The presence in Tangier of the King of Messina and his suite, and the
arrival there of the French noblemen who had volunteered for the
expedition, could not escape the observation of the resident
Consuls-General and of the foreign colony, and dinners, riding and
hunting parties, pig-sticking, and excursions on horseback into the
outlying country were planned for their honor and daily entertainment.
Had the conspirators held aloof from these, the residents might have
asked, since it was not to enjoy themselves, what was the purpose of
their stay in Tangier; and so, to allay suspicion as to their real
object, different members of the expedition had been assigned from time
to time to represent the visitors at these festivities. On the morning
following the return of the yacht from Messina, an invitation to ride
to a farmhouse some miles out of Tangier and to breakfast there had
been sent to the visitors, and the King had directed the Prince
Kalonay, and half of the delegation from Paris, to accept it in his
name.
They were well content to go, and rode forth gayly and in high spirits,
for the word had been brought them early in the morning that the
expedition was already prepared to move, and that same evening at
midnight the yacht would set sail for Messina. They were careless as
to what fortune waited for them there. The promise of much excitement,
of fighting and of danger, of possible honor and success, stirred the
hearts of the young men gloriously, and as they galloped across the
plains, or raced each other from point to point, or halted to jump
their ponies across the many gaping crevices which the sun had split in
the surface of the plain, they filled the still, warm air with their
shouts and laughter. In the party there were many ladies, and the
groups changed and formed again as they rode forward, spread out on
either side of the caravan-trail and covering the plain like a skirmish
line of cavalry. But Kalonay kept close at Miss Carson's stirrup,
whether she walked her pony or sent him flying across the hard,
sunbaked soil.
"I hope you won't do that again," he said, earnestly, as she drew up
panting, with her sailor hat and hair falling to her shoulders. They
had been galloping recklessly over the open crevices in the soil.
"It's quite the nastiest country I ever saw," he said. "It looks as
though an earthquake had shaken it open and had forgotten to close it
again. Believe me, it is most unsafe and dangerous. Your pony might
stumble--" He stopped, as though the possibilities were too serious for
words, but the girl laughed.
"It's no more dangerous than riding across our prairie at dusk when you
can't see the barbed wire. You are the last person in the world to
find fault because a thing is dangerous," she added.
They had reached the farm, where they went to breakfast, and the young
Englishman who was their host was receiving his guests in his garden,
and the servants were passing among them, carrying cool drinks and
powdered sweets and Turkish coffee. Kalonay gave their ponies to a
servant and pointed with his whip to an arbor that stood at one end of
the garden.
"May we sit down there a moment until they call us?" he said. "I have
news of much importance--and I may not have another chance," he begged,
looking at her wistfully. The girl stood motionless; her eyes were
serious, and she measured the distance down the walk to the arbor as
though she saw it beset with dangers more actual than precipices and
twisted wire. The Prince watched her as though his fate was being
weighed in his presence.
"Very well," she said at last, and moved on before him down the
garden-path.
The arbor was open to the air with a low, broad roof of palm-leaves
that overhung it on all sides and left it in deep shadow. Around it
were many strange plants and flowers, some native to Morocco and some
transplanted from their English home. From where they sat they could
see the other guests moving in and out among the groves of orange and
olive trees and swaying palms, and standing, outlined against the blue
sky, upon the low, flat roof of the farm-house.
"I have dared to ask you to be so good as to give me this moment," the
Prince said humbly, "only because I am going away, and it may be my
last chance to speak with you. You do not mind? You do not think I
presume?"
"No, I do not mind," said the girl, smiling. "In my country we do not
think it a terrible offence to talk to a girl at a garden-party. But
you said there was something of importance you wanted to say to me.
You mean the expedition?"
"Yes," said Kalonay. "We start this evening." The girl raised her
head slightly and stared past him at the burning white walls and the
burning blue sky that lay outside the circle of shadow in which they
sat.
"This evening--" she repeated to herself.
"We reach there in two days," Kalonay continued; "and then we--then we
go on--until we enter the capital."
The girl's head was bent, and she looked at her hands as they lay in
her lap and frowned at them, they seemed so white and pretty and
useless.
"Yes, you go on," she repeated, "and we stay here. You are a man and
able to go on. I know what that means. And you like it," she added,
with a glance of mingled admiration and fear. "You are glad to fight
and to risk death and to lead men on to kill other men."
Kalonay drew lines in the sand with his ridingwhip, and did not raise
his head.
"I suppose it is because you are fighting for your home," the girl
continued, "and to set your country free, and that you can live with
your own people again, and because it is a holy war. That must be it.
Now that it is really come, I see it all differently. I see things I
had not thought about before. They frighten me," she said.
The Prince raised his head and faced the girl, clasping the end of his
whip nervously in his hand. "If we should win the island for the
King," he said, "I believe it will make a great change in me. I shall
be able to go freely then to my home, as you say, to live there always,
to give up the life I have led on the Continent. It has been a foolish
life--a dog's life--and I have no one to blame for it but myself. I
made it worse than it need to have been. But if we win, I have
promised myself that I will not return to it; and if we fall I shall
not return to it, for the reason that I shall have been killed. I
shall have much power if we win. When I say much power, I mean much
power in Messina, in that little corner of the world, and I wish to use
it worthily and well. I am afraid I should not have thought of it," he
went on, naively, as though he were trying to be quite fair, "had not
Father Paul pointed out to me what I should do, how I could raise the
people and stop the abuses which made them drive us from the island.
The people must be taxed less heavily, and the money must be spent for
them and not for us, on roads and harbors and schools, not at the
Palace on banquets and fetes. These are Father Paul's ideas, not
mine,--but now I make them mine." He rose and paced the length of the
little arbor, his hands clasped behind him and his eyes bent on the
ground. "Yes, that is what I mean to do," he said. "That is the way I
mean to live. And if we fail, I mean to be among those who are to die
on the fortifications of the capital, so that with me the Kalonay
family will end, and end fighting for the King, as many of my people
have done before me. There is no other way. For me there shall be no
more idleness nor exile. I must either live on to help my people, or I
must die with them." He stopped in his walk and regarded the girl
closely. "You may be thinking, it is easy for him to promise this, it
is easy to speak of what one will do. I know that. I know that I can
point back at nothing I have done that gives me any right to ask you to
believe me now. But I do ask it, for if you believe me--believe what I
say--it makes it easier for me to tell you why after this I must live
worthily. But you know why? You must know; it is not possible that
you do not know."
He sat down beside her on the bench, leaning forward and crushing his
hands together on his knee. "It is because I love you. Because I love
you so that everything which is not worthy is hateful to me, myself
most of all. It is the only thing that counts. I used to think I knew
what love meant; I used to think love was a selfish thing that needed
love in return, that it must be fed on love to live, that it needed
vows and tender speeches and caresses, or it would die. I know now
that when one truly cares, he does not ask whether the other cares or
not. It is what one gives that counts, not what one receives. You
have given me nothing--nothing--not a word nor a look; yet since I have
known you I have been more madly happy in just knowing that you live
than I would have been had any other woman in all the world thrown
herself into my arms and said she loved me above all other men. I am
not fit to tell you this. But to-night I go to try myself, either
never to see you again, or to come back perhaps more worthy to love
you. Think of this when I am gone. Do not speak to me now. I may
have made you hate me for speaking so, or I may have made you pity me;
so let me go not knowing, just loving you, worshipping you, and holding
you apart and above all other people. I go to fight for you, do you
understand? Not for our Church, not for my people, but for you, to
live or die for you. And I ask nothing from you but that you will let
me love you always."
The Prince bent, and catching up Miss Carson's riding-gloves that lay
beside her on the bench, kissed them again and again, and then, rising
quickly, walked out of the arbor into the white sunshine, and, without
turning, mounted his pony and galloped across the burning desert in the
direction of Tangier.
Archie Gordon had not been invited to join the excursion into the
country, nor would he have accepted it, for he wished to be by himself
that he might review the situation and consider what lay before him.
He sat with his long legs dangling over the broad rampart which
overlooks the harbor of Tangier. He was whistling meditatively to
himself and beating an accompaniment to the tune with his heels. At
intervals he ceased whistling while he placed a cigar between his teeth
and pulled upon it thoughtfully, resuming his tune again at the point
where it had been interrupted. Below him the waves ran up lazily on
the level beach and sank again, dragging the long sea-weed with them,
as they swept against the sharp rocks, and exposed them for an instant,
naked and glistening in the sun. On either side of him the town
stretched to meet the low, white, sand-hills in a crescent of low,
white houses pierced by green minarets and royal palms. A warm sun had
sent the world to sleep at mid-day, and an enforced peace hung over the
glaring white town and the sparkling blue sea. Gordon blinked at the
glare, but his eyes showed no signs of drowsiness. They were, on the
contrary, awake to all that passed on the high road behind him, and on
the sandy beach at his feet, while at the same time his mind was busily
occupied in reviewing what had occurred the day before, and in
adjusting new conditions. At the hotel he had found that the situation
was becoming too complicated, and that it was impossible to feel sure
of the truth of anything, or of the sincerity of anyone. Since the
luncheon hour the day before he had become a fellow-conspirator with
men who were as objectionable to him in every way as he knew he was
obnoxious to them. But they had been forced to accept him because, so
they supposed, he had them at the mercy of his own pleasure. He knew
their secret, and in the legitimate pursuit of his profession he could,
if he chose, inform the island of Messina, with the rest of the world,
of their intention toward it, and bring their expedition to an end,
though he had chosen, as a reward for his silence, to become one of
themselves. Only the Countess Zara had guessed the truth, that it was
Gordon himself who was at their mercy, and that so long as the American
girl persisted in casting her fortunes with them her old young friend
was only too eager to make any arrangement with them that would keep
him at her side.
It was a perplexing position, and Gordon turned it over and over in his
mind. Had it not been that Miss Carson had a part in it he would have
enjoyed the adventure, as an adventure, keenly. He had no objections
to fighting on the side of rascals, or against rascals. He objected to
them only in the calmer moments of private life; and as he was of
course ignorant that the expedition was only a make-believe, he felt a
certain respect for his fellow-conspirators as men who were willing to
stake their lives for a chance of better fortune. But that their
bravery was of the kind which would make them hesitate to rob and
deceive a helpless girl he very much doubted; for he knew that even the
bravest of warriors on their way to battle will requisition a herd of
cattle or stop to loot a temple. The day before, Gordon had witnessed
the brief ceremony which attended the presentation of the young
noblemen from Paris who had volunteered for the expedition in all good
faith, and he reviewed it and analyzed it as he sat smoking on the
ramparts.
It had been an impressive ceremony, in spite of the fact that so few
had taken part in it, but the earnestness of the visitors and the
enthusiasm of Kalonay and the priest had made up for the lack of
numbers. The scene had appealed to him as one of the most dramatic he
had witnessed in the pursuit of a calling in which looking on at real
dramas was the most frequent duty, and he had enjoyed the strange
mixture of ancient terms of address and titles with the modern manners
of the men themselves. It had interested him to watch Baron Barrat
bring out the ancient crown and jewelled sceptre which had been the
regalia of all the Kings of Messina since the Crusades and spread them
out upon a wicker tea-table, from which Niccolas had just removed some
empty coffee-cups, half filled with the ends of cigarettes, some
yellow-backed novels, and a copy of the Paris Figaro. It was also
interesting to him to note how the sight of the little heir-apparent
affected both the peasants from the mountains and the young nobles from
the Club Royale. The former fell upon their knees with the tears
rolling down the furrows in their tanned cheeks, while the little
wise-eyed boy stood clinging to his nurse's skirts with one hand and to
his father's finger with the other, and nodded his head at them gravely
like a toy mandarin.
Then the King had addressed them in a dignified, earnest, and almost
eloquent speech, and had promised much and prophesied the best of
fortunes, and then, at the last, had turned suddenly toward Miss
Carson, where she stood in the background between her mother and Father
Paul.
"Every cause has its Joan of Arc, or its Maria Theresa," he cried,
looking steadfastly at Miss Carson. "No cause has succeeded without
some good woman to aid it. To help us, my friends, we have a daughter
of the people, as was Joan of Arc, and a queen, as was Maria Theresa,
for she comes from that country where every woman is a queen in her own
right, and where the love of liberty is inherent." The King took a
quick step backward, and taking Miss Carson's hand drew her forward
beside him and placed her facing his audience, while the girl made vain
efforts to withdraw her hand. "This is she," he said earnestly, "the
true daughter of the Church who has made it possible for us to return
to our own again. It is due to her that the King of Messina shall sit
once more on his throne; it is through her generosity alone that the
churches will rise from their ruins and that you will once again hear
the Angelus ring across the fields at sunset. Remember her, my friends
and cousins, pray for her as a saint upon earth, and fight gloriously
to help her to success!"
Gordon had restrained himself with difficulty while this scene was
being enacted; he could not bear the thought of the King touching the
girl's hand. He struggled to prevent himself from crying out at the
false position into which he had dragged her; and yet there was
something so admirably sincere in the King's words, something so
courteous and manly, that it robbed his words of all the theatrical
effect they held, and his tribute to the girl filled even Gordon with
an emotion which on the part of the young nobles found expression in
cheer upon cheer.
Gordon recalled these cheers and the looks of wondering admiration
which had been turned upon Miss Carson, and he grew so hot at the
recollection that he struck the wall beside him savagely with his
clinched fist, and damned the obstinacy of his young and beautiful
friend with a sincerity and vigor that was the highest expression of
his interest in her behalf.
He threw his cigar into the rampart at his feet and dropped back into
the high road. It was deserted at the time, except for the presence of
a tall, slightly built stranger, who advanced toward him from the city
gates. The man was dressed in garments of European fashion and carried
himself like a soldier, and Gordon put him down at a glance as one of
the volunteers from Paris. The stranger was walking leisurely,
stopping to gaze at the feluccas in the bay, and then turning to look
up at the fortress on the hill. He seemed to have no purpose in his
walk except the interest of a tourist, and as he drew up even with
Gordon he raised his helmet politely and, greeting him in English,
asked if he were on the right road to the Bashaw's Palace. Gordon
pointed to where the white walls of the palace rose above the other
white walls about it.
"That is it," he said. "All the roads lead to it. You keep going up
hill."
"Thank you," said the stranger. "I see I have taken a long way." He
put his white umbrella in the sand, and, removing his helmet, mopped
his forehead with his handkerchief. "It is a curious old town,
Tangier," he said, affably, "but too many hills, is it not so? Algiers
I like better. There is more life."
"Yes, Algiers is almost as good as the boulevards," Gordon assented,
"if you like the boulevards. I prefer this place because it is
unspoiled. But, as you say, there is not much to do here."
The stranger's eyes fell upon the Hotel Grande Bretagne, which stood a
quarter of a mile away from them on the beach.
"That is the Hotel Bretagne, is it not?" he asked. Gordon answered him
with a nod.
"The King Louis of Messina, so the chasseur at the hotel tells me, is
stopping there en suite," the stranger added, with an interrogative air
of one who volunteers an interesting fact, and who asks if it is true
at the same moment.
"I can't say, I'm sure," Gordon replied. "I only arrived here
yesterday."
The stranger bowed his head in recognition of this piece of personal
information, and, putting on his helmet, picked up his umbrella as
though to continue his stroll. As he did so his eyes wandered over the
harbor and were arrested with apparent interest by the yacht, which lay
a conspicuous object on the blue water. He pointed at it with his
umbrella.
"One of your English men-of-war is in the harbor, I see. She is very
pretty, but not large; not so large as many," he said.
Gordon turned his head obligingly and gazed at the yacht with polite
interest. "Is that a man-of-war? I thought it was a yacht," he said.
"I'm not familiar with the English war-vessels. I am an American."
"Ah, indeed!" commented the affable stranger. "I am French myself, but
I think she is a man-of-war. I saw her guns when I passed on the
steamer from Gibraltar."
Gordon knew that the steamer did not pass within half a mile of where
the yacht lay at anchor, but he considered it might be possible to see
her decks with the aid of a glass.
"You may be right," he answered, indifferently. As he turned his eyes
from the boat he saw a woman, dressed in white, and carrying a parasol,
leave the gardens of the Hotel Bretagne, and come toward them along the
beach. The Frenchman, following the direction of his eyes, saw her
also, and regarded her instantly with such evident concern that Gordon,
who had recognized her even at that distance as the Countess Zara, felt
assured that his inquisitor held, as he had already suspected, more
than a tourist's interest in Tangier.
"Well, I will wish you a good-morning," said the Frenchman, hurriedly.
"Good-morning," Gordon replied, and taking a cigar from his case, he
seated himself again upon the rampart. As he walked away the stranger
glanced back over his shoulder, but Gordon was apparently absorbed in
watching the waves below him, and had lost all interest in his chance
acquaintance. But he watched both the woman and the Frenchman as they
advanced slowly from opposite directions and drew nearer together, and
he was not altogether surprised, when the in man was within twenty feet
of her, to see her start and stand still, and then, with the indecision
of a hunted animal, move uncertainly, and then turn and run in the
direction of the hotel. Something the man apparently called after her
caused her to stop, and Gordon observed them now with undisguised
interest as they stood conversing together, oblivious of the
conspicuous mark they made on the broad white beach under the brilliant
sun.
"I wonder what he's up to now?" Gordon mused. "He was trying to pump
me, that's evident, and he certainly recognized the lady, and she
apparently did not want to recognize him. I wonder if he is a rejected
lover, or another conspirator. This is a most amusing place, nothing
but plots and counterplots and--Hello!" he exclaimed aloud. The man
had moved quickly past Madame Zara, and had started toward the hotel,
and Zara had held out her hand to him, as though to entreat him to
remain. But he did not stop, and she had taken a few uncertain steps
after him, and had then, much to the American's dismay, fallen limply
on her back on the soft sand. She was not a hundred yards distant from
where he sat, and in an instant he had slipped from the wall, and
dropped on his hands and knees on the beach below. When Gordon reached
her the Frenchman had returned, and was supporting her head on his knee
and covering her head with her parasol.
"The lady has fainted!" he exclaimed, eagerly. His manner was no
longer one of idle indolence. He was wide awake now and visibly
excited.
"The sun has been too much for her," he said. "It is most dangerous
walking about at this time of day."
Gordon ran down the beach and scooped up some water in his helmet, and
dipping his handkerchief in it bathed her temples and cheek. He had
time to note that she was a very beautiful girl, and the pallor of her
face gave it a touch of gentleness that he had not seen there before.
"I will go to the hotel and bring assistance, said the stranger,
uneasily, as the woman showed signs of regaining consciousness.
"No," said Gordon, "you'll stay where you are and shade her with her
umbrella. She'll be all right in a minute."
The girl opened her eyes, and looking up saw Gordon bending over her.
She regarded him for a moment and made an effort to rise, and in her
endeavor to do so her eyes met those of the Frenchman, and with a sharp
moan she shut them again and threw herself from Gordon's knee to the
sand.
"Give me that umbrella," said Gordon, "and go stand over there out of
the way."
The man rose from his knee without showing any resentment and walked
some little distance away, where he stood with his arms folded, looking
out to sea. He seemed much too occupied with something of personal
interest to concern himself with a woman's fainting-spell. The girl
lifted herself slowly to her elbow, and then, before Gordon could
assist her, rose with a quick, graceful movement and stood erect upon
her feet. She placed a detaining hand for an instant on the American's
arm.
"Thank you very much," she said. "I am afraid I have been imprudent in
going out into the sun." Her eyes were fixed upon the Frenchman, who
stood moodily staring at the sea and tearing one of his finger-nails
with his teeth. He seemed utterly oblivious of their presence. The
girl held out her hand for the parasol she had dropped and took it from
Gordon with a bow.
"May I walk back with you to your hotel?" he asked. "Unless this
gentleman----"
"Thank you," the girl said, in tones which the Frenchman could have
easily overheard had he been listening. "I am quite able to go alone
now; it is only a step."
She was still regarding the Frenchman closely; but as he was obviously
unconscious of them she moved so that Gordon hid her from him, and in
an entirely different voice she said, speaking rapidly,--
"You are Mr. Gordon, the American who joined us last night. That man
is a spy from Messina. He is Renauld, the Commander-in-Chief of their
army. He must be gotten away from here at once. It is a matter for a
man to attend to. Will you do it?"
"How do you know this?" Gordon asked. "How do you know he is General
Renauld? I want to be certain."
The girl tossed her head impatiently.
"He was pointed out to me at Messina. I saw him there in command at a
review. He has just spoken to me--that was what frightened me into
that fainting-spell. I didn't think I was so weak," she said, shaking
her head. "He offered me a bribe to inform him of our plans. I tell
you he is a spy."
"That's all right," said Gordon, reassuringly; "you go back to the
hotel now and send those guards here on a run. I'll make a charge
against him and have him locked up until after we sail to-night.
Hurry, please; I'll stay here."
Gordon felt a pleasurable glow of excitement. It was his nature to
throw himself into everything he did and to at once become a partisan.
It was a quality which made his writings attractive to the reader, and
an object of concern to his editor. At the very word "spy," and at
this first hint of opposition to the cause in which he had but just
enlisted, he thrilled as though it had always been his own, and he
regarded the Frenchman with a personal dislike as sudden as it was
unfounded.
The Frenchman had turned and was walking in the direction of the city
gate. His eyes were bent on the sandy beach which stretched before
him, and he made his way utterly unmindful of the waves that stole up
to his feet and left little pools of water in his path. Gordon
beckoned impatiently to the two soldiers who came running toward him at
the hotel, and moved forward to meet them the sooner. He took one of
them by the wrist and pointed with his other hand at the retreating
figure of the Frenchman.
"That man," he said, "is one of the King's enemies. The King is in
danger while that man is here. Your duty is to protect the King, so he
gives this foreigner into your charge."
The soldier nodded his head in assent. "The King himself sent us," he
replied.
"You will place him in the Civil Prison," Gordon continued, "until the
King is safe on his yacht, and you will not allow him to send for the
French Consul-General. If he sees the Consul-General he will tell him
a great many lies about you, and a great war-ship will come and your
Bashaw will be forced to pay the foreigners much money. I will go with
you and tell this man in his own tongue what you are going to do with
him."
They walked hurriedly after the Frenchman, and when they had overtaken
him Gordon halted and bowed.
"One moment, please," he said. "These soldiers have an order for your
arrest. I speak the language, and if you have anything to say to them
I will interpret for you."
The Frenchman stared from Gordon to the guards and then laughed
incredulously but with no great confidence. He had much to say, but he
demanded to know first why he should be arrested.
"The lady you insulted," Gordon answered, gravely, "happened,
unfortunately for you, to be one of the King's guests. She has
complained to him, and he has sent these soldiers to put you where you
cannot trouble her again. You see, sir, you cannot annoy women with
impunity even in this barbarous country."
"Insult her! I did not insult her," the man retorted. "That is not
the reason I am arrested."
"You annoyed her so much that she fainted. I saw you," said Gordon,
backing away with the evident purpose of abandoning the foreigner to
his guards.
"She has lied," the man cried, "either to the King or to me. I do not
know which, but I am here to find out. That is why I came to Tangier,
and I intend to learn the truth."
"You've begun rather badly," Gordon answered, as he still retreated.
"In the Civil Prison your field of investigation will be limited."
The Frenchman took a hasty step toward him, shrugging off the hand one
of the soldiers had placed on his shoulder.
"Are you the Prince Kalonay, sir?" he demanded. "But surely not," he
added.
"No, I am not the Prince," Gordon answered. "I bid you good-morning,
sir."
"Then you are on the other side," the man called after him eagerly,
with a tone of great relief. "I have been right from the very first.
I see it plainly. It is a double plot, and you are one of that woman's
dupes. Listen to me--I beg of you, listen to me--I have a story to
tell."
Gordon paused and looked back at the man over his shoulder, doubtfully.
"It's like the Arabian Nights," he said, with a puzzled smile. "There
was once a rich merchant of Bagdad and the Sultan was going to execute
him, but they put off the execution until he could tell them the story
of the Beautiful Countess and the French Envoy. I am sorry," he added,
shaking his head, "but I cannot listen now. I must not be seen talking
to you at all, and everyone can see us here."
They were as conspicuous figures on the flat surface of the beach as
two palms in a desert, and Gordon was most anxious to escape, for he
was conscious that he could be observed from every point in the town.
A hundred yards away, on the terrace of the hotel, he saw the King,
Madame Zara, Barrat, and Erhaupt standing together watching them.
"If the American leaves him now, we are safe," the King was saying. He
spoke in a whisper, as though he feared that even at that distance
Gordon and the Frenchman could overhear his words. "But if he remains
with him he will find out the truth, and that means ruin. He will ruin
us."
"Look, he is coming this way," Zara answered. "He is leaving him. The
danger is past."
The Frenchman raised his eyes and saw the four figures grouped closely
together on the terrace.
"See, what did I tell you?" he cried. "She is with the King now. It
is a plot within a plot, and I believe you know it," he added,
furiously. "You are one of these brave blackmailers yourself--that is
why you will not let me speak."
"Blackmailers!" said Gordon. "Confound your impudence, what the
devil do you mean by that?"
But the Frenchman was staring angrily at the distant group on the
terrace, and Gordon turned his eyes in the same direction. Something
he saw in the strained and eager attitude of the four conspirators
moved him to a sudden determination.
"That will do, you must go," he commanded, pointing with his arm toward
the city gate; and before the Frenchman could reply, he gave an order
to the guards, and they seized the foreigner roughly by either arm and
hurried him away.
"Thank God!" exclaimed the King, piously. "They have separated, and
the boy thinks he is rendering us great service. Well, and so he is,
the young fool."
The group on the piazza remained motionless, watching Gordon as he
leisurely lit a cigar and stood looking out at the harbor until the
Frenchman had disappeared inside the city wall. Then he turned and
walked slowly after him.
"I do not like that. I do not like his following him," said Barrat,
suspiciously.
"That is nothing," answered the King. "He is going to play the spy and
see that the man is safely in jail. Then he will return and report to
us. We must congratulate him warmly. He follows at a discreet
distance, you observe, and keeps himself well out of sight. The boy
knows better than to compromise himself by being seen in conversation
with the man. Of course, if Renauld is set free we must say we had no
part in his arrest, that the American made the arrest on his own
authority. What a convenient tool the young man is. Why, his coming
really frightened us at first, and now--now we make a cat's-paw of
him." The King laughed merrily. "We undervalue ourselves sometimes, do
we not?"
"He is a nice boy," said Zara. "I feel rather sorry for him. He
looked so anxious and distressed when I was so silly as to faint on the
beach just now. He handled me as tenderly as a woman would have
done--not that women have generally handled me tenderly," she added.
"I was thinking the simile was rather misplaced," said the King.
Gordon passed the city wall and heard the gates swing to behind him.
The Frenchman and his two captors were just ahead, toiling heavily up
the steep and narrow street. Gordon threw his cigar from him and ran
leaping over the huge cobbles to the Frenchman's side and touched him
on the shoulder.
"We are out of sight of the hotel, now, General," he said. He pointed
to the dark, cool recesses of a coffee-shop and held back the rug that
hung before it. "Come in here," he said, "and tell me that story."