THE COUNT’S GAME
That afternoon, Abele D’Alquen, prowling about the forest in his
fiercely watchful mood, was startled and brought up suddenly by the
report of a gun close behind him, and the sharp whizz of a bullet so
near as to touch his sleeve. He turned with a loud exclamation of rage,
and levelled his gun at the direction whence the shot must have come.
His cry was returned by another of “Hold! Do not shoot!” then there was
a rustling in the undergrowth, and next moment a man appeared, no less
a person than Count Zarka. Count Zarka, with hand extended warningly,
eyebrows elevated, and a grin of concern and apology.
“A million pardons, mein Herr!” he cried, coming eagerly forward. “I
am too stupid. Heaven be thanked that I missed you. I deserve for my
carelessness never to touch a gun again. But I have been watching for
a boar that has its lair hereabouts, and I had no idea that any human
being but myself was within a league of the place.”
D’Alquen stood eyeing him, as he made these effusive protests, with
fierce incredulity. “It is a strange idea of sport,” he said with
manifest restraint, “to fire at game before one sees it.”
The Count gave a shrug, and, with a sweep of the arm, indicated the
thick underwood around them. “It is not easy to see here,” he returned,
with a deprecating grimace. “I took a chance shot at what I thought was
the animal before he should come to close quarters. It was appallingly
foolish of me, I admit, and I am terribly distressed at having brought
you into such jeopardy.”
Now it was perfectly obvious that no sane man would have dreamt of
shooting through brushwood without a sight of the object fired at;
more than that, it would certainly be patent to a less suspicious
person than D’Alquen that the shot had been fired not at a boar, but at
himself, and with the intention of getting rid of a dangerous presence.
For a moment he looked as though he were meditating a return shot which
would have rid the world of one of its most singular devotees, but the
impulse was checked, and D’Alquen merely observed, keeping alertly
on the defensive, “One carries one’s life in one’s hand here in the
forest. It is as well not to forget it. I shall profit by your wanting,
mein Herr: I might not escape a second time.”
There was a significance enough, in all conscience, in his words, but
the Count found it convenient to ignore it.
“I can only repeat,” he protested, “my most heartfelt apologies already
offered to you, mein Herr. But for this truly unhappy occurrence, it
would have given me the greatest pleasure to have asked you to join me
in a day’s sport, and to have made you free of my own preserved ground
in the forest. I am Count Zarka of Rozsnyo, and have the honour to be
always most humbly at your service.”
Although perfectly aware that the other knew well who he was, no one
would have guessed as much from his bland manner.
“As it is,” he proceeded, with a concern so well simulated as nearly
to hide the wolfishness beneath it, “I am almost afraid to offer my
hospitality after my terrible carelessness. But if you will shoot with
me it will at least prove that my assurances are accepted, and that I
have your pardon.”
It is hardly likely that D’Alquen was deceived by this elaborate piece
of dissimulation; all the same, however, he, perhaps a good deal to
Zarka’s surprise, accepted the invitation, although not by any means
so cordially as to cover the fierce distrust in his eyes. But then he
was neither so complete a man of the world nor so good an actor as the
Count, nor again had he such constant practice in giving expression to
sentiments which were the very opposite of his real feelings.
Zarka seemed, and probably was, immensely relieved, as D’Alquen fell
in with his proposal. “Good!” he exclaimed, with an excess of almost
boisterous satisfaction. “You are truly kind and forgiving, mein Herr.
Now I shall hope to make some slight atonement for my blunder by
showing you good sport.”
Without any corresponding cordiality in his face, D’Alquen, with a
sharp glance of suspicion, bowed, shouldered his gun, and they set off
together. Zarka, chatting volubly, suggested that they should make for
the high ground and try for ibex, as affording more interesting sport,
and afterwards that his companion should dine at Rozsnyo. So they
strode on shoulder to shoulder towards the mountains.
“You come from far?” Zarka asked presently.
“From Sorusk, in the Province of Rapsburg.”
The Count’s eyebrows went up in expressive surprise. “Sorusk! that is
indeed far. Ah, you have lost your Prince. It is sad. What may be the
opinion in the province as to his disappearance? That he is dead, poor
fellow, eh?”
“That may be the idea in the province,” D’Alquen resumed, “but it is
not mine.”
“Ah!” Zarka was all polite curiosity. “You think he is alive? How,
then, do you account for his disappearance?”
Although the piercing eyes were on him the question was asked in a tone
and with an expression of the blandest interest. For all sign of guilty
knowledge on his face Zarka might have had no greater concern in the
affair than the most casual lounger on the Königstrasse.
“I account for it,” D’Alquen answered in his abrupt fashion, “by an
obvious move in the political game played yonder.” He nodded towards
the mountains.
Zarka smiled incredulously. “A vague motive, surely,” he objected. “I
fancy that society in town could furnish one far more probable.”
D’Alquen turned to him sharply. “And that is----?”
Zarka gave a shrug and smiled meaningly. “A very common and obvious
cause for a man’s eccentricity. A lady. It is well known that Prince
Roel was smitten by one who, incomprehensibly perhaps, did not return
his admiration.”
“You know the lady’s name?” The question was flashed out quickly,
fiercely, only to be blunted against the shield of Zarka’s inscrutable
smile.
“Not with any degree of certainty that would justify my mentioning it,”
was the guarded answer.
For a few steps they went on in silence. Then D’Alquen resumed.
“I am aware there was a lady in the case. But that does not disprove a
political influence behind the lady.”
Zarka deemed it enough to give a deprecating shrug.
“I mean,” the other went on, as though irritated by his companion’s
non-committal manner, “she may have been used as a decoy.”
“I am not,” Zarka said coolly, “in a position to contradict you, beyond
saying that your theory seems to me in the highest degree improbable.
After all,” here the teeth showed in an ugly grin of deprecation,
“after all we can but theorize, and theorizing is unprofitable unless
we have a practical object in view.”
“I quite agree with you there, Count,” D’Alquen returned, with a touch
of curt significance.
As he spoke--something--a slight action of Zarka’s--made him suddenly
halt and look round quickly. As he did so the Count altered the
position of his gun, but not before D’Alquen had seen that the muzzle
had been held a few inches from his head. After that significant
discovery D’Alquen never let his eyes wander from his companion,
although he betrayed, and probably felt, no sign of fear. Whether
Zarka noticed the sharp observation under which he was kept it was
impossible to tell from his manner, but he was assuredly too acute and
watchful to be unaware of it.
Presently their ascending course brought them to a wild and rocky
opening in the forest. Zarka, pointing in front of them, directed
his companion’s attention to a magnificent view of the glittering,
undulating range of the mountain’s tops. But D’Alquen was too wary
to be caught by what, to his suspicious mood, seemed a trick. Before
looking in the indicated direction he stepped back, thus bringing Zarka
in front of him, and still under his eye. “Yes,” he agreed with a grim
laugh, hardly called up by the scenery; “it is magnificent.”
He held his gun ready for bringing up on the slightest provocative
sign, and seemed rather to enjoy the game of checkmating the Count’s
amiable moves. The ascending path now became too narrow to allow of
their walking abreast. Zarka stopped and motioned his companion to
precede him.
“No, Count,” D’Alquen said; “I follow you.”
His tone was so decisive that Zarka evidently saw the uselessness of
pressing the matter. “I shall have the honour of showing you the way,”
he said, covering his discomfiture with the politest of grins.
So they wound their way up till the open mountain plateaus were
reached. Zarka now halted and turned with an affectation of
breathlessness.
“We should soon get a sight of some game here,” he observed. “We can
now go forward together, at least as far as the rocks yonder.”
He pointed, as he spoke, to the base of some high peaks which shut in
the plateau.
“I have had fine sport here with ibex and chamois,” he remarked, as
they walked on side by side, D’Alquen ever on the alert, and amusingly
distrustful of his urbane and voluble companion. “Two guns should,
however, have a better chance than one, since between us, up yonder,
we can cut off the animals’ escape. It has been usually my lot to hunt
here alone, and many a good stag have I lost through not having a
comrade to get a second shot on the retreat.”
The situation was certainly growing in grim interest; either D’Alquen’s
nerves were abnormally strong, or he held the lord of Rozsnyo cheaper
than that potentate was wont to value himself. What would the next move
be? For certainly the stranger had been brought up there for a purpose
not altogether connected with the slaying of ibex. Very soon the
manœuvring for the plan, whatever it might be, began. They had warily
crossed the plateau and readied another narrow path running round the
base of the rocky peaks. There was no hesitation now about precedence.
“May I show you? Yes?” Zarka grinned and sprang up the path. D’Alquen
kept his gun handy and followed. There was an equally curious, though
less sinister, smile on his face.
The Count led the way through a narrow passage formed by a cleft in
the rocks. The path was rough and steep, but both men made light of
its difficulties. Suddenly they passed out on to the side of a broad
mountain gorge, high up on which the path still ran, having on the one
hand a wall of rock, on the other sheer precipice. A gleam of grim
intelligence sprang into D’Alquen’s eyes as he took in the situation.
When they had gone on perhaps a hundred paces, Zarka held up his hand,
halted and turned. D’Alquen had stopped too, evidently ready for
eventualities. But the Count’s intentions seemed all for sport.
“Round the next shoulder,” he said in a low voice, as he pointed
forwards, “we shall probably come upon ibex. I propose that one of us
should go forward while the other stays here, for the first shot will
probably send the rest of them back along the opposite side, yonder, of
the chasm. So there will be a chance of two fine running shots. Now,
will you go forward, or shall I?”
As he had doubtless anticipated, D’Alquen answered shortly--
“I will stay here.”
“As you please,” Zarka returned with an acquiescent bow. “After you
hear my first shot, it will pay to keep a sharp eye on the rocks over
there.”
With that he went off along the path, to all appearances absorbed in
the sport. D’Alquen stood with the sharp eye Zarka had advised fixed
steadily on the retreating figure and his gun ever ready. “If he
turns,” he muttered, “I shall shoot, and then--Heaven help the better
man.”
But the wily Count did not turn or halt in his stealthy pace along
the rocky path. Perhaps he had a shrewd idea that such a notion might
be attended with a certain risk. So he continued to steal on, in true
stalker’s fashion, till a curve hid him from sight.
Then D’Alquen was at liberty to turn and survey his situation. It was
simple enough. On each side of him was the narrow path, in front the
precipice, and behind him a wall or rock some thirty feet high. Now
what was Zarka’s game? Not ibex; D’Alquen laughed aloud at the idea.
What should he himself do? Clearly not stay there, since that was what
the Count expected. He must either retreat by the way they had come or
go forwards. He certainly would not turn back; the game was interesting
enough to provoke him to follow his worthy guide, so, after, another
good look round, he went slowly on.
He came to the bend, round which Zarka had disappeared, without seeing
anything to quicken his alertness into action. As he rounded the turn,
however, his vigilance increased, and every step was taken with caution.
No sign of Zarka was to be seen, although the path was visible for a
considerable distance ahead, and this was the more remarkable as away
on the right the forms of several ibex were to be observed. Was Zarka
stalking them in hiding? That was scarcely possible, since the course
he must have taken afforded no chance of concealment. On D’Alquen
crept, his gun almost at his shoulder, and his fierce restless eyes
taking in everything round and above him. Suddenly he stopped with a
subdued exclamation. The mystery was solved.
He had arrived at a point where a deep fissure in the rocky wall opened
upon the path at such a sharp angle as to be invisible from the side of
his approach till he was fairly opposite to it. Through this cleft a
sort of rugged path ran back, as it seemed, behind the rock, the face
of which he had just skirted. Doubtless Zarka had doubled back by this
means. D’Alquen hesitated a moment. The narrow way might be a complete
death-trap set by the cunning man, who had calculated that his
intended victim would follow him. D’Alquen gave another look round, and
then seemed resolved to risk it. With his gun ready to fire he sprang
up the path and made his way quickly along it. The few seconds it took
him to reach the other end of the defile were calculated to make his
blood tingle, since he would have been practically at the mercy of a
raking shot from above. However he emerged upon the open without this
experience, and in another instant his quick eye had detected what it
sought, the form of Count Zarka creeping stealthily along the top of
the rocks. Keeping well down, and so out of sight, D’Alquen immediately
began to follow. When he had gone, as he judged, far enough, he
turned and began to crawl upwards, stalking the Count with more than
a sportsman’s wariness and zest. Zarka was evidently so intent upon
his design that he never glanced behind, at any rate while D’Alquen
was in sight. The way he was taking would bring him to the edge of the
rocks above the spot where he supposed the other to be waiting, and as
his intended victim realized the treacherous scheme a light gleamed
in his eyes that boded mischief for the Count. So he followed him,
keeping as much as possible under cover of the rocks, stooping as he
ran, sometimes crawling, from one shelter to another; ever, when he was
exposed, keeping his enemy covered by his gun.
But now Zarka had reached the edge of the rocky wall and stepped
cautiously to the very brink with his gun ready to fire down upon the
path below. D’Alquen, watching him from behind a jutting rock, laughed,
and, walking quietly into the open ground, made quickly towards him.
The Count looked up and down the path below; the other thought he heard
an exclamation of annoyance from him as he found himself baulked in his
benevolent design. Zarka peered over; the temptation to put a bullet
through him must have been almost irresistible, but D’Alquen did not
pull the trigger of his covering gun. There was now a look of grim
amusement in his eyes; having the game in hand, he was evidently loath
to spoil it. Zarka drew back, then lay face downwards looking over the
rocky wall. D’Alquen gave a little run and came within half a dozen
paces of him. With another utterance of disgust Zarka rose to his feet,
and, naturally, turned, to find himself covered by D’Alquen’s rifle.
Before he could get up his own weapon the other cried: “Drop it! Throw
your gun over, or I fire. Over with it, I say, or you are a dead man!”
Zarka’s face had gone grey, his eyes blazed with impotent hate. By a
great effort he assumed a look of surprised protest, but his ever-ready
smile was hardly a success, if, that is, it was meant for anything
more than a diabolical grin.
“Herr D’Alquen!” he cried. “What do you mean, my good friend? Are you
mad?”
But his good friend showed no sign of relaxing his attitude. “Drop your
gun over, or I swear I’ll shoot,” he insisted.
The Count hesitated, and for a moment looked as though he were
calculating his chances in an impromptu duel. But D’Alquen’s rifle
covered him pitilessly; he could see that the aim was straight on his
heart. Probably his wonder was that his intended victim had not fired
without parley. After all, his opportunity was lost, and to lose his
gun was to gain time. So with a protesting shrug he turned and threw
the weapon ringing down the rocks below.
“Are you satisfied, mein Herr?” he demanded, with almost insolent
blandness.
“Hardly, Herr Graf,” D’Alquen returned. “But that is something. It
was lucky I did not wait for the stags, or my patience would have
been exhausted. You did not mention that another matter claimed your
attention first.”
The man’s mocking tone was not pleasant to the lord of Rozsnyo,
possibly because it was precisely what he would himself have been
pleased to indulge in had the tables been turned. However, he was
forced to content himself with a remark, rather weak, considering the
intensity of the situation.
“I was not aware that I had come out for sport with a madman.”
“As I was that my companion was an assassin,” D’Alquen retorted. “Now,
Herr Graf, shall I send you after your gun?”
As he spoke he levelled his rifle again full at Zarka. The Count was
not lacking in courage, or at least in a gambler’s recklessness,
nevertheless a look of something very like the terror of death spread
over his grey face. He threw out his arms.
“Shoot me if you will, madman,” he cried. “I am unarmed and at your
mercy.”
The words may have been spoken almost at random, or he may have
shrewdly felt that his adversary was a man of honour, of instincts very
different from his own. Anyhow he could scarcely have hit upon a speech
more to the point. D’Alquen did not fire.
“I should be sorry to cut short an interesting career,” he said with
almost savage mockery, “or to anticipate its more formal and judicial
ending. You undertook to show me some sport, Herr Graf, and I cannot
deny that you have fulfilled your promise. You were right; it is much
more interesting with two guns than one, and I am sorry that in your
ardour for sport you have lost yours. But we must accept the fortune
of the chase, and when we hunt big game we cannot have it all our own
way. Now, as I have far to go, I must do myself the honour of bidding
you good-day, with thanks for an entertaining afternoon. I fear I
cannot trespass upon your hospitality at Rozsnyo, having already
experienced my full share of it here. I should be afraid of putting
your good nature and patience to too severe a test. Count, I have the
honour.”
He touched his hat and, with a mocking bow, turned and strode off
down the rocks, leaving Zarka standing there the picture of baffled
malignity and speechless rage.