THE END OF THE AFFAIR
In a moment the two men had taken in the scene, and Von Tressen strode
quickly towards Zarka. “You ruffian!” he cried. “What is the meaning of
this?”
“Stand away!” was the Count’s defiant reply. “This lady is my wife, and
you interfere at your peril.”
“It is a lie!” Philippa gasped, recovering from her half faint, and
struggling to free herself from Zarka’s grasp. “This man is a villain.
I have been lured to this place by a trick. Osbert, I hate and loathe
the man. I am not his wife; I would rather die than marry him. Will you
not----?”
Before she could say more, Von Tressen’s arm was round her, and his
disengaged hand dealt the Count a blow such as he had never felt
before, a square, well-placed hit, worthy of an Englishman, which broke
his hold of Philippa and sent him staggering back, falling over the
chairs ranged behind him.
He recovered himself quickly and, facing them, white with rage and
pain, seemed to be meditating a rush. But he thought better of it,
seeing that the odds were against him. Von Tressen and Galabin
supported Philippa to a seat, where she sank down overcome by fear and
excitement.
In the few seconds this occupied Zarka had regained the mastery over
himself and a certain amount of composure.
“You will answer for this outrage, Lieutenant Von Tressen,” he said,
speaking in a loud harsh voice. “It is you who are the ruffian; this is
my private chapel in which you are brawling, and that lady is my wife.”
“I think not,” Von Tressen returned quietly.
“I have witnesses to prove it,” cried Zarka.
“Witnesses! Who are they?” Von Tressen demanded contemptuously.
“This man is your servant,” Galabin put in, pointing to the valet.
“And this,” pursued Von Tressen, indicating the priest who had laid
down his book, and was sitting in one of the altar chairs with as much
dignity as he could retain, “Is this another of your servants? Cowardly
villain! I will proclaim you from one end of Europe to the other.”
The priest, taking his cue to speak, rose and stepped towards Von
Tressen.
“You are mistaken, sir,” he said blandly. “I am not a suborned domestic
masquerading as a priest. This is no mock marriage. I am Desider
Hornthal, a graduate of the University of Buda, and priest of the
parish of Lilienberg.”
“Then,” Von Tressen retorted, “if you are privy to this precious piece
of villainy you are a disgrace to your cloth.”
“Will you leave my chapel?” cried Zarka.
“I will not,” Von Tressen answered. “Neither shall any man, till we
have got to the bottom of this vile business. Galabin, make fast that
door, there’s a good fellow. Now, sir,” he went on, turning again
to Hornthal, “accepting your statement about yourself, have you the
audacity to tell me and my friend that the Fräulein is that man’s wife?
Stop! Before you answer I warn you. I am Lieutenant Von Tressen of the
Second Regiment of Cavalry: my uncle is Staatssecretär Von Tressen.
This gentleman,” he pointed to Galabin, “is Herr Galabin, in the Bureau
of his Excellency Baron Gersdorff, and we intend this matter shall be
fully brought to light. The reply you give us you will have to repeat
before a tribunal of justice.”
“Of course she is my wife,” exclaimed Zarka angrily, as the priest
hesitated. “The ceremony----”
“No, no! A thousand times no!” cried Philippa. “I swear I am not his
wife. Osbert, it was by force and fraud, and they know it. Even if----”
“Yes, yes, dear,” said Von Tressen reassuringly. “You need have no
fear. You, father, do you confirm Count Zarka, or this lady?”
The priest had begun to fear he was on the brink of an ugly scandal.
But he was astute enough to see in a moment on which side his bread was
buttered, and that his line was stoutly to support his patron.
“The marriage is undoubtedly duly performed,” he answered, unctuously
decisive. “The lady, although a little hysterical, was quite a willing
party, until she heard you coming, when her manner altogether changed.”
“Do you, a professor of religion, standing at the altar, mean to tell
me,” demanded Galabin sternly, “that this lady gave her consent to
become Count Zarka’s wife?”
Hornthal was not troubled either by nerves or superstition,
consequently his position, professional or local, made no difference to
his answer.
“Certainly. That was my impression before you came upon the scene.”
But he looked scared as he had never been before, and all his suavity
seemed to vanish in a guilty start as a voice, coming behind from the
very depths of the altar, cried, “It is a lie!”
The priest turned involuntarily, and all looked wonderingly towards
the spot whence the voice proceeded. The altar-cloth, stiff and heavy
with its elaborate embroidery, was disturbed, then lifted, and from
beneath it appeared a figure at sight of which Zarka uttered an oath,
and Philippa, transfixed by the apparition, gave a cry of mingled
astonishment and fear.
“Prince Roel!”
Pale and with hollow, sunken eyes, he looked a weird apparition to
their startled imaginations. For a few moments no one could speak, as
the figure of the Prince stood clutching one corner of the altar and
glaring at them, half fearful, half defiant.
“A lie! An impious lie!” he repeated. “I am a witness. It is no
marriage.”
“Bah! Mad fellow!” cried Zarka. “What trick is this. He is mad; pay no
heed to his raving!”
The Prince made a spring forward but stopped half way, and stood
glaring at him, unable to speak through the working of his passion.
“You call me mad!” he gasped. “Yes; you have tried to make me so. But I
have escaped from your diabolical trap.”
“I think,” said Galabin coolly to Zarka, “this is Prince Roel of
Rapsburg, whom you, as a creature of the Russian, have kept here
secretly a prisoner--”
“That you might accuse Fräulein Harlberg of his death,” Von Tressen
cried fiercely, “and, by working upon her fears, force her into a
marriage with you. It was the act of a contemptible coward and a
villain! Come, Philippa. We have had enough of this.”
He put out his arm half caressingly, half protectingly to lead her
away. But as they made a move towards the door, Zarka came quickly
forward and planted himself to intercept them, with an ugly, determined
set to his face.
“You do not think I shall let you go like this,” he said. “She is my
wife, and you touch her at your peril.”
“I can prove she is not his wife,” Prince Roel cried excitedly.
“I intend,” Von Tressen said quietly, “to take Fräulein Harlberg
home to her father. If your assertion be true, you will have ample
opportunity for claiming her.”
“You shall not dictate to me, Lieutenant,” Zarka cried in fury. “In
any case you will answer to me for this insolent intrusion. Now, stand
away, or take the consequences!”
For reply Von Tressen handed Philippa to Galabin and advanced towards
the door in front of which Zarka was standing like a tiger at bay.
“Do you mean to let us pass, Count?”
“Certainly not.”
In another moment Von Tressen had seized hold of him, and the two men
were struggling fiercely. Strong and well-knit as Zarka was, he was
hardly a match for his younger and more athletic opponent. A very few
seconds’ time sufficed for the Lieutenant to get the upper hand. He
forced Zarka from the door and then flung him heavily away.
Galabin and Philippa had by this already passed through the sacristy
and out into the hall beyond. The valet had followed close upon them
without showing any sign of what his intention might be, and as Von
Tressen turned from Zarka to cover their retreat the Prince sprang
before him and rushed after the man.
“Quick!” cried Galabin, seeing Von Tressen coming after them. “The
sooner we are out of this place the better. Ah!”
The valet had rushed to the door for which they were making and locked
it. Next moment Prince Roel’s fingers were round his throat from
behind; he was pulled backwards and flung, half-throttled, to the floor.
“Good!” Galabin exclaimed, throwing open the door for Philippa. “Come
with us, Prince; we must get you away from here.”
Philippa, passing out, drew back with a startled cry. In the doorway
stood Zarka, with two swords in his hand. He entered and shut the door
behind him.
“You have reckoned without your host, Lieutenant,” he said. “You shall
not leave my house without paying for this outrage, or at least till
we have adjusted our differences. We have a score to settle. You are
undeniable as a wrestler; now let us see if you are equally admirable
with edged tools.”
“If you think I am going to fight a duel with you, Count, you are
greatly mistaken,” answered Von Tressen.
“But you will have to fight me before you leave this place,” Zarka
returned. “It is not the custom among Hungarian gentlemen to maul one
another like drunken fishwives. We leave that to the tumblers at our
fairs and the dancing dogs. The world is too small to hold us both.
There is your sword.”
He threw one of the duelling swords down at Von Tressen’s feet.
“I am not in the least afraid of you,” the Lieutenant said, “and should
be quite content to settle our quarrel according to your code. But I
presume not even the custom among Hungarian gentlemen would sanction my
crossing swords with a man who has flung away all right to be looked
upon as a man of honour.”
Zarka’s eyes blazed with fury.
“You swagger well, soldier-boy! But it shall not serve you. No man ever
yet insulted me with impunity, nor shall you be the first. Pick up that
sword and defend yourself, or take the consequences.”
“I must protest against anything of the sort,” interposed Galabin,
leaving Philippa and coming forward. “The Lieutenant has a perfect
right to refuse your challenge, and you touch an unarmed man at your
peril.”
“I accept that,” Zarka retorted.
“You ignore the presence of the lady about whom you affect such
interest----”
But Zarka would not listen.
“Take that sword and fight me, Lieutenant, or I swear I’ll run you
through.”
“Have you not given proof enough of your cowardice?” returned Von
Tressen, folding his arms.
Zarka sprang forward and slashed at him furiously with his sword. Von
Tressen caught the blow on his arm, and tried to grapple with him, but
Zarka was too alert, and stepping quickly back, kept him off at the
sword’s point.
“Take your sword!” he cried, “or I’ll kill you!”
The situation was serious, for the man was mad with fury. Galabin
reached for the sword and put it into Von Tressen’s hand--with the
warning--“Take care of yourself!”
He had hardly caught hold of it when Zarka set upon him furiously. Von
Tressen had no time to get on his guard or even to grasp the weapon
properly, and in an instant a pass from Zarka had sent it from his
hand. With a cry of triumphant execration Zarka went forward to lunge
at him; Philippa and Galabin both by a common impulse rushed towards
them, but at the same moment Prince Roel caught up a massive silver
candlestick from a stand by the wall, and flung it with all his might
at Zarka. It struck him full in the face, and hurled him senseless to
the floor.