AT THE WITCH'S HUT
The next morning, before setting forth to consult the minister of police
at the Tower, he called up the Perse palace on the telephone and asked
for the Countess, to tell her in so many words that he had been followed
from her door to the very gates of the Castle grounds. Not by one man
alone, for that would have excited suspicion, but by half a dozen at
least, each one taking up the surveillance in the most casual manner as
the watcher before him left off. Tullis was amazed by the cunning which
masked these proceedings; there was a wily brain behind it.
The Duke's secretary answered the call. Tullis was completely bowled
over by the curt information that the Countess Marlanx had left
Edelweiss before six that morning, to join her husband, who was shooting
wild boars with a party in Axphain.
"When does she return?" demanded the American, scarcely believing his
ears. She had said nothing of this the night before. What could it mean?
"I do not know, sir."
"In a day or two?"
"She took sixteen trunks, sir," was the laconic reply, as if that told
the story in full.
"Well, I'm damned!"
"I beg pardon, sir!"
"I beg _your_ pardon. Good morning."
* * * * *
In the meantime, our excellent young friend, Truxton King, was having a
sorry time of it. It all began when he went to the Cathedral in the
hope of seeing the charming aunt of the little Prince once more. Not
only did he attend one service, but all of them, having been assured
that the royal family worshipped there quite as regularly and as
religiously as the lowliest communicant. She did not appear.
More than all this, he met with fresh disappointment when he ambled down
to the armourer's shop. The doors were locked and there was no sign of
life about the shuttered place. The cafés were closed on this day of
rest, so there was nothing left for him to do but to slink off to his
room in the Regengetz, there to read or to play solitaire and to curse
the progress of civilisation.
Monday was little better than Sunday. Hobbs positively refused to escort
him to the Castle grounds again. No amount of bribing or browbeating
could move the confounded Englishman from his stand. He was willing to
take him anywhere else, but never again would he risk a personally
conducted tour into hot waters royal. Mr. King resigned himself to a
purely business call at the shop of Mr. Spantz. He looked long, with a
somewhat shifty eye, at the cabinet of ancient rings and necklaces, and
then departed without having seen the interesting Miss Platanova. If the
old man observed a tendency to roam in the young man's eye, he did not
betray the fact--at least not so that any one could notice. Truxton
departed, but returned immediately after luncheon, vaguely inclined to
decide between two desirable rings. After a protracted period of
indecision, in which Olga remained stubbornly out of sight, he announced
that he could not make up his mind, and would return later for another
inspection.
At his room in the hotel, he found a note addressed to himself. It did
not have much to say, but it meant a great deal. There was no signature,
and the handwriting was that of a woman.
"_Please do not come again_." That was all.
He laughed with a fine tone of defiance and--went back to the shop at
five o'clock, just to prove that nothing so timid as a note could stop
him. This, however, was after he had taken a long walk down Castle
Avenue, with a supplementary stroll of little incident outside the grim,
high walls that enclosed the grounds. If any one had told him that he
was secretly hoping to find a crevasse through which he could invade
paradise, I make no doubt he would have resented the imputation soundly.
On the occasion of this last visit to the shop, he did not stay long,
but went away somewhat dazed to find himself the possessor of a ring he
did not want and out of pocket just thirty dollars, American. Having
come to the conclusion that knight-errantry of that kind was not only
profligate but distinctly irritating to his sense of humour, he looked
up Mr. Hobbs and arranged for a day's ride in the mountains.
"You'll oblige me, Mr. Hobbs, by removing that band from your cap. I
know you're an interpreter. It's an insult to my intelligence to have it
flaunted in my face all day long. I'll admit you're what you say you
are, so take it off before we start out to-morrow."
And so, minus the beguiling insignia of office, Mr. Hobbs led his
hypercritical patron into the mountain roads early the next morning,
both well mounted and provided with a luncheon large enough to restore
the amiability that was sure to flag at mid-day unless sustained by
unæsthetic sandwiches and beer.
The day was bright and clear, warm in the valley where the city lay,
cooler to cold as one mounted the winding roads that led past the lofty
Monastery of St. Valentine, sombre sentinel among the clouds.
A part of Edelweiss is built along the side of the mountain, its narrow
streets winding upward and past countless terraces to the very base of
the rocky, jagged eminence at whose top, a full mile above the last
sprinkling of houses, stands the isolated, bleak Monastery. The view
from these upper streets, before one enters the circuitous and hidden
Monastery road that winds afar in its climb, is never to be forgotten by
the spectator, no matter how often he traverses the lofty thoroughfares.
As far as the eye can reach, lies the green valley, through which winds
the silvery river with its evergreen banks and spotless white
houses-greens and whites that almost shame the vaunted tints of old
Ireland as one views them from the incoming steamers. Immediately below
one's feet lies the compact little city, with its red roofs and green
chimney pots, its narrow streets and vivid awnings, its wide avenues and
the ancient Castle to the north. To the south, the fortress and the
bridges; encircling the city a thick, high wall with here and there
enormous gates flanked by towers so grim and old that they seem ready to
topple over from the sheer fatigue of centuries. A soft, Indian summer
haze hangs over the lazy-lit valley; it is always so in the summer time.
Outside the city walls stretch the wheat-fields and the meadows, the
vineyards and orchards, all snug in the nest of forest-crowned hills,
whose lower slopes are spotted with broken herds of cattle and the more
mobile flocks of sheep. An air of tranquillity lies low over the entire
vista; one dozes if he looks long into this peaceful bowl of plenty.
From the distant passes in the mountains to the east and north come the
dull intonations of dynamite blasts, proving the presence of that
disturbing element of progress which is driving the railroad through the
unbroken heart of the land.
It is a good three hours' ride to the summit of Monastery Mountain. And,
after the height has been attained, one does not care to linger long
among the chilly, whistling crags, with their snow-crevasses and bitter
winds; the utter loneliness, the aloofness of this frost-crowned crest
appals, disheartens one who loves the fair, green things of life. In the
shelter of the crags, at the base of the Monastery walls, looking out
over the sunlit valley, one has his luncheon and his snack of spirits
quite undisturbed, for the monks pay no heed to him. They are not
hospitable, neither are they unfriendly. One seldom sees them.
Truxton King and Mr. Hobbs were not long in disposing of their lunch. It
was too cold for comfort in their draughty dining-room, and they were
not invited to enter the inhospitable gates. In half an hour they were
wending their way down the north side of the peak by gradually declining
roads, headed for the much-talked-of home of the Witch in Ganlook Gap,
some six miles from Edelweiss as the crow flies, but twice that distance
over the tortuous bridle paths and post roads.
It was three o'clock when they clattered down the stone road and up to
the forbidding vale in which lurked, like an evil, guilty thing, the
log-built home of that ancient female who made no secret of her
practices in witchcraft. The hut stood back from the mountain road a
hundred yards or more, at the head of a small, thicket-grown recess.
A low, thatched roof protruded from the hill against which the hut was
built. As a matter of fact, a thin chimney grew out of the earth
itself, for all the world like a smoking tree stump. The hovel was a
squalid, beggary thing that might have been built over night somewhere
back in the dark ages. Its single door was so low that one was obliged
to stoop to enter the little room where the dame had been holding forth
for three-score years, 'twas said. This was her throne-room, her
dining-room, her bed-chamber, her all, it would seem, unless one had
been there before and knew that her kitchen was beyond, in the side of
the hill. The one window, sans glass, looked narrowly out upon an odd
opening in the foliage below, giving the occupant of the hut an
unobstructed view of the winding road that led up from Edelweiss. The
door faced the Monastery road down which the two men had just ridden. As
for the door yard, it was no more than a pebbly, avalanche-swept opening
among the trees and rocks, down which in the glacial age perhaps a
thousand torrents had leaped, but which was now so dry and white and
lifeless that one could only think of bones bleached and polished by a
sun that had sickened of the work a thousand years ago.
This brief, inadequate description of the Witch's hut is given in
advance of the actual descent of the personally conducted gentleman for
the somewhat ambiguous reason that he was to find it not at all as
described.
The two horsemen rode into the glen and came plump upon a small
detachment of the royal guard, mounted and rather resolute in their lack
of amiability.
"Wot's this?" gasped Mr. Hobbs, drawing rein at the edge of the pebbly
dooryard.
"Soldiers, I'd say," remarked Mr. King, scowling quite glumly from
beneath the rim of his panama. "Hello!" His eyes brightened and his hat
came off with a switch. "There's the Prince!"
"My word," ejaculated Mr. Hobbs, and forthwith began to ransack his
pockets for the band which said he was from Cook's.
Farther up the glen, in fact at the very door of the Witch's hut, were
gathered a small but rather distinguished portion of the royal
household. It was not difficult to recognise the little Prince. He was
standing beside John Tullis; and it is not with a desire to speak ill of
his valour that we add: he was clutching the slackest part of that
gentleman's riding breeks with an earnestness that betrayed extreme
trepidation. Facing them, on the stone door-step, was the Witch herself,
a figure to try the courage of a time-tried hero, let alone the
susceptibilities of a small boy in knickers. Behind Tullis and the
Prince were several ladies and gentlemen, all in riding garments and all
more or less ill at ease.
Truxton King's heart swelled suddenly; all the world grew bright again
for him. Next to the tall figure of Colonel Quinnox, of the Royal Guard,
was the slim, entrancing lady of his most recent dreams--the Prince's
aunt! The lady of the grotto! The lady of the goldfish conspiracy!
The Countess Marlanx, tall and exquisite, was a little apart from the
others, with Baron Dangloss and young Count Vos Engo--whom Truxton was
ready to hate because he was a recognised suitor for the hand of the
slim, young person in grey. He thought he had liked her beyond increase
in the rajah silk, but now he confessed to himself that he was mistaken.
He liked her better in a grey riding habit. It struck him sharply, as he
sat there in the saddle, that she would be absolutely and adorably
faultless in point lace or calico, in silk or gingham, low-neck or high.
He was for riding boldly up to this little group, but a very
objectionable lieutenant barred the way, supported in no small measure
by the defection of Mr. Hobbs, who announced in a hoarse, agitated
whisper that he's "be 'anged if he'd let any man make a fool of him
twice over."
The way was made easy by the intervention of the alert young woman in
grey. She caught sight of the restricted adventurers--or one of them, to
be quite accurate--and, after speeding a swift smile of astonishment,
turned quickly to Prince Bobby.
A moment later, the tall stranger with the sun-browned face was the
centre of interest to the small group at the door. He bowed amiably to
the smiling young person in grey and received a quick nod in response.
As he was adventuring what he considered to be a proper salute for the
Prince, he observed that a few words passed between the lad's aunt and
John Tullis, who was now surveying him with some interest.
The Prince broke the ice.
"Hello!" he cried shrilly, his little face aglow.
"Hello!" responded the gentleman, readily.
John Tullis found himself being dragged away from the Witch's door
toward the newcomer at the bottom of the glen. Mr. Hobbs listened with
deepening awe to the friendly conversation which resulted in Truxton
King going forward to join the party in front of the hut. He came along
in the rear, after having tethered the tired horses, not quite sure that
he was awake. The Prince had called him Mr. Cook, had asked him how his
Sons were, all of which was highly gratifying when one pauses to
consider that he had got his cap band on upside down in his excitement.
He always was to wonder how the little monarch succeeded in reading the
title without standing on his head to do so.
Truxton was duly presented to the ladies and gentlemen of the party by
John Tullis, who gracefully announced that he knew King's parents in New
York. Baron Dangloss was quite an old friend, if one were to judge by
the manner in which he greeted the young man. The lady in grey smiled so
sweetly and nodded so blithely, that Tullis, instead of presenting King
to her as he had done to the Countess Marlanx and others, merely said:
"And you know one another, of course." Whereupon she flushed very
prettily and felt constrained to avoid Truxton's look of inquiry. He did
not lose his wits, but vowed acquiescence and assumed that he knew.
As a result of the combined supplications of the entire party, the old
woman grudgingly consented to take them into her hovel, where, in
exchange for small pieces of silver, she would undertake certain
manifestations in necromancy.
Truxton King, scarcely able to believe his good fortune, crowded into
the loathsome, squalid room with his aristocratic companions, managing,
with considerable skill, to keep close beside his charming friend. They
stood back while the others crowded up to the table where the hag
occupied herself with the crystal ball.
Never had Truxton looked upon a creature who so thoroughly vindicated
the life-long reliance he had put in the description of witches given by
the fairy-tale tellers of his earliest youth. She had the traditional
hook-nose and peaked chin, the glittering eyes, the thousand wrinkles
and the toothless gums. He looked about for the raven and the cat, but
if she had them, they were not in evidence. At a rough guess, he
calculated her age at one hundred years. A youth of extreme laziness,
who Baron Dangloss said was the old woman's grandson, appeared to be her
man-of-all-work. He fetched the old woman's crystal, placed stools for
the visitors, lighted the candles on the table, occupying no less than a
quarter of an hour in performing these simple acts, so awkward that at
least two of his observers giggled openly and whispered their opinions.
"Gruesome lady, isn't she?" whispered King.
"I shall dream of her for months," whispered the lady in grey,
shuddering.
"Are you willing to have her read your future in that ball?"
"Do you really think she can tell?"
"I once had a fortune-teller say that I would be married before I was
twenty-three," he informed her. She appeared interested.
"And were you?"
"No. But she did her part, you know--the fortune-teller, I mean."
"She warned you. I see. So it really wasn't her fault." She was watching
the preparations at the table with eager eyes, her lips parted and her
breath coming quick through excitement.
"Would you mind telling me how I am to address you?" whispered King.
They were leaning against the mud-plastered wall near the little window,
side by side. The whimsical smile that every one loved to see was on his
lips, in his eyes. "You see, I'm a stranger in a strange land. That
accounts for my ignorance."
"You must not speak while she is gazing into the crystal," she warned,
after a quick, searching glance at his face. He could have sworn that he
saw a gleam of concern in her eyes, followed instantly by a twinkle that
meant mischief.
"Please consider my plight," he implored. "I can't call you Aunt
Loraine, you know."
She laughed silently and turned her head to devote her entire attention
to the scene at the table. Truxton King was in a sudden state of
trepidation. Had he offended her? There was a hot rush of blood to his
ears. He missed the sly, wondering glance that she gave him out of the
corner of her eye a moment later.
Although it was broad daylight, the low, stuffy room would have been
pitch dark had it not been for the flickering candles on the table
beside the bent, grey head of the mumbling fortune-teller, whose bony
fingers twitched over and about the crystal globe like wiggling
serpents' tails. The window gave little or no light and the door was
closed, the grinning grandson leaning against it limply. The picture was
a weird, uncanny one, despite the gay, lightsome appearance of the
visitors. The old woman, in high, shrill tones, had commanded silence.
The men obeyed with a grim scepticism, while the women seemed really
awed by their surroundings.
The Witch began by reading the fortune of John Tullis, who had been
pushed forward by the wide-eyed Prince. In a cackling monotone she
rambled through a supposititious history of his past, for the chief part
so unintelligible that even he could not gainsay the statements. Later,
she bent her piercing eyes upon the Prince and refused to read his
future, shrilly asserting that she had not the courage to tell what
might befall the little ruler, all the while muttering something about
the two little princes who had died in a tower ages and ages ago. Seeing
that the boy was frightened, Tullis withdrew him to the background. The
Countess Marlanx, who had returned that morning to Edelweiss as
mysteriously as she had left, came next. She was smiling derisively.
"You have just returned from a visit to some one whom you hate," began
the Witch. "He is your husband. You will marry again. There is a
fair-haired man in love with you. You are in love with him. I can see
trouble--"
But the Countess deliberately turned away from the table, her cheeks
flaming with the consciousness that a smile had swept the circle behind
her graceful back.
"Ridiculous," she said, and avoided John Tullis's gaze. "I don't care to
hear any more. Come, Baron You are next."
Truxton King, subdued and troubled in his mind, found himself studying
his surroundings and the people who went so far to make them
interesting. He glanced from time to time at the delicate, eager profile
of the girl beside him; at the soft, warm cheek and the caressing brown
hair; at the little ear and the white slim neck of her--and realised
just what had happened to him. He had fallen in love; that was the plain
upshot of it. It had come to pass, just as he had hoped it would in his
dearest dreams. He was face to face with the girl of royal blood that
the story books had created for him long, long ago, and he was doing
just what he had always intended to do: falling heels over head and
hopelessly in love with her. Never had he seen hair grow so exquisitely
about the temples and neck as this one's hair--but, just to confound his
budding singleness of interest, his gaze at that instant wandered off
and fell upon something that caused him to stare hard at a certain spot
far removed from the coiffure of a fair and dainty lady.
His eye had fallen upon a crack in the door that led to the kitchen,
although he had no means of knowing that it was a kitchen. To his
amazement, a gleaming eye was looking out upon the room from beyond
this narrow crack. He looked long and found that he was not mistaken.
There was an eye, glued close to the opposite side of the rickety door,
and its gaze was directed to the Countess Marlanx.
The spirit of adventure, recklessness, bravado--whatever you may choose
to call it--flared high in the soul of this self-despised outsider. He
could feel a strange thrill of exaltation shooting through his veins; he
knew as well as he knew anything that he was destined to create
commotion in that stately crowd, even against his better judgment. The
desire to spring forward and throw open the door, thus exposing a
probable con-federate, was stronger than he had the power to resist.
Even as he sought vainly to hold himself in check, he became conscious
that the staring eye was meeting his own in a glare of realisation.
Without pausing to consider the result of his action, he sprang across
the room, shouting as he did so that there was a man behind the door.
Grasping the latch, he threw the door wide open, the others in the room
looking at him as if he were suddenly crazed.
He had expected to confront the owner of that basilisk eye. There was
not a sign of a human being in sight. Beyond was a black little room, at
the back of which stood an old cooking stove with a fire going and a
kettle singing. He leaped through, prepared to grasp the mysterious
watcher, but, to his utter amazement, the kitchen was absolutely empty,
save for inanimate things. His surprise was so genuine that it was not
to be mistaken by the men who leaped to his side. He had time to note
that two of them carried pistols in their hands, and that Tullis and
Quinnox had placed themselves between the Prince and possible danger.
There was instant commotion, with cries and exclamations from all. Quick
as the others were, the old woman was at his side before them, snarling
with rage. Her talon-like fingers sunk into his arm, and her gaze went
darting about the room in a most convincing way. Some minutes passed
before the old woman could be quieted. Then King explained his action.
He swore solemnly, if sheepishly, that he could not have been mistaken,
and yet the owner of that eye had vanished as if swallowed up by the
mountain.
Baron Dangloss was convinced that the young man had seen the eye.
Without compunction he began a search of the room, the old woman looking
on with a grin of glee.
"Search! Search!" she croaked. "It was the Spirit Eye! It is looking at
you now, my fine baron! It finds you, yet cannot be found. No, no! Oh,
you fools! Get out! Get out! All of you! Prince or no Prince, I fear you
not, nor all your armies. This is my home! My castle! Go! Go!"
"There was a man here, old woman," said the Baron coolly. "Where is he?
What is your game? I am not to be fooled by these damnable tricks of
yours. Where is the man?"
She laughed aloud, a horrid sound. The Prince clutched Tullis by the leg
in terror.
"Brace up, Bobby," whispered his big friend, leaning down to comfort
him. "Be a man!"
"It--it's mighty hard," chattered Bobby, but he squared his little
shoulders.
The ladies of the party had edged forward, peering into the kitchen,
alarm having passed, although the exclamation "boo!" would have played
havoc with their courage.
"I swear there was some one looking through that crack," protested King,
wiping his brow in confusion. "Miss--er--I should say--_you_ could have
seen it from where you stood," he pleaded, turning to the lady in grey.
"Dear me, I wish I had," she cried. "I've always wanted to see some one
snooping."
"There is no window, no trap door, no skylight," remarked the Baron,
puzzled. "Nothing but the stovepipe, six inches in diameter. A man
couldn't crawl out through that, I'm sure. Mr. King, we've come upon a
real mystery. The eye without a visible body."
"I'm sure I saw it," reiterated Truxton. The Prince's aunt was actually
laughing at him. But so was the Witch, for that matter. He didn't mind
the Witch.
Suddenly the old woman stepped into the middle of the room and began to
wave her hands in a mysterious manner over an empty pot that stood on
the floor in front of the stove. The others drew back, watching her with
the greatest curiosity.
A droning song oozed from the thin lips; the gesticulations grew in
weirdness and fervor. Then, before their startled eyes, a thin film of
smoke began to rise from the empty pot. It grew in volume until the room
was quite dense with it. Even more quickly than it began, it
disappeared, drawn apparently by some supernatural agency into the draft
of the stove and out through the rickety chimney pipe. Even Dangloss
blinked his eyes, and not because they were filled with smoke.
A deafening crash, as of many guns, came to their ears from the outside.
With one accord the entire party rushed to the outer door, a wild laugh
from the hag pursuing them.
"There!" she screamed. "There goes all there was of him! And so shall
we all go some day. Fire and smoke!"
Not one there but thought on the instant of the Arabian nights and the
genii who went up in smoke--those never-to-be-forgotten tales of wonder.
Just outside the door stood Lieutenant Saffo of the guard, his hand to
his cap. He was scarcely distinguishable, so dark had the day become.
"Good Lord!" shouted Tullis. "What's the matter? What has happened?"
"The storm, sir," said Saffo. "It is coming down the valley like the
wind." A great crash of thunder burst overhead and lightning darted
through the black, swirling skies.
"Very sudden, sir," added Mr. Hobbs from behind. "Like a puff of wind,
sir."
The Witch stood in the door behind them, smiling as amiably as it was
possible for her to smile.
"Come in," she said. "There's room for all of you. The spirits have
gone. Ha, ha! My merry man! Even the eye is gone. Come in, your
Highness. Accept the best I can offer--shelter from the hurricane. I've
seen many, but this looks to be the worst. So it came sudden, eh? Ha,
ha!"
The roar of wind and rain in the trees above seemed like a howl of
confirmation. Into the hovel crowded the dismayed pleasure-seekers,
followed by the soldiers, who had made the horses fast at the first sign
of the storm.
Down came the rain in torrents, whisked and driven, whirled and shot by
the howling winds, split by the lightning and urged to greater glee by
the deafening applause of the thunder. Apple carts in the skies!
Out in the dooryard the merry grandson of the Witch was dancing as if
possessed by revelling devils.