the truth must be told, was I in my
own heart any too sanguine of success. I could not but remember the
threat the man had held over me that night in the Pyramid at Gizeh: "For
the future you are my property, to do with as I please. You will have no
will but my pleasure, no thought but to act as I shall tell you."
However, we could but do our best, and I was determined it should not be
my fault if our enterprise did not meet with success. Not once but a
hundred times we overhauled our plan, tried its weak spots, arranged our
behaviour before Pharos, and endeavoured to convince each other as far
as possible that it could not fail. And if we did manage to outwit him
how proud I should be to parade this glorious creature in London as my
wife, and as I thought of the happiness the future might have in store
for us, and remembered that it all depended on that diabolical
individual Pharos, I felt sick and giddy with anxiety to see the last of
him.
Not being anxious to arouse any suspicion in our ogre's mind by a
prolonged absence, we at last agreed that it was time for us to think of
returning. Accordingly, we left the park and, finding the cab which had
been ordered to wait for us at the gates, drove back to the city. On
reaching the hotel, we discovered Pharos in the hall holding in his hand
a letter which he had just finished reading as we entered. On seeing us
his wrinkled old face lit up with a smile.
"My dear," he said to Valerie, placing his hand upon her arm in an
affectionate manner, "a very great honour has been paid you. His
Majesty, the Emperor King, as you are perhaps aware, arrived in the city
yesterday, and to-night a state concert is to be given at the palace.
Invitations have been sent to us, and I have been approached in order to
discover whether you will consent to play. Not being able to find you, I
answered that I felt sure you would accept his Majesty's command. Was I
right in so doing?"
Doubtless, remembering the contract we had entered into together that
morning to humour Pharos as far as possible, Valerie willingly gave her
consent. Though I did not let him see it, I for my part was not so
pleased. He should have waited and have allowed her to accept or decline
for herself, I thought. However, I held my peace, trusting that on the
morrow we should be able to make our escape and so be done with him for
good and all.
For the remainder of the day Pharos exhibited the most complete
good-humour. He was plainly looking forward to the evening. He had met
Franz Josef on more than one occasion, he informed me, and remembered
with gusto the compliments that had been paid him the last time about
his ward's playing.
"I am sure we shall both rejoice in her success, shall we not, my dear
Forrester?" he said, and as he did so he glanced slyly at me out of the
corner of his eye. "As you can see for yourself, I have discovered your
secret."
"I looked nervously at him. What did he mean by this? Was it possible
that by that same adroit reasoning he had discovered our plan for
escaping on the following day?
"I am afraid I do not quite understand," I replied, with as much
nonchalance as I could manage to throw into my voice. "Pray what secret
have you discovered?"
"That you love my ward," he answered. "But why look so concerned? It
does not require very great perceptive powers to see that her beauty has
exercised considerable effect upon you. Why should it not have done so?
And where would be the harm? She is a most fascinating woman, and you,
if you will permit me to tell you so to your face, are--what shall we
say?--well, far from being an unprepossessing man. Like a foolish
guardian I have permitted you to be a good deal, perhaps too much,
together, and the result even a child might have foreseen. You have
learnt to love each other. No; do not be offended. I assure you there is
no reason for it. I like you, and I promise you, if you continue to
please me, I shall raise no objection. Now what have you to say to me?"
"I do not know what to say," I said, and it was the truth. "I had no
idea you suspected anything of the kind."
"I fear you do not give me the credit of being very sharp," he replied.
"And perhaps it is not to be wondered at. An old man's wits can not hope
to be as quick as those of the young. But there, we have talked enough
on this subject, let us postpone consideration of it until another day."
"With all my heart," I answered. "But there is one question I had better
ask you while I have the opportunity. I should be glad if you could
tell me how long you are thinking of remaining in Prague. When I left
England I had no intention of being away from London more than a
fortnight, and I have now trespassed on your hospitality for upward of
two months. If you are going west within the next week or so, and will
let me travel with you, I shall be only too glad to do so, otherwise I
fear I shall be compelled to bid you good-bye and return to England
alone."
"You must not think of such a thing," he answered, this time throwing a
sharp glance at me from his sunken eyes. "Neither Valerie nor I could
get on without you. Besides, there is no need for you to worry. Now that
this rumour is afloat I have no intention of remaining here any longer
than I can help."
"To what rumour do you refer?" I inquired. "I have heard nothing."
"That is what it is to be in love," he replied. "You have not heard then
that one of the most disastrous and terrible plagues of the last five
hundred years has broken out on the shores of the Bosphorus, and is
spreading with alarming rapidity through Turkey and the Balkan States."
"I have not heard a word about it," I said, and as I did so I was
conscious of a vague feeling of terror in my heart, that fear for a
woman's safety which comes some time or another to every man who loves.
"Is it only newspaper talk, or is it really as serious as your words
imply?"
"It is very serious," he answered. "See, here is a man with the evening
paper. I will purchase one and read you the latest news."
He did so, and searched the columns for what he wanted. Though I was
able to speak German, I was unable to read it; Pharos accordingly
translated for me.
"The outbreak of the plague which has caused so much alarm in Turkey,"
he read, "is, we regret having to inform our readers, increasing instead
of diminishing, and to-day fresh cases to the number of seven hundred
and thirty-three, have been notified. For the twenty-four hours ending
at noon the death-rate has equalled eighty per cent. of those attacked.
The malady has now penetrated into Russia, and three deaths were
registered as resulting from it in Moscow, two in Odessa, and one in
Kiev yesterday. The medical experts are still unable to assign a
definite name to it, but incline to the belief that it is of Asiatic
origin, and will disappear with the break up of the present phenomenally
hot weather."
"I do not like the look of it at all," he said when he had finished
reading. "I have seen several of these outbreaks in my time, and I shall
be very careful to keep well out of this one's reach."
"I agree with you," I answered, and then bade him good-bye and went
upstairs to my room, more than ever convinced that it behooved me to get
the woman I loved out of the place without loss of time.
The concert at the palace that night was a brilliant success in every
way, and never in her career had Valerie looked more beautiful, or
played so exquisitely as on that occasion. Of the many handsome women
present that evening, she was undoubtedly the queen. And when, after her
performance, she was led up and presented to the Emperor by Count de
Schelyani, an old friend of her father's, a murmur of such admiration
ran through the room as those walls had seldom heard before. I, also,
had the honour of being presented by the same nobleman, whereupon his
Majesty was kind enough to express his appreciation of my work. It was
not until a late hour that we reached our hotel again. When we did
Pharos, whom the admiration Valerie had excited seemed to have placed in
a thoroughly good humour, congratulated us both upon our success, and
then, to my delight, bade us good night and took himself off to his bed.
As soon as I heard the door of his room close behind him, and not until
then, I took Valerie's hand.
"I have made all the arrangements for our escape to-morrow," I
whispered, "or rather I should say to-day, since it is after midnight.
The train for Berlin _via_ Dresden, I have discovered, leaves here at a
quarter past six. Do you think you can manage to be ready so early?"
"Of course I can," she answered confidently. "You have only to tell me
what you want and I will do it."
"I have come to the conclusion," I said, "that it will not do for us to
leave by the city station. Accordingly, I have arranged that a cab shall
be waiting for us in the Platz. We will enter it and drive down the
line, board the train, and bid farewell to Pharos for good and all."
Ten minutes later I had said good night to her and had retired to my
room. The clocks of the city were striking two as I entered it. In four
hours we should be leaving the house to catch the train which we hoped
would bring us freedom. Were we destined to succeed or not?