ZARKA ON THE ALERT
“I am going,” said Von Tressen to his friend next morning, “up to the
farm to ask Herr Harlberg to shoot with us.”
Galabin laughed. “And the Fräulein?”
“It would only be polite,” the Lieutenant replied in the same tone, “to
make a point of enquiring whether her hand is healed.”
“Good! You can do no less.”
“You will come, too?”
“I shall be in the way.”
“Nonsense! You don’t want to rouse suspicion by making yourself
mysterious.”
So they set out together for the farm.
“I wonder if we shall come across our friend of last night,” Von
Tressen observed, for while the servant, Bela, had been near they had
not spoken on the subject.
“Ah,” Galabin replied thoughtfully. “I have been thinking it over, and
have come to the conclusion that the fellow is a patrol, a spy of
Zarka’s. What else could he have been prowling about for?”
“That might be said of us. We were doing the same.”
“True. But it is hardly likely that another man would have the same
purpose as ourselves. No; the other solution is far more probable. Now,
what does Count Zarka, ostensibly a rich nobleman living on his country
estate, want with a patrol, or a spy?”
Von Tressen shook his head. “The Count is deeper than I can fathom.”
“Or I. We must wait for eventualities, and meanwhile keep our eyes
open.”
They soon reached the farm, and found father and daughter in the little
enclosed shrubbery before the house. Herr Harlberg excused himself
from joining their sport on the plea of a gouty foot, but welcomed his
visitors and insisted upon their drinking a glass of wine with him.
Presently Von Tressen found himself strolling with Philippa Harlberg in
the half-cleared woodland which surrounded the old farm, Galabin, with
an eye to the situation, having plunged deep into a political argument
with his host.
“So you have found another friend to join your gipsy life,” she
remarked. “The attractions of the forest must be great indeed, or is
it the charm of friendship?” she added banteringly.
“The charm of the forest life is delightful,” Von Tressen replied. “One
cannot wonder at its being an all-powerful attraction. If my friend
only enjoys it half as much as I he will not repent having cut himself
off for a time from cities and civilization. I am so glad, Fräulein,
that the hand is well again.”
She held it out. “Yes; quite healed. Look. Already scarcely a mark to
be seen.”
He took it, and by an impulse, natural enough, raised and pressed it to
his lips.
“All’s well that ends well,” he murmured. “Ah, I hate myself for having
hurt you, Fräulein.”
As she withdrew her hand their eyes met. It gave him a thrill of
delight to see there was no anger or offence in hers, only a touch of
restraining sadness. She gave a little sigh as she replied, hardly
above a whisper: “If no one might ever hurt me more than that!”
To his chivalrous nature her words were as a call to arms, for there
was manifestly something behind them. “Who would dare to harm you,
Fräulein?”
With an effort, it seemed, she recovered her gaiety. “Who, indeed,” she
laughed, “would be so unmanly? I only meant to tell you how lightly
I regard that little wound.” But she had meant more than that, he was
sure.
“All the same, if the unchivalrous man should ever cross your path,” he
said with a touch of youthful romance in his tone, “I only hope it may
be my privilege to be there to defend you.”
She laughed again. “Perhaps you may be. Who knows?”
“My friend and I were at Rozsnyo yesterday,” he observed, following the
train of thought suggested to his mind by her words.
She turned quickly in surprise. “You went to Rozsnyo?” He nodded. “At
the Count’s invitation?”
“At his pressing invitation. Is that strange?”
“Oh, no. Why should it be?”
“You seemed surprised.”
“No. Perhaps--I--” she stopped in some confusion.
“The Count is a peculiar man, you meant, perhaps?”
“You may know him now as well as I,” she returned with a forced smile.
The mention of Zarka seemed to chill her.
“I do not know him at all well,” he rejoined. “I should much like to
know him better.”
She started in apprehensive surprise. “To know him better? Count
Zarka?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he answered. “For there seems a mystery about the man which,
between ourselves, Fräulein, I should like to solve.”
“Oh, no, no!” She glanced round instinctively, as though in fear that
the man they spoke of might be lurking near them. Then as she turned
again to her companion, he saw in her eyes a look of dread which did
not tend to mitigate the feelings he entertained towards the lord of
Rozsnyo.
“You had better not be curious about Count Zarka,” and as she spoke
the name she lowered her tone almost to a whisper. “He is a dangerous
man and, I fear, unscrupulous. You will only bring harm on yourself by
seeking to know too much of him.”
The feeling of terror with which Zarka had evidently inspired her
roused the young soldier’s indignation.
“I am not afraid of Count Zarka,” he returned boldly, “and I hope I
never shall be. You may trust me, Fräulein, to take care of myself--and
you,” he added tenderly, “if you will let me.”
She coloured a little. “I am sure I could trust you,” she said softly.
“But I hope,” she added with more vivacity, “there will be no need for
me to enlist you as my defender.”
“Not even against Count Zarka?” he asked searchingly.
She met his eyes unfalteringly now. “Not even against him.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said slowly, “for I had an uncomfortable
idea in my head.”
“Pray what was that?” She seemed quite to have regained command over
herself.
“I have of course,” he replied, “as a comparative stranger no right
to interfere or show curiosity in the matter. Still, I could not help
fancying that the Count persecuted you. Am I right or wrong?”
For a moment she looked serious, then she smiled.
“Hardly right, Herr Lieutenant; and if you were, why, a woman can
usually protect herself from persecution.”
“When the man is dangerous and unscrupulous?”
“Ah, perhaps that is different. But my case is scarcely as bad as that.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said gravely. “Will you pardon one question,
Fräulein? It is, perhaps, impertinent, but you need not answer it.”
“Yes?”
“This Count Zarka--is there any warrant for his pretension? Is he your
lover?”
She was looking away, perhaps half anticipating what he would ask. For
a moment or two she did not reply, then without turning she said in a
low voice: “My lover? No. He never could be that--with my consent.”
Von Tressen’s face brightened. “I am glad,” he said, “for I feared.”
The path had led them back to the house, and in another moment would
bring them in sight of the two men whom they could hear chatting in
front of it.
“You are not offended, Fräulein, at what I am afraid must be my
unwarrantable curiosity?” Von Tressen asked hurriedly, before they
should turn the angle of the house and confidential talk should be at
an end.
“If you had offended me,” she replied with a look which was yet more
convincing than her words, “the question would have been unnecessary.”
Their steps had lingered, had become slower and slower, till now they
stopped by the corner of the house which just screened them from
Harlberg and Galabin.
“You are too good,” Von Tressen said in a half whisper, “to let me
speak to you like this. You will not forget, Fräulein, if ever you are
in trouble, you owe me the privilege of coming to your help.”
She gave a little laugh which stopped short of gaiety. “Let us hope,”
she said, “it will not be necessary.”
“And if it be?”
“Then I shall call you.”
There was earnest beneath the half jest, and each intuitively
recognized it, although perhaps neither quite imagined how near the
surface it lay. As Philippa spoke the last words she put out her hand
to emphasize, as it were, the promise. Von Tressen grasped it in both
his, and was lifting it to his lips, when he suddenly raised his bent
head almost in dismay. Philippa had snatched her hand back. A shadow
darkened the angle of the wall, and Count Zarka stood before them, the
ever-ready smile on his face, this time a smile of detection.
“You are fond of playing hide and seek, gnädige Fräulein,” he said.