THE PURSUIT
"Will you cease to resist if my men leave you?" asked the officer after
I had been quiet some time.
"Yes, but I shall hold you responsible for the consequences of this
detention of me, and they may be heavy and serious," I replied.
"I am only acting under orders," was his answer, and he signed to the
men to withdraw again. "I am sorry you have compelled me to resort to
force. It was not my wish."
"How long will Major Gessler be?"
"It is impossible to say. He may return in five minutes or in five
hours; I can have no idea."
"He knew that I was coming?"
"Obviously, for I was told to expect you, and detain you when you
arrived."
"Told to lay a trap for me, you mean?"
He made no reply.
"Did your instructions include the unwarrantable attack I heard being
made upon my companion?"
"My instructions were to detain you, and I must really leave all
explanations to my superior."
"Then I wish you'd leave the room as well," I retorted curtly, and, to
my surprise, he took me at my word, and went out immediately, giving a
command, in a tone loud enough to reach me, that the men stationed
outside the door were to remain there.
As soon as I was alone I resolved to escape by the window. I got up and
stole softly to it. It was shuttered, but the fastenings were on the
inside, and as I tried them gently and slowly I found they were easy to
release. But I knew the men outside the door would be on the alert, and
that the least noise I made would bring them in.
I sat down again, therefore, and began to make a noisy clatter with some
of the furniture. I banged the door of the big stove, upset a couple of
chairs, and threw down some things from the table. As I stooped to pick
them up one of the men put his head in at the door.
"Well, what the devil do you want?" I cried, with an angry scowl.
"I thought you called, sir," he answered.
"That's a ready lie, my man. You came because you heard a noise. That
was the noise," and I picked up a chair and threw it across the room at
the door. "Just hand it back, will you?"
He picked it up and placed it near the door, and went out, and I heard
him mutter something to his companion about my being a "queer sort."
I slipped to the window then, and, not being afraid of making a noise, I
unfastened the shutters to find the catch of the window, and was in the
act of undoing that when I heard steps approaching the door across the
hall. In a moment I replaced the shutters, slipped back to my chair, and
was yawning heavily when the door was opened and the officer came in.
"They report to me that you have been making some disturbance here," he
said shortly. "I will, therefore, leave a man in the room with you."
I cursed the clumsiness of my ruse, which had thus frustrated the chance
of my escape.
"I decline to submit to such an indignity, sir," I said angrily. "I will
have no jailer here."
But my protest, like everything else with this wooden idiot, passed
unheeded, and one of the men was told to stand by the door inside.
For a moment I was in despair. My first thought was to try and bribe
him, but I abandoned the idea as readily, for I saw that if I failed he
would report the attempt to the officer, and I should be in a worse
plight than ever. Yet the thought that time was flying, and von Nauheim
getting farther and farther away with Minna, while I was condemned to
this helpless inactivity, was like hell to me. Then a last and desperate
scheme suggested itself to me. The room was lighted by an oil lamp, and
my thought was to try and extinguish it, and escape in the consequent
confusion and darkness. I knew now that in a moment I could open the
window.
Keeping up my character for eccentricity, I jumped to my feet so
suddenly that the man started and grasped his weapon, and, declaring
that I was cold--though the evening was stifling, and my rage made me as
hot as a fever patient--I began to stamp up and down the room, taking
care at first to keep well away from the window, lest he should suspect
my object. Next I declared that the lamp smelt vilely, and I set it down
near the stove, and opened the little door that the fumes might escape
up the flue. My next step was to whip the cover off the table, and throw
it around my shoulders.
The man kept his eyes steadily on me, obviously regarding me as more
than half insane, but he made no attempt to interfere with me, and I
continued my monotonous march backward and forward, backward and
forward, until I noticed that his vigilant watch was gradually being
relaxed. Then I altered my direction slightly, until each turn took me
nearer and nearer to the window, and at last I prepared to make my
effort.
"Turn that lamp down a bit, it stinks," I said, with a vigorous grimace
of disgust, and, without in the least suspecting my intention, he went
to do it.
For a moment his back was toward me, and at that instant I snatched the
cloth from my shoulders and threw it with all my force at the lamp,
enveloping both it and the man as he was bending over it to do as I had
requested.
He shouted lustily for help, but there were a few seconds of darkness
before any one could reach me, and I tore back the shutters, opened the
window, leapt out, and dashed away through the darkness at top speed,
running in zigzag fashion for the cover of some shrubbery about fifty
yards distant.
Before I reached the cover I heard the sounds of great commotion in the
house, and a number of men started out in pursuit of me, but I plunged
through the bushes at as great a speed as possible. The noise I made
would, I knew, render pursuit an easy matter, and thus when I gained a
small clearing I changed my direction, and raced across the lawn, taking
my chance of where I was going. Fortune favored me, and I came upon a
boundary wall, over which I climbed, dropping breathless and excited,
but free, into a deep, dry ditch by the side of a lane. I lay down to
regain my breath and to listen for any further signs of pursuit, as well
as to think out my next step. I had escaped, but what use to make of my
freedom I could not for a moment tell.
Presently I heard the sound of a horse cantering on the turf by the
side of the lane, and looking up cautiously I saw, by the light of the
moon, which was shining brilliantly, a man riding toward me. As he came
closer I recognized, to my infinite pleasure, that it was the Corsican,
Praga. I scrambled out of the ditch and stood up to wait for him,
calling to him when he was some twenty yards away. He reined up and
jumped from his horse. I told him my experiences with that dolt of an
officer in the house, and he told me he was just riding back to see what
had become of me, and that he had news.
"It is great news," he said. "When they tried to get at me, I galloped
off, and in the village I stumbled against an old Munich acquaintance,
who is here over this business, and was just coming back from a start he
had made with Major Gessler. He told me something of what had happened
here to-day. It seems that that brute von Nauheim got wind that
something was going to happen which he didn't like--I suppose it was
your coming--and he bolted with the Countess Minna and her aunt. At that
Gessler seems to have thought treachery was in the wind, and that you
were in some way connected with it--these officers are always fools,
especially when some one tells them about half the truth--and he set out
after the runaways, and left orders that if you did come you were to be
kept. I was coming back to try if I couldn't find you, and perhaps get
you out of the house, so that we might start in pursuit on our own
account."
"Where has von Nauheim gone? Does any one know?" I asked.
"Yes, the major is on their track, I think. They are supposed to have
taken the south road, von Nauheim's object being apparently to strike
the railway when some miles out, and presumably get out of Bavaria as
soon as possible."
"I have no horse," I said. "You had better give me yours, and then try
to get one and follow me as soon as you can. I am on fire. I cannot
wait."
"It's not much of a beast, and very tired, but it may serve till you can
get a better," said Praga. "Make for Waal first, and then try to find
some traces, and leave word for me where I am to follow. I think I can
find your horse. He followed me out of the place, and I tethered him up
somewhere about here."
I mounted, and after a few more hurried words from him about the
direction to be taken I clapped my heels into the horse's ribs, and set
off at a pace that was as near a gallop as the tired brute could
imitate. The clattering of the beast's hoofs on the rough, uneven road
woke the echoes around me as I dashed forward, filled with the one
consuming thought of rescuing Minna from the hands of the dastard who
had carried her off from me.
I found to my dismay, however, that my horse was quite incapable of any
great effort, and soon began to show signs of fatigue. I had to ease him
constantly, and after a few miles I could not urge him beyond a rather
slow trot. To get another horse appeared difficult, and I did not pass
any place that even offered a hope of one. My progress was thus
irritatingly slow, and every mile I covered seemed to detract from,
rather than add to, the chances of my overtaking von Nauheim.
I had no difficulty, however, in tracing the fugitives. Major Gessler,
in company with three other men, had passed scarcely two hours ahead of
me, and as they had made inquiries all along the route, they had left a
broad trail easy enough for me to follow. If they were on the right
track it was certain that I was.
After riding for a couple of hours at this slow pace I saw a mile or two
ahead of me the lights of a small town, and, in the hope of being able
to get a fresh mount there, I urged on my shambling steed to the utmost
of his powers. But he was quite used up, and as I was forcing him down a
slight hill I felt him stagger and stumble under me; and then down he
went in a heap, throwing me clear of him. I could not afford to waste
time over him, and as soon as I had managed to drag him to his feet I
tied his head to a tree by the wayside, and set out to finish the
remaining distance to the town on foot.
I had not walked more than a few hundred yards, however, when I
discovered that the fall from the horse had shaken me considerably. I
turned dizzy, and reeled and staggered as I walked. I kept on as long as
I could, but at last, despite my burning impatience to get forward, I
was compelled to sit down by the roadside and rest until the feeling
passed off.
How long I sat there I do not know, but I think that for a short time I
must have lost consciousness. The rest refreshed me, however, and,
feeling almost myself again, I jumped to my feet quickly, eager to
resume my journey.
As I did so I was startled by a low cry, like an exclamation of fear,
from some one close to me; and by the moon's light I made out the darkly
dressed figure of a woman some twenty or thirty paces ahead. I had been
sitting in the shadow of an overhanging tree, and, no doubt, my sudden
appearance had frightened her.
She stood looking at me irresolutely, and when I commenced to walk
toward her she turned and sped away on the grass by the roadside
noiselessly, in the hope, no doubt, that I had not seen her. Obviously
she wished to avoid me.
She was nothing to me, and as I had no wish to add to her fright, I let
her go, and merely watched her as she ran. I had no other feeling but
curiosity, tempered with regret that all unwittingly I had been the
means of frightening her. She had nearly passed out of sight when I
heard her cry out again, this time a louder and shriller cry, and I
thought I saw her trip and fall. I went after her then, as quickly as I
could, and found her kneeling on the ground moaning, with her hands to
her head.
"Are you hurt?" I asked. "I am afraid I frightened you. I trust----"
I stopped in amazement, for she turned her face quickly to me, and the
next instant I was down by her side with my arm round her. It was Minna
herself.
"Oh, Hans, is it really you? I am so frightened. Save me." And without
another word she let her head sink on my shoulder, while she twined her
arms round me in quite hysterical fear.
"Hush, my child. You are safe now," I said gently, in the soothing tone
one might use to a child who had hurt itself.
And I held her in my arms in silence, my heart too full for words, as,
indeed, hers was, with mingled fear, relief, and agitation.
"Where are you hurt, Minna?" I asked after a time. "Let's see if I
cannot help you."
"Don't leave me; pray don't leave me," she whispered, clinging to me
more tightly than ever. "I shall be better in a moment--now I am safe. I
was running away from you. I was frightened when you jumped up suddenly
in the road, and I fell and hurt my head. Don't leave me. I want to
realize that I am really, really safe."
"Don't doubt that. None can hurt you now."
I would have added many a passionate protestation in my excitement, but
I checked myself, remembering all I had yet to tell her. I let a longer
interval pass before I spoke again; for, though I was burning with
impatience to learn how she came to be in this way alone on the road and
to take means to get her to some place of safety, I could not resist the
thrilling delight of feeling her arms about me and her head nestling
confidingly against my breast. The mere touch of her was an ecstasy of
passion.
"Let me see to your hurt, Minna," I whispered. "We have a long journey
before us."
At that she started, and began to tremble again, and said, her lips
faltering as the words fell from them:
"I had forgotten. I had forgotten everything when I felt your arms
around me; but he will follow us. We must hurry on. Where can I go to
escape him?"
"You mean von Nauheim?" I asked, my face frowning at thought of him.
"Oh, there is so much to tell and to ask. What does it all mean, Hans? I
am not much hurt. It is here," and she put her hand to her forehead,
which was bleeding slightly. "I struck it against a stone when I tripped
and fell, I think. And to think I was running from you, of all the
world!"
I could not answer the tenderness of her tone or the love that breathed
in every syllable of the words. If I had tried, the passion that was
pent in me must have come rushing out. I sought to affect indifference,
therefore; and though my fingers trembled as I touched her face, and my
heart ached at the sight of the little wound, I dressed it in silence,
and bound it up with my handkerchief.
She smiled to me several times as I did this, and when I had finished
she murmured, lifting her eyes to mine:
"It will soon be well, now you have touched it, cousin." And she sighed.
But the next instant she started, and a look of fear showed on her face.
"I can hear the sounds of a horse at full gallop. I have been hearing
nothing else in imagination for the last two hours; but this time it is
real."
She spoke very wildly.
I listened intently, but could hear nothing.
"It is only imagination still," I replied. "And if it were real, it
would mean nothing."
"Listen!" and she put up her finger and strained her ears.
She was right. She had caught the sound before me; but now I could
distinguish the beat of hoofs in the far distance.
"I hear it now. Which way is the sound from?" I asked.
She began to tremble, and clung to me again.
"It is from that way," pointing in the direction from which I had come.
I listened again, and again found she was right.
"Good!" I exclaimed. "It will be Praga. He is following me."
"Praga! The villain who killed Gustav! Oh, Hans, it is true then that
you are in league with that terrible man. I would not believe it when
they told me." And she moved away from me as she spoke, and stood at a
little distance, trembling.
But it was only for an instant. I had not time to reply before she came
again to my side and clung to me as before, crying with quick agitation:
"I did not mean that, cousin Hans. I did not mean anything in distrust
of you. I trust you altogether with my whole heart and soul. If he is
with you, I know it will be not that you help him to do harm, but that
he helps you to do good. I know that. Believe and forgive me for
shrinking away like that. But I have always had such a dread and
loathing at his mere name, for dear Gustav's sake. Oh, there is so much
to be made clear."
"It will all be clear enough to you when I have told you my story," I
said in as unmoved a tone as I could command at this fresh proof of her
absolute confidence. "And that will be as soon as we can get out of our
present plight. Even Praga has been wronged, and in this matter at least
he is with us."
After that we stood in silence listening to the now fast approaching
gallop of the horse.
Then came to our ears the whinnying of another horse. The galloping
stopped. The horse was pulled up short.
"What does that mean?" asked Minna in a whisper of alarm; for all sounds
breathed the language of danger in her present agitation.
"I left my horse tied to the hedge some distance behind there, and Praga
has found it, I expect."
Almost directly after that Minna started again and cried:
"There is another horseman coming from the opposite direction. That will
be the Count von Nauheim."
"It is luck that Praga is close at hand, then," said I, "for I have no
arms. It will be a dramatic meeting."
And now Minna was pressing close to my side again; and in this way we
stood and listened to the more distant horseman's approach, and heard
also the man I judged to be Praga bring his animal back on to the hard
road and set off at a sharp trot toward us.