[Illustration: "'DON'T YOU KNOW ANY BETTER THAN TO COME IN HERE?'
DEMANDED THE PRINCE"]
TRUXTON KING
A STORY _of_ GRAUSTARK
BY
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
Author of "Graustark"
"Beverly of Graustark"
etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY HARRISON FISHER
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1909
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I TRUXTON KING 1
II A MEETING OF THE CABINET 23
III MANY PERSONS IN REVIEW 40
IV TRUXTON TRESPASSES 59
V THE COMMITTEE OF TEN 80
VI INGOMEDE THE BEAUTIFUL 94
VII AT THE WITCH'S HUT 114
VIII LOOKING FOR AN EYE 130
IX STRANGE DISAPPEARANCES 147
X THE IRON COUNT 161
XI UNDER THE GROUND 177
XII A NEW PRISONER ARRIVES 190
XIII A DIVINITY SHAPES 205
XIV ON THE RIVER 219
XV THE GIRL IN THE RED CLOAK 231
XVI THE MERRY VAGABOND 245
XVII THE THROWING OF THE BOMB 263
XVIII TRUXTON ON PARADE 278
XIX TRUXTON EXACTS A PROMISE 295
XX BY THE WATER-GATE 312
XXI THE RETURN 329
XXII THE LAST STAND 345
XXIII "YOU WILL BE MRS. KING" 357
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Don't you know any better than
to come in here?' demanded the
Prince" (page 67) _Frontispiece_
"'You are the only man to whom I
feel sure that I can reveal myself
and be quite understood'" _Facing page_ 104
"'Bobby! Don't be foolish. How
could I be in love with _him_?'" 158
"'His Majesty appears to have--ahem--gone
to sleep,' remarked
the Grand Duke tartly" 366
TRUXTON KING A STORY OF GRAUSTARK
CHAPTER I
TRUXTON KING
He was a tall, rawboned, rangy young fellow with a face so tanned by
wind and sun you had the impression that his skin would feel like
leather if you could affect the impertinence to test it by the sense of
touch. Not that you would like to encourage this bit of impudence after
a look into his devil-may-care eyes; but you might easily imagine
something much stronger than brown wrapping paper and not quite so
passive as burnt clay. His clothes fit him loosely and yet were
graciously devoid of the bagginess which characterises the appearance of
extremely young men whose frames are not fully set and whose joints are
still parading through the last stages of college development. This
fellow, you could tell by looking at him, had been out of college from
two to five years; you could also tell, beyond doubt or contradiction,
that he had been in college for his full allotted time and had not
escaped the usual number of "conditions" that dismay but do not
discourage the happy-go-lucky undergraduate who makes two or three teams
with comparative ease, but who has a great deal of difficulty with
physics or whatever else he actually is supposed to acquire between the
close of the football season and the opening of baseball practice.
This tall young man in the panama hat and grey flannels was Truxton
King, embryo globe-trotter and searcher after the treasures of Romance.
Somewhere up near Central Park, in one of the fashionable cross
streets, was the home of his father and his father's father before him:
a home which Truxton had not seen in two years or more. It is worthy of
passing notice, and that is all, that his father was a manufacturer;
more than that, he was something of a power in the financial world. His
mother was not strictly a social queen in the great metropolis, but she
was what we might safely call one of the first "ladies in waiting."
Which is quite good enough for the wife of a manufacturer; especially
when one records that her husband was a manufacturer of steel. It is
also a matter of no little consequence that Truxton's mother was more or
less averse to the steel business as a heritage for her son. Be it
understood, here and now, that she intended Truxton for the diplomatic
service: as far removed from sordid steel as the New York post office is
from the Court of St. James.
But neither Truxton's father, who wanted him to be a manufacturing
Croesus, or Truxton's mother, who expected him to become a social
Solomon, appears to have taken the young man's private inclinations into
consideration. Truxton preferred a life of adventure distinctly
separated from steel and velvet; nor was he slow to set his esteemed
parents straight in this respect. He had made up his mind to travel, to
see the world, to be a part of the big round globe on which we, as
ordinary individuals with no personality beyond the next block, are
content to sit and encourage the single ambition to go to Europe at
least once, so that we may not be left out of the general conversation.
Young Mr. King believed in Romance. He had believed in Santa Claus and
the fairies, and he grew up with an ever increasing bump of imagination,
contiguous to which, strange to relate, there was a properly developed
bump of industry and application. Hence, it is not surprising that he
was willing to go far afield in search of the things that seemed more or
less worth while to a young gentleman who had suffered the ill-fortune
to be born in the nineteenth century instead of the seventeenth. Romance
and adventure, politely amorous but vigorously attractive, came up to
him from the seventeenth century, perhaps through the blood of some
swash-buckling ancestor, and he was held enthralled by the possibilities
that lay hidden in some far off or even nearby corner of this hopelessly
unromantic world of the twentieth century.
To be sure there was war, but war isn't Romance. Besides, he was too
young to fight against Spain; and, later on, he happened to be more
interested in football than he was in the Japs or the Russians. The only
thing left for him to do was to set forth in quest of adventure;
adventure was not likely to apply to him in Fifth Avenue or at the
factory or--still, there was a certain kind of adventure analogous to
Broadway, after all. He thought it over and, after trying it for a year
or two, decided that Broadway and the Tenderloin did not produce the
sort of Romance he could cherish for long as a self-respecting hero, so
he put certain small temptations aside, chastened himself as well as he
could, and set out for less amiable but more productive by-ways in other
sections of the globe.
We come upon him at last--luckily for us we were not actually following
him--after two years of wonderful but rather disillusioning adventure in
mid-Asia and all Africa. He had seen the Congo and the Euphrates, the
Ganges and the Nile, the Yang-tse-kiang and the Yenisei; he had climbed
mountains in Abyssinia, in Siam, in Thibet and Afghanistan; he had shot
big game in more than one jungle, and had been shot at by small brown
men in more than one forest, to say nothing of the little encounters he
had had in most un-Occidental towns and cities. He had seen women in
Morocco and Egypt and Persia and--But it is a waste of time to
enumerate. Strange to say, he was now drifting back toward the
civilisation which we are pleased to call our own, with a sense of
genuine disappointment in his heart. He had found no sign of Romance.
Adventure in plenty, but Romance--ah, the fairy princesses were in the
story books, after all.
Here he was, twenty-six years old, strong and full of the fire of life,
convincing himself that there was nothing for him to do but to drift
back to dear old New York and talk to his father about going into the
offices; to let his mother tell him over and over again of the nice
girls she knew who did not have to be rescued from ogres and all that
sort of thing in order to settle down to domestic obsolescence; to tell
his sister and all of their mutual friends the whole truth and nothing
but the truth concerning his adventures in the wilds, and to feel that
the friends, at least, were predestined to look upon him as a fearless
liar, nothing more.
For twenty days he had travelled by caravan across the Persian uplands,
through Herat, and Meshed and Bokhara, striking off with his guide alone
toward the Sea of Aral and the eastern shores of the Caspian, thence
through the Ural foothills to the old Roman highway that led down into
the sweet green valleys of a land he had thought of as nothing more than
the creation of a hairbrained fictionist.
Somewhere out in the shimmering east he had learned, to his honest
amazement, that there was such a land as Graustark. At first he would
not believe. But the English bank in Meshed assured him that he would
come to it if he travelled long enough and far enough into the north and
west and if he were not afraid of the hardships that most men abhor. The
dying spirit of Romance flamed up in his heart; his blood grew quick
again and eager. He would not go home until he had sought out this land
of fair women and sweet tradition. And so he traversed the wild and
dangerous Tartar roads for days and days, like the knights of
Scheherazade in the times of old, and came at last to the gates of
Edelweiss.
Not until he sat down to a rare dinner in the historic Hotel Regengetz
was he able to realise that he was truly in that fabled, mythical land
of Graustark, quaint, grim little principality in the most secret pocket
of the earth's great mantle. This was the land of his dreams, the land
of his fancy; he had not even dared to hope that it actually existed.
And now, here he was, pinching himself to prove that he was awake,
stretching his world-worn bones under a dainty table to which real food
was being brought by--well, he was obliged to pinch himself again. From
the broad terrace after dinner he looked out into the streets of the
quaint, picture-book town with its mediæval simplicity and ruggedness
combined; his eyes tried to keep pace with the things that his fertile
brain was seeing beyond the glimmering lights and dancing window
panes--for the whole scene danced before him with a persistent unreality
that made him feel his own pulse in the fear that some sudden, insidious
fever had seized upon him.
If any one had told him, six months before, that there was such a land
as Graustark and that if he could but keep on travelling in a certain
direction he would come to it in time, he would have laughed that person
to scorn, no matter how precise a geographer he might have been.
Young Mr. King, notwithstanding his naturally reckless devotion to first
impressions, was a much wiser person than when he left his New York home
two years before. Roughing it in the wildest parts of the world had
taught him that eagerness is the enemy of common sense. Therefore he
curbed the thrilling impulse to fare forth in search of diversion on
this first night; he conquered himself and went to bed early--and to
sleep at once, if that may serve to assist you in getting an idea of
what time and circumstances had done for his character.
A certain hard-earned philosophy had convinced him long ago that
adventure is quite content to wait over from day to day, but that when a
man is tired and worn it isn't quite sensible to expect sleep to be put
off regardless. With a fine sense of sacrifice, therefore, he went to
bed, forsaking the desire to tread the dim streets of a city by night in
advance of a more cautious survey by daylight. He had come to know that
it is best to make sure of your ground, in a measure, at least, before
taking too much for granted--to look before you leap, so to speak. And
so, his mind tingling with visions of fair ladies and goodly
opportunities, he went to sleep--and did not get up to breakfast until
noon the next day.
And now it becomes my deplorable duty to divulge the fact that Truxton
King, after two full days and nights in the city of Edelweiss, was quite
ready to pass on to other fields, completely disillusionised in his own
mind, and not a little disgusted with himself for having gone to the
trouble to visit the place. To his intense chagrin, he had found the
quaint old city very tiresome. True, it was a wonderful old town, rich
in tradition, picturesque in character, hoary with age, bulging with
the secrets of an active past; but at present, according to the well
travelled Truxton, it was a poky old place about which historians either
had lied gloriously or had been taken in shamelessly. In either case,
Edelweiss was not what he had come to believe it would be. He had
travelled overland for nearly a month, out of the heart of Asia, to find
himself, after all, in a graveyard of great expectations!
He had explored Edelweiss, the capital. He had ridden about the
ramparts; he had taken snapshots of the fortress down the river and had
not been molested; he had gone mule-back up the mountain to the
snowcapped monastery of St. Valentine, overtopping and overlooking the
green valleys below; he had seen the tower in which illustrious
prisoners were reported to have been held; he had ridden over the King's
Road to Ganlook and had stood on American bridges at midnight--all the
while wondering why he was there. Moreover, he had traversed the narrow,
winding streets of the city by day and night; never, in all his travels,
had he encountered a more peaceful, less spirit-stirring place or
populace.
Everybody was busy, and thrifty, and law abiding. He might just as well
have gone to Prague or Nuremburg; either was as old and as quaint and as
stupid as this lukewarm city in the hills.
Where were the beautiful women he had read about and dreamed of ever
since he left Teheran? On his soul, he had not seen half a dozen women
in Edelweiss who were more than passably fair to look upon. True, he had
to admit, the people he had seen were of the lower and middle
classes--the shopkeepers and the shopgirls, the hucksters and the fruit
vendors. What he wanted to know was this: What had become of the royalty
and the nobility of Graustark? Where were the princes, the dukes and
the barons, to say nothing of the feminine concomitants to these
excellent gentlemen?
What irritated him most of all was the amazing discovery that there was
a Cook's tourist office in town and that no end of parties arrived and
departed under his very nose, all mildly exhilarated over the fact that
they had seen Graustark! The interpreter, with "Cook's" on his cap, was
quite the most important, if quite the least impressive personage in
town. It is no wonder that this experienced globe-trotter was disgusted!
There was a train to Vienna three times a week. He made up his mind that
he would not let the Saturday express go down without him. He had done
some emphatic sputtering because he had neglected to take the one on
Thursday.
Shunning the newly discovered American club in Castle Avenue as if it
were a pest house, he lugubriously wandered the streets alone, painfully
conscious that the citizens, instead of staring at him with admiring
eyes, were taking but little notice of him. Tall young Americans were
quite common in Edelweiss in these days.
One dingy little shop in the square interested him. It was directly
opposite the Royal Café (with American bar attached), and the contents
of its grimy little windows presented a peculiarly fascinating interest
to him. Time and again, he crossed over from the Café garden to look
into these windows. They were packed with weapons and firearms of such
ancient design that he wondered what they could have been used for, even
in the Middle Ages. Once he ventured inside the little shop. Finding no
attendant, he put aside his suddenly formed impulse to purchase a mighty
broadsword. From somewhere in the rear of the building came the clanging
of steel hammers, the ringing of highly tempered metals; but, although
he pounded vigorously with his cane, no one came forth to attend him.
On several occasions he had seen a grim, sharp-featured old man in the
doorway of the shop, but it was not until after he had missed the
Thursday train that he made up his mind to accost him and to have the
broadsword at any price. With this object in view, he quickly crossed
the square and inserted his tall frame into the narrow doorway, calling
out lustily for attention. So loudly did he shout that the multitude of
ancient swords and guns along the walls seemed to rattle in terror at
this sudden encroachment of the present.
"What is it?" demanded a sharp, angry voice at his elbow. He wheeled and
found himself looking into the wizened, parchment-like face of the
little old man, whose black eyes snapped viciously. "Do you think I am
deaf?"
"I didn't know you were here," gasped Truxton, forgetting to be
surprised by the other's English. "The place looked empty. Excuse me for
yelling."
"What do you want?"
"That broad--Say, you speak English, don't you?"
"Certainly," snapped the old man. "Why shouldn't I? I can't afford an
interpreter. You'll find plenty of English used here in Edelweiss since
the Americans and British came. They won't learn our language, so we
must learn theirs."
"You speak it quite as well as I do."
"Better, young man. You are an American." The sarcasm was not lost on
Truxton King, but he was not inclined to resent it. A twinkle had come
into the eyes of the ancient; the deep lines about his lips seemed
almost ready to crack into a smile.
"What's the price of that old sword you have in the window?"
"Do you wish to purchase it?"
"Certainly."
"Three hundred gavvos."
"What's that in dollars?"
"Four hundred and twenty."
"Whew!"
"It is genuine, sir, and three hundred years old. Old Prince Boris
carried it. It's most rare. Ten years ago you might have had it for
fifty gavvos. But," with a shrug of his thin shoulders, "the price of
antiquities has gone up materially since the Americans began to come.
They don't want a thing if it is cheap."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for it, Mr.--er--" he looked at the
sign on the open door--"Mr. Spantz."
"Good day, sir." The old man was bowing him out of the shop. King was
amused.
"Let's talk it over. What's the least you'll take in real money?"
"I don't want your money. Good day."
Truxton King felt his chin in perplexity. In all his travels he had
found no other merchant whom he could not "beat down" two or three
hundred per cent. on an article.
"It's too much. I can't afford it," he said, disappointment in his eyes.
"I have modern blades of my own make, sir, much cheaper and quite as
good," ventured the excellent Mr. Spantz.
"You make 'em?" in surprise.
The old man straightened his bent figure with sudden pride. "I am
armourer to the crown, sir. My blades are used by the nobility--not by
the army, I am happy to say. Spantz repairs the swords and guns for the
army, but he welds only for the gentlemen at court."
"I see. Tradition, I suppose."
"My great-grandfather wrought blades for the princes a hundred years
ago. My son will make them after I am gone, and his son after him. I,
sir, have made the wonderful blade with the golden hilt and scabbard
which the little Prince carries on days of state. It was two years in
the making. There is no other blade so fine. It is so short that you
would laugh at it as a weapon, and yet you could bend it double. Ah,
there was a splendid piece of work, sir. You should see the little toy
to appreciate it. There are diamonds and rubies worth 50,000 gavvos set
in the handle. Ah, it is--"
Truxton's eyes were sparkling once more. Somehow he was amused by the
sudden garrulousness of the old armourer. He held up his hand to check
the flow of words.
"I say, Herr Spantz, or Monsieur, perhaps, you are the first man I've
met who has volunteered to go into rhapsodies for my benefit. I'd like
to have a good long chat with you. What do you say to a mug of that
excellent beer over in the Café garden? Business seems to be a little
dull. Can't you--er--lock up?"
Spantz looked at him keenly under his bushy brows, his little black eyes
fairly boring holes into King's brain, so to speak.
"May I ask what brings you to Edelweiss?" he asked abruptly.
"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Spantz, that I'm here because I'm
somewhat of a fool. False hopes led me astray. I thought Graustark was
the home, the genesis of Romance, and I'm more or less like that chap
we've read about, who was always in search of adventure. Somehow,
Graustark hasn't come up to expectations. Up to date, this is the
slowest burg I've ever seen. I'm leaving next Saturday for Vienna."
"I see," cackled Spantz, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "You thought you
could capture wild and beautiful princesses here just as you pleased,
eh? Let me tell you, young man, only one American--only one foreigner,
in fact--has accomplished that miracle. Mr. Lorry came here ten years
ago and won the fairest flower Graustark ever produced-the beautiful
Yetive--but he was the only one. I suppose you are surprised to find
Graustark a solid, prosperous, God-fearing little country, whose people
are wise and happy and loyal. You have learned, by this time, that we
have no princesses for you to protect. It isn't as it was when Mr. Lorry
came and found Her Serene Highness in mediæval difficulties. There is a
prince on the throne to-day--you've seen him?"
"No. I'm not looking for princes. I've seen hundreds of 'em in all parts
of the world."
"Well, you should see Prince Robin before you scoff. He's the most
wonderful little man in all the world."
"I've heard of nothing but him, my good Mr. Spantz. He's seven years old
and he looks like his mother and he's got a jewelled sword and all that
sort of thing. I daresay he's a nice little chap. Got American blood in
him, you see."
"Do not let any one hear you laugh about him, sir. The people worship
him. If you laugh too publicly, you may have your hands full of
adventures in a very few minutes--and your body full of fine steel
blades. We are very proud of our Prince."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Spantz. I didn't mean _lesé majesté_. I'm bored,
that's all. You wouldn't blame me for being sore if you'd come as far as
I have and got as little for your pains. Why, hang it all, this morning
that confounded man from Cook's had a party of twenty-two American
school-teachers and Bible students in the Castle grounds and I had to
stand on my toes outside the walls for two hours before I could get a
permit to enter. American engineers are building the new railroad;
American capital controls the telephone and electric light companies;
there are two American moving picture shows in Regengetz Circus and an
American rush hand laundry two blocks up. And you can get Bourbon whisky
anywhere. It's sickening."
"The Americans have done much for Edelweiss, sir. We don't resent their
progressiveness. They have given us modern improvements without
overthrowing ancient customs. My dear young sir, we are very old
here--and very honest. That reminds me that I should accept your kind
invitation to the Café garden. If you will bear with me for just one
moment, sir." With this polite request, the old man retired to the rear
of the shop and called out to some one upstairs. A woman's voice
answered. The brief conversation which followed was in a tongue unknown
to King.
"My niece will keep shop, sir, while I am out," Spantz explained, taking
his hat from a peg behind the door. Truxton could scarcely restrain a
smile as he glanced over his queer little old guest. He looked eighty
but was as sprightly as a man of forty. A fine companion for a youth of
twenty-six in search of adventure!
They paused near the door until the old man's niece appeared at the back
of the shop. King's first glance at the girl was merely a casual one.
His second was more or less in the nature of a stare of amazement.
A young woman of the most astounding beauty, attired in the black and
red of the Graustark middle classes, was slowly approaching from the
shadowy recesses at the end of the shop. She gave him but a cursory
glance, in which no interest was apparent, and glided quietly into the
little nook behind the counter, almost at his elbow. His heart enjoyed a
lively thump. Here was the first noticeably good-looking woman he had
seen in Edelweiss, and, by the powers, she was a sword-maker's niece!
The old man looked sharply at him for an instant, and a quick little
smile writhed in and out among the mass of wrinkles. Instead of passing
directly out of the shop, Spantz stopped a moment to give the girl some
suddenly recalled instruction. Truxton King, you may be sure, did not
precede the old man into the street. He deliberately removed his hat and
waited most politely for age to go before youth, in the meantime blandly
gazing upon the face of this amazing niece.
Across the square, at one of the tables, he awaited his chance and a
plausible excuse for questioning the old man without giving offence.
Somewhere back in his impressionable brain there was growing a distinct
hope that this beautiful young creature with the dreamy eyes was
something more than a mere shopgirl. It had occurred to him in that one
brief moment of contact that she had the air, the poise of a true
aristocrat.
The old man, over his huge mug of beer, was properly grateful. He was
willing to repay King for his little attention by giving him a careful
history of Graustark, past, present and future, from the time of Tartar
rule to the time of the so-called "American invasion." ills glowing
description of the little Prince might have interested Truxton in his
Lord Fauntleroy days, but just at present he was more happily engaged in
speculating on the true identify of the girl in the gun-shop. He
recalled the fact that a former royal princess of Graustark had gone
sight-seeing over the world, incognita, as a Miss Guggenslocker, and had
been romantically snatched up by a lucky American named Lorry. What if
this girl in the gun-shop should turn out to be a--well, he could hardly
hope for a princess; but she might be a countess.
The old mart was rambling on. "The young Prince has lived most of his
life in Washington and London and Paris, sir. He's only seven, sir. Of
course, you remember the dreadful accident that made him an orphan and
put him on the throne with the three 'wise men of the East' as regents
or governors. The train wreck near Brussels, sir? His mother, the
glorious Princess Yetive, was killed and his father, Mr. Lorry, died the
next day from his injuries. That, sir, was a most appalling blow to the
people of Graustark. We loved the Princess and we admired her fine
American husband. There never will be another pair like them, sir. And
to think of them being destroyed as they were--in the most dreadful way,
sir. Their coach was demolished, you remember. I--I will not go into the
details. You know them, of course. God alone preserved the little
Prince. He was travelling with them, on the way from London to
Edelweiss. By some strange intervention of Providence he had gone with
his governess and other members of the party to the luggage van in the
fore part of the train, which had stopped on a side track below the
station. The collision was from the rear, a broken rail throwing a
locomotive into the Princess's coach. This providential escape of the
young Prince preserved the unbroken line of the present royal family. If
he had been killed, the dynasty would have come to an end, and, I am
telling no secret, sir, when I say that a new form of government would
have followed."
"What sort of government?"
"A more modern system, sir. Perhaps socialistic. I can't say. At all
events, a new dynasty could not have been formed. The people would have
rejected it. But Prince Robin was spared and, if I do say it, sir, he is
the manliest little prince in all the world. You should see him ride and
fence and shoot--and he is but seven!"
"I say, Mr. Spantz, I don't believe I've told you that your niece is a
most remarkably beau--"
"As I was saying, sir," interrupted Spantz, so pointedly that Truxton
flushed, "the little Prince is the idol of all the people. Under the
present regency he is obliged to reside in the principality until his
fifteenth year, after which he may be permitted to travel abroad.
Graustark intends to preserve him to herself if it is in her power to do
so. Woe betide the man who thinks or does ill toward little Prince
Robin."
King was suddenly conscious of a strange intentness of gaze on the old
man's part. A peculiar, indescribable chill swept over him; he had a
distinct, vivid impression that some subtle power was exercising itself
upon him--a power that, for the briefest instant, held him in a grip of
iron. What it was, he could not have told; it passed almost immediately.
Something in the old man's eyes, perhaps--or was it something in the
queer smile that flickered about his lips?
"My dear Mr. Spantz," he hastened to say, as if a defence were
necessary, "please don't get it into your head that I'm thinking ill of
the Prince. I daresay he's a fine little chap and I'm sorry
he's--er--lost his parents."
Spantz laughed, a soft, mirthless gurgle that caused Truxton to wonder
why he had made the effort at all. "I imagine His Serene Highness has
little to fear from any American," he said quietly. "He has been taught
to love and respect the men of his father's land. He loves America quite
as dearly as he loves Graustark." Despite the seeming sincerity of the
remark, Truxton was vaguely conscious that a peculiar harshness had
crept into the other's voice. He glanced sharply at the old man's face.
For the first time he noticed something sinister--yes, evil--in the
leathery countenance; a stealthiness in the hard smile that seemed to
transform it at once into a pronounced leer. Like a flash there darted
into the American's active brain a conviction that there could be no
common relationship between this flinty old man and the delicate,
refined girl he had seen in the shop. Now he recalled the fact that her
dark eyes had a look of sadness and dejection in their depths, and that
her face was peculiarly white and unsmiling.
Spantz was eyeing him narrowly. "You do not appear interested in our
royal family," he ventured coldly.
Truxton hastened to assure him that he was keenly interested. Especially
so, now that I appreciate that the little Prince is the last of his
race."
"There are three regents, sir, in charge of the affairs of state--Count
Halfont, the Duke of Perse and Baron Jasto Dangloss, who is minister of
police. Count Halfont is a granduncle of the Prince, by marriage. The
Duke of Perse is the father of the unhappy Countess Ingomede, the young
and beautiful wife of the exiled "Iron Count" Marlanx. No doubt you've
heard of him."
"I've read something about him. Sort of a gay old bounder, wasn't he?
Seems to me I recall the stories that were printed about him a few years
ago. I remember that he was banished from the principality and his
estates seized by the Crown."
"Quite true, sir. He was banished in 1901 and now resides on his
estates in Austria. Three years ago, in Buda Pesth, he was married to
Ingomede, the daughter of the Duke. Count Marlanx has great influence at
the Austrian court. Despite the fact that he is a despised and
discredited man in his own country, he still is a power among people
high in the government of more than one empire. The Duke of Perse
realised this when he compelled his daughter to accept him as her
husband. The fair Ingomede is less than twenty-five years of age; the
Iron Count is fully sixty-five."
"She ought to be rescued," was King's only comment, but there was no
mistaking the gleam of interest in his steady grey eyes.
"Rescued?" repeated the old man, with a broad grin. "And why? She is
mistress of one of the finest old castles in Austria, Schloss Marlanx,
and she is quite beautiful enough to have lovers by the score when the
Count grows a little blinder and less jealous. She is in Edelweiss at
present, visiting her father. The Count never comes here."
"I'd like to see her if she's really beautiful. I've seen but one pretty
woman in this whole blamed town--your niece, Herr Spantz. I've looked
'em over pretty carefully, too. She is exceedingly attract--"
"Pardon me, sir, but it is not the custom in Graustark to discuss our
women in the public drinking places." King felt as if he had received a
slap in the face. He turned a fiery red under his tan and mumbled some
sort of an apology. "The Countess is a public personage, however, and we
may speak of her," went on the old man quickly, as the American, in his
confusion, called a waiter to replenish the tankards. The steely glitter
that leaped into the armourer's eyes at this second reference to his
niece disappeared as quickly as it came; somehow it left behind the
impression that he knew how to wield the deadly blades he wrought.
"I'd like to hear more about her," murmured Mr. King. "Anything to pass
the time away, Mr. Spantz. As I said before, I journeyed far to reach
this land of fair women and if there's one to be seen, I'm properly
eager to jump at the chance. I've been here two days and I've seen
nothing that could start up the faintest flutter around my heart. I'm
sorry to say, my good friend, that the women I've seen in the streets of
Edelweiss are not beauties. I won't say that they'd stop a clock, but
they'd cause it to lose two or three hours a day, all right enough."
"You will not find the beautiful women of Edelweiss in the streets,
sir."
"Don't they ever go out shopping?"
"Hardly. The merchants, if you will but notice, carry their wares to the
houses of the noble and the rich. Graustark ladies of quality would no
more think of setting foot in a shop or bazaar than they would think of
entering a third class carriage. Believe me, there are many beautiful
women in the homes along Castle Avenue. Noblemen come hundreds of miles
to pay court to them."
"Just the same, I'm disgusted with the place. It's not what it's cracked
up to be. Saturday will see me on my way."
"To-morrow the garrison at the fortress marches in review before the
Prince. If you should happen to be on the avenue near the Castle gate at
twelve o'clock, you will see the beauty and chivalry of Graustark. The
soldiers are not the only ones who are on parade." There was an
unmistakable sneer in his tone.
"You don't care much for society, I'd say," observed Truxton, with a
smile.
Spantz's eyes flamed for an instant and then subtly resumed their most
ingratiating twinkle. "We cannot all be peacocks," he said quietly. "You
will see the Prince, his court and all the distinguished men of the city
and the army. You will also see that the man who rides beside the
Prince's carriage wheel is an American, while Graustark nobles take less
exalted places."
"An American, eh?"
"Yes. Have you not heard of John Tullis, the Prince's friend?"
"Another seven-year-old?"
"Not at all. A grown man, sir. He, your countryman, is the real power
behind our throne. On his deathbed, the Prince's father placed his son
in this American's charge and begged him to stand by him through thick
and thin until the lad is able to take care of himself. As if there were
not loyal men in Graustark who might have done as much for their
Prince!"
King looked interested. "I see. The people, no doubt, resent this
espionage. Is that it?"
Spantz gave him a withering look, as much as to say that he was a fool
to ask such a question in a place so public. Without replying, he got to
his feet and made ready to leave the little garden.
"I must return. I have been away too long. Thank you, sir, for your
kindness to an old man. Good day, sir, and--"
"Hold on! I think I'll walk over with you and have another look at that
broadsword. I'm--"
"To-morrow, sir. It is past time to close the shop for to-day. Come
to-morrow. Good day."
He was crossing the sidewalk nimbly before King could offer a word of
remonstrance. With a disappointed sigh, the American sank back in his
chair, and watched his odd companion scurry across the square. Suddenly
he became conscious of a disquieting feeling that some one was looking
at him intently from behind. He turned in his chair and found himself
meeting the gaze of a ferocious looking, military appearing little man
at a table near by. To his surprise, the little man's fierce stare
maintained its peculiarly personal intentness until he, himself, was
compelled to withdraw his own gaze in some little confusion and
displeasure. His waiter appeared at his elbow with the change.
"Who the devil is that old man at the table there?" demanded young Mr.
King loudly.
The waiter assumed a look of extreme insolence. "That is Baron Dangloss,
Minister of Police. Anything more, sir?"
"Yes. What's he looking so hard at me for? Does he think I'm a
pickpocket?"
"You know as much as I, sir," was all that the waiter said in reply.
King pocketed the coin he had intended for the fellow, and deliberately
left the place. He could not put off the feeling, however, that the
intense stare of Baron Dangloss, the watch-dog of the land, followed him
until the corner of the wall intervened. The now incensed American
glanced involuntarily across the square in the direction of Spantz's
shop. He saw three mounted soldiers ride up to the curb and hail the
armourer as he started to close his doors. As he sauntered across the
little square his gaze suddenly shifted to a second-story window above
the gun-shop.
The interesting young woman had cautiously pushed open one of the
shutters and was peering down upon the trio of red-coated guardsmen.
Almost at the same instant her quick, eager gaze fell upon the tall
American, now quite close to the horsemen. He saw her dark eyes expand
as if with surprise. The next instant he caught his breath and almost
stopped in his tracks.
A shy, impulsive smile played about her red lips for a second, lighting
up the delicate face with a radiance that amazed him. Then the shutter
was closed gently, quickly. His first feeling of elation was followed
instantly by the disquieting impression that it was a mocking smile of
amusement and not one of inviting friendliness. He felt his ears burn as
he abruptly turned off to the right, for, somehow, he knew that she was
peeping at him through the blinds and that something about his tall,
rangy figure was appealing to her sense of the ridiculous.
You will see at once that Truxton King, imaginative chap that he was,
had pounced upon this slim, attractive young woman as the only plausible
heroine for his prospective romance, and, as such, she could not be
guilty of forwardness or lack or dignity. Besides, first impressions are
always good ones: she had struck him at the outset as being a girl of
rare delicacy and refinement.
In the meantime, Baron Dangloss was watching him covertly from the edge
of the Café garden across the square.