And so they fenced.

"You picked up a rose to-night," said the Colonel.

"So I did." Maurice blew a puff of smoke into the chimneyplace and watched it sail upward and vanish. "Moreover, I propose to keep it. Have you any objections?"

"Only this: her Highness intended the rose for me."

"No, no, my friend," easily. "She would not have laughed had you picked it up."

"That is to say I lie?"

"It is," laconically.

There was no eluding a statement so bald as this. Beauvais sat upright. "To call me a liar is a privilege which I extend to no man."

"I did not call you a liar," undisturbed. "You wrote it down yourself, and I simply agreed to it. A duel? Well, I shall not fight you. Dueling is obsolete, and it never demonstrated the right or wrong of a cause. Since my part in this affair is one of neutrality, and since to gain that knowledge was the object of your invitation, I will take my leave of you."

He rose and looked at the porcelain clock. As he did so his gaze rested on a small photograph standing at the side of it. He scanned it eagerly. It was a face of dark Castilian beauty. He turned and looked at Beauvais long and earnestly. There was an answering gaze, an immobility of countenance. Maurice experienced a slight shock. The haze over his memory was dispersed. The whole scene, in which this man loomed in the foreground, came back vividly.

"Your stare, Monsieur, is annoying."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Maurice, leaning against the mantel.

"Do me the honor to explain it."

Maurice, never dreaming of the trap, fell head foremost into it. "I have traveled a good deal," he began. "I have been—even to South America."

"Ah!" This ejaculation expressed nothing. In fact, Beavais was smiling. There was a sinister something behind that smile, but Maurice was unobservant.

He went on. "Yes, to South America. I was there in a diplomatic capacity, during one of the many revolutions. This country was the paradise of adventurers, the riff-raff of continental social outcasts. I distinctly remember the leader of this revolution. Up to the very last day, Captain Urquijo was the confidential friend of the president whom he was about to ruin. Through the president's beautiful daughter Urquijo picked up his threads and laid his powder train. The woman loved him as women sometimes love rascals. The president was to be assassinated and his rival installed. Captain Urquijo was to be made General of the armies.

"One fine day the troops lined both sides of the plaza, the square also about which lay the government buildings. It was the event of some celebration; I believe the throwing off of the yoke of Spain. The city flocked into the plaza. Strangely enough, those who were disaffected—the soldiers under Urquijo—faced the loyal troops. By a preconceived plan, the artillery was under the command of Urquijo. Suddenly this Captain's murderous and traitorous guns swept the plaza, mangling women and children. There was a flaw, however, in the stroke. Urquijo fled, a reward posted for his head—mind you, his head; they did not want him alive.

"The daughter expiates her foolish love in a convent. Her disgraces proved too much for her father, who blew out his brains. The successor secured extradition papers in all the leading capitals of the world. The story was the sensation of the day; the newspapers made much of it. All governments offered to assist the republic in hounding down this rascal. To whatever country he belonged, that country promised to disown him."

Maurice took the photograph and cast it into Beauvais's lap. "Do you recognize that face? Is it not a mute accusation to your warped conscience?" The voice, changing from the monotone of narrative, grew strong and contemptuous. "I know you. I recognized you the moment I laid eyes on you, only I could not place you. Perhaps it was because it did not seem possible that you would dare show your face to civilized people. That photograph has done its work. By the Lord, but you're a fine rascal! Not a bit changed. Have you forgotten your Spanish? As God hears me, I shall hold you up."

"You are a very young man," said Beauvais, rising. He was still smiling. "Do you know why I asked you here? For this very reason. Madame divined you well. She said that you had a dash of what romanticists call valor, but that you never saw an inch before your nose. I knew that you would be at the archbishop's; I knew that you would follow me to this room. Indeed, you might have suspected as much by the unusual arrangement of the fixtures of the room. I placed that photograph there, trusting to your rather acute eyesight.

"My memory seems to be better than yours. I knew you the first time I saw you in Bleiborg. I was waiting only to see how much you had remembered. I am not Colonel Beauvais; I am not Urquijo; I am the last of a noble Austrian house, in exile, but on the eve of recall. Your knowledge would, of course, be disastrous to my ambitions. That is why I wanted to find out how much you know. You know too much, too much by half; and since you have walked into the lion's den, you shall never leave it alive." With this he sprang to the wall and tore down the rapiers, one of which he flung at Maurice's feet.

Maurice felt the hand of paralysis on his nerves. He looked at the rapier, then at Beauvais, dazed and incapable of movement. It had been so sudden.

"And when they find you in some alley in the lower town they will put it down to thieves. You are young and thoughtless," Beauvais went on banteringly. "A little discretion and you might have gone with a whole skin. We never forget a woman's face, and I knew that you would not forget hers. Don't trouble yourself about leaping through the windows; the fall will kill you less effectually than I shall."

Maurice pulled himself together. The prospect of death brought back lucidity of mind. He at once saw the hopelessness of his position. He cursed his lack of forethought. He became pale and furious, but his head cleared. His life hung in the balance. He now translated Beauvais's smile.

"So you wish to add another to the list?" he said.

"To shield one crime, a man must commit many others. O, this will not be murder. It will be a duel, in which you will have no chance. Pick up the sword, if only for form's sake." Beauvais caught the wrist thong of the rapier between his teeth and rapidly divested himself of his jacket and saber straps. With his back toward the door, he rolled up his sleeve and discovered a formidable forearm. He tried the blade and thrust several times into the air.

"What promise have I," said Maurice, "that you will not run me through when I stoop for the sword?" This question did not serve.

Beauvais laughed. "I never get angry in moments like these. I am giving you a sword to ease my conscience. I do not assassinate boys."

"But supposing I should kill you by chance?"

Beauvais laughed again. "That is not possible."

Maurice had faced death before, but with more confidence. The thought that he had poked his head into a trap stirred him disagreeably. He saw that Beauvais possessed a superabundance of confidence, and confidence is half of any battle. He picked up the sword and held it between his knees, while he threw off his coat and vest, and unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. What he had to sell would be sold as dearly as possible. He tested the blade, took in a deep breath, fell easily into position—and waited.



CHAPTER XVII. SOME PASSAGES AT ARMS

There comes a moment to every man, who faces an imminent danger, when the mental vision expands and he sees beyond. By this transient gift of prescience he knows what the end will be, whether he is to live or die. As Maurice looked into the merciless eyes of his enemy, a dim knowledge came to him that this was to be an event and not a catastrophe, a fragment of a picture yet to be fully drawn. His confidence and courage returned. He thanked God, however, that the light above equalized their positions, and that the shadows were behind them.

The swords came together with a click light but ominous. Immediately Beauvais stepped back, suddenly threw forward his body, and delivered three rapid thrusts. Maurice met them firmly, giving none.

"Ah!" cried Beauvais; "that is good. You know a little. There will be sport, besides."

Maurice shut his lips the tighter, and worked purely on the defensive. His fencing master had taught him two things, silence and watchfulness. While Beauvais made use of his forearm, Maurice as yet depended solely on his wrist. Once they came together, guard to guard, neither daring to break away until by mutual agreement, spoken only by the eyes, both leaped backward out of reach. There was no sound save the quick light stamp of feet and the angry murmur of steel scraping against steel. Sometimes they moved circlewise, with free blades, waiting and watching. Up to now Beauvais's play had been by the book, so to speak, and he began to see that his opponent was well read.

"Which side is the pretty rose?" seeking to distract Maurice. "Tell me, and I will pin it to you."

Not a muscle moved in Maurice's face.

"It is too, bad," went on Beauvais, "that her Highness finds a lover only to lose him. You fool! I read your eyes when you picked up that rose. Princesses are not for such as you. I will find her a lover, it will be neither you nor Prince Frederick—ah! you caught that nicely. But you depend too much on the wrist. Presently it will tire; and then—pouf!"

Now and then a a flame, darting from the grate, sparkled on the polished steel, and from the steel it shot into the watchful eyes. A quarter of an hour passed; still Maurice remained on the defensive. At first Beauvais misunderstood the reason, and thought Maurice did not dare run the risk of passing from defensive to offensive. But by and by the froth of impatience crept into his veins. He could not penetrate above or below that defense. The man before him was of marble, with a wrist of iron; he neither smiled nor spoke, there was no sign of life at all, except in the agile legs, the wrist, and eyes. The Colonel decided to change his tactics.

"When I have killed you," he said, "I shall search your pockets, for I know that you lie when you say that you have not those certificates. Madame was a fool to send you. No man lives who may be trusted. And what is your game? Save the Osians? Small good it will do you. Her Highness will wed Prince Frederick—mayhap—and all you will get is cold thanks. And in such an event, have you reckoned on Madame the duchess? War! And who will win? Madame; for she has not only her own army, but mine. Come, come! Speak, for when you leave this room your voice will be silent. Make use of the gift, since it is about to leave you."

The reply was a sudden straightening of the arm. The blade slipped in between the Colonel's forearm and body, and was out again before the soldier fully comprehended what had happened. Maurice permitted a cold smile to soften the rigidity of his face. Beauvais saw the smile, and read it. The thrust had been rendered harmless intentionally. An inch nearer, and he had been a dead man. To accomplish such a delicate piece of sword play required nothing short of mastery. Beauvais experienced a disagreeable chill, which was not unmixed with chagrin. The boy had held his life in his hand, and had spared it. He set his teeth, and let loose with a fury before which nothing could stand; and Maurice was forced back step by step until he was almost up with the wall.

"You damned fool!" the Colonel snarled, "you'll never get that chance again."

For the next few minutes it took all the splendid defense Maurice possessed to keep the spark in his body. The Colonel's sword was no longer a sword, it was a flame; which circled, darted, hissed and writhed. Twice Maurice felt the bite of it, once in the arm and again in the thigh. These were not deep, but they told him that the end was but a short way off. He had no match for this brilliant assault. Something must be done, and that at once. He did not desire the Colonel's death, and the possibility of accomplishing this was now extremely doubtful. But he wanted to live. Life was just beginning—the rough road had been left behind. He was choosing between his life and the Colonel's. Beauvais, after the fashion of the old masters, was playing for the throat. This upward thrusting, when continuous, is difficult to meet, and Maurice saw that sooner or later the blade would reach home. If not sudden death, it meant speechlessness, and death as a finality. Then the voice of his guardian angel spoke.

"I do not wish your life," he said, breaking the silence, "but at the same time I wish to live—ah!" Maurice leaped back just in time. As it was, the point of his enemy's blade scratched his chin.

They broke and circled. The Colonel feinted. Maurice, with his elbow against his side and his forearm extended, waited. Again the Colonel lunged for the throat. This time, instead of meeting it in tierce, Maurice threw his whole force forward in such a manner as to bring the steel guard of his rapier full on the Colonel's point. There was a ringing sound of snapping steel, and the Colonel stood with nothing but a stump in his grasp.

"There you are," said Maurice, a heat-flash passing over him. Had he swerved a hair's breadth from the line, time would have tacked finis to the tale. "Now, I am perfectly willing to talk," putting his point to the Colonel's breast. "It would inconvenience me to kill you, but do not count too much on that."

"Damn you!" cried the Colonel, giving way, his face yellow with rage, chagrin and fear. "Kill me, for I swear to God that one or the other of us must die! Damn you and your meddling nose!"

"Damn away, chevalier d'industrie; damn away. But live, live, live! That will be the keenest punishment. Live! O, my brave killer of boys, you thought to play with me as a cat with a mouse, eh? Eh, Captain Urquijo-Beauvais-and-What-is-your-name?" He pressed the point here, there, everywhere. "You were too confident. Pardon me if I appear to brag, but I have taken lessons of the best fencing masters in Europe, and three times, while you devoted your talents to monologues, I could have pinned you like one of those butterflies on the wall there. Have you ever heard of the sword of Damocles? Well, well; it hangs over many a head to-day. I will be yours. I give you forty-eight hours to arrange your personal affairs. If after that time you are still in this part of the country, I shall inform the proper authorities in Vienna. The republic has representation there. Of a noble Austrian house, on the eve of recall? I think not."

Beauvais made a desperate attempt to clutch the blade in his hands.

"No, no!" laughed Maurice, making rapid prods which caused Beauvais to wince. "Now, back; farther, farther. I do not like the idea of having my back to the door."

Beauvais suddenly wheeled and dashed for the mantel. But as he endeavored to lay hand on the revolver Maurice brought down the blade on the Colonel's knuckles, leaving a livid welt. Maurice took possession of the weapon, while a grimace of agony shot over the Colonel's face. Seeing that the chambers were loaded, Maurice threw down the sword.

"Well, well!" he said, cocking the weapon. "And I saw it when I entered the room. It would have saved a good deal of trouble." Beauvais grew white. "O," Maurice continued, "I am not going to shoot you. I wish merely to call your valet." He aimed at the grate and pressed the trigger, and the report, vibrating within the four walls, was deafening.

A moment passed, and the valet, with bulging eyes and blanched face, peered in. Seeing how matters stood, he made as though to retreat.

Maurice leveled the smoking revolver. "Come in, Francois; your master will have need of you."

Francois complied, vertigo in his limbs. "My God!" he cried, wringing his hands.

"Your master tried to murder me," said Maurice. Francois had heard voices like this before, and it conveyed to him that a fine quality of anger lay close to the surface. "Take down yonder window curtain cord." Francois did so. "Now bind your master's hands with it."

"Francois," cried the Colonel, "if you so much as lay a finger on me, I'll kill you."

"Francois, I will kill you if you don't," said Maurice.

"My God!" wailed the valet at loss which to obey when to obey either meant death. His teeth chattered.

"You may have all the time you want, Francois, to wring your hands when I am gone. Come; to work. Colonel, submit. I'm in a hurry and have no time to spare. While I do not desire to kill you, self-preservation will force me to put a bullet into your hide, which will make you an inmate of the city hospital. Bind his hands behind his back, and no more nonsense."

"Monsieur," appealingly to Beauvais, "my God, I am forced. He will kill me!"

"So will I," grimly; "by God, I will!" Beauvais had a plan. If he could keep Maurice long enough, help might arrive. And he had an excellent story to tell. Still Francois doddered. With his eye on the Colonel and the revolver sighted, Maurice picked up the sword. He gave Francois a vigorous prod. Francois needed no further inducement. He started forward with alacrity. In the wink of an eye he threw the cord around Beauvais's arms and pinned them to his sides. Beauvais swore, but the valet was strong in his fright. He struggled and wound and knotted and tied, murmuring his pitiful "Mon Dieu!" the while, till the Colonel was the central figure of a Gordian knot.

"That will do," said Maurice. "Now, Francois, good and faithful servant, take your master over to the lounge, and sit down beside him until I get into my clothes. Yes; that's it." He shoved his collar and tie into a pocket, slipped on his vest and coat, put on his hat and slung his topcoat over his arm. During these maneuvers the revolver remained conspicuously in sight. "Now, Francois, lead the way to the street door. By the time you return to your illustrious master, who is the prince or duke of something or other, pursuit will be out of the question. Now, as for you," turning to Beauvais, "the forty-eight hours hold good. During that time I shall go armed. Forty-eight hours from now I shall inform the authorities at the nearest consulate. If they catch you, that's your affair. Off we go, Francois."

"By God!—" began Beauvais, struggling to his feet.

"Come so far as this door," warned Maurice, "and, bound or not, I'll knock you down. Hang you! Do you think my temper will improve in your immediate vicinity? Do you think for a moment that I do not lust for your blood as heartily as you lust for mine? Go to the devil your own way; you'll go fast enough!" He caught Francois by the shoulders and pushed him into the hall, followed, and closed the door. Francois had been graduated from the stables, therefore his courage never rose to sublime heights. All the way down the stairs he lamented; and each time he turned his head and saw the glitter of the revolver barrel he choked with terror.

"If you do not kill me, Monsieur, he will; he will, I know he will! My God, how did it happen? He will kill me!" and the voice sank into a muffled sob.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Maurice could not repress his laughter. "He will not harm you; he threatened you merely to delay me. Open the door." He stepped out into the refreshing air. "By the way, tell your master not to go to the trouble of having me arrested, for the first thing in the morning I shall place a sealed packet in the hands of the British minister, to be opened if I do not call for it within twenty-four hours. And say to your master that I shall keep the rose."

"Mon Dieu! A woman! I might have known!" ejaculated Francois, as the door banged in his face.

Maurice, on reaching the pavement, took to his legs, for he saw three men rapidly approaching. Perhaps they had heard the pistol shot. He concluded not to wait to learn. He continued his rush till he gained his room. It was two o'clock. He had been in the Colonel's room nearly three hours. It seemed only so many minutes. He hunted for his brandy, found it and swallowed several mouthfuls. Then he dropped into a chair from sheer exhaustion. Reaction laid hold of him. His hands shook, his legs trembled, and perspiration rolled down his cheek.

"By George!" This exclamation stood alone, but it was an Odyssey. He remained stupefied, staring at his shoes, over which his stockings had fallen. His shirt buttons were gone, and the bosom was guiltless of its former immaculateness. After a time he became conscious of a burning pain in the elbow of his right arm. He glanced down at his hand, to find it covered with drying blood. He jumped up and cast about his clothes. One leg of his trousers was soaked, and the dull ache in his thigh told the cause. He salved the wounds and bound them in strips of handkerchiefs, which he held in place by using some of the cast-off cravats.

"That was about as close to death as a man can get and pull out. I feel as if I had swallowed that cursed blade of his. I am an ass, sure enough. I've always a bad cold when there's a rat about; can't smell him. And the rascal remembered me! Will he stay in spite of my threat? I'll hang on here till to-morrow. If he stays—I won't. He has the devil's own of a sword. Hang it, my nerves are all gone to smash."

Soon some gentler thought took hold, and he smiled tenderly. He brought forth the rose, turned it this way and that, studied it, stroked it, held it to his lips as a lover holds the hand of the woman he loves. Her rose; somehow his heart told him that she had laughed because Beauvais had stooped in vain.

"Ah, Maurice," he said, "you are growing over fond. But why not? Who will know? To have loved is something."

He crept into bed; but sleep refused him its offices, and he tossed about in troubled dreams. He fought all kinds of duels with all sorts of weapons. He was killed a half dozen times, but the archbishop always gave him something which rekindled the vital spark. A thousand Beauvaises raged at him. A thousand princesses were ever in the background, waiting to be saved. He swore to kill these Beauvaises, and after many fruitless endeavors, he succeeded in smothering them in their gray pelisses. Then he woke, as dreamers always wake when they pass some great dream-crisis, and found himself in a deadly struggle with a pillow and a bed-post. He laughed and sprang out of bed.

"It's no use, I can't sleep. I am an old woman."

So he lit his pipe and sat dreaming with his eyes open, smoking and smoking, until the sickly pallor of dawn appeared in the sky, and he knew that day had come.



CHAPTER XVIII. A MINOR CHORD AND A CHANGE OF MOVEMENT

Marshal Kampf, wrapt in his military cloak, with the peak of his cap drawn over his eyes, sat on one of the rustic benches in the archbishop's gardens and reflected. The archbishop had announced an informal levee, the first since the king's illness. He had impressed the Marshal with the fact that his presence was both urgent and necessary. Disturbed as he was by the unusual command, the Marshal had arrived an hour too early. Since the prelate would not rise until nine, the Marshal told the valet that he would wait in the gardens.

An informal levee, he mused. What was the meaning of it? Had that master of craft and silence found a breach in the enemy's fortifications? He rubbed the chill from his nose, crossed and re-crossed his legs and teetered till the spurs on his boots set up a tuneful jingle.

So far as he himself was concerned, he was not worried. The prelate knew his views and knew that he would stand or fall with them. He had never looked for benefits, as did those around him. He had offered what he had without hope of reward, because he had considered it his duty. And, after all, what had the Osian done that he should be driven to this ignominious end? His motives never could be questioned; each act had been in some way for the country's good. Every king is a usurper to those who oppose him.

Would the kingdom be bettered in having a queen against whom the confederation itself was opposed? Would it not be adding a twofold burden to the one? The kingdom was at peace with those countries from which it had most to fear. Was it wise to antagonize them? Small independent states were independent only by courtesy. Again, why had Austria contrived to place an alien on the throne, in face of popular sentiment? Would Austria's interests have been less safe in the advent of rightful succession? Up to now, what had Austria gained by ignoring the true house? Outwardly nothing, but below the surface? Who could answer?

For eleven years he had tried to discover the secret purpose of Austria, but, like others, he had failed; and the Austrian minister was less decipherable than the "Chinese puzzle." He was positive that none of the arch-conspirators knew; they were blinded by self-interest. And the archbishop? The Marshal rubbed his nose again, not, however, because it was cold. Did any one know what was going on behind the smiling mask which the reticent prelate showed to the world? The Marshal poked his chin above his collar, and the wrinkles fell away from his gray eyes.

The sky was clear and brilliant, and a tonic from the forests sweetened the rushing air. The lake was ruffled out of its usual calm, and rolled and galloped along the distant shores and flashed on the golden sands. Above the patches of red and brown and yellow the hills and mountains stood out in bold, decided lines.

Water fowl swept along the marshes. The doves in twos and threes fluttered down to the path, strutted about in their peculiarly awkward fashion, and doubtfully eyed the silent gray figure on the bench, as if to question his right to be there this time of the morning, their trysting hour. Presently the whole flock came down, and began cooing and waltzing at the Marshal's feet. He soon discovered the cause.

Her Royal Highness was coming through the opening in the hedgerow which separated the two confines. She carried a basket on her arm, and the bulldog followed at her heels, holding his injured leg in the air, and limping on the remaining three. At the sight of her the doves rose and circled above her head. She smiled and threw into the air handful after handful of cake and bread crumbs. In their eagerness the doves alighted on her shoulders, on the rim of the basket, and even on the broad back of the dog, who was too sober to give attention to this seeming indignity. He kept his eye on his mistress's skirts, moved when she moved, and stopped when she stopped. A gray-white cloud enveloped them.

The Marshal, with a curious sensation in his heart, observed this exquisite, living picture. He was childless; and though he was by nature undemonstrative, he was very fond of this youth. Her cheeks were scarlet, her rosy lips were parted in excitement, and her eyes glistened with pleasure. With all her twenty years, she was but ten in fancy; a woman, yet a child, unlettered in worldly wit, wise in her love of nature. Not until she had thrown away the last of the crumbs did she notice the Marshal. He rose and bowed.

"Good morning, your Highness. I am very much interested in your court. And do you hold it every morning?"

"Even when it rains," she said, smiling. "I am so glad to see you; I wanted to talk to you last night, but I could not find the opportunity. Let me share the bench with you."

And youth and age sat down together. The bulldog planted himself in the middle of the path and blinked at his sworn enemy. The Marshal had no love for him, and he was well aware of it; at present, an armistice.

The princess gazed at the rollicking waters, at her doves, thence into the inquiring gray eyes of the old soldier.

"Do you remember," she said, "how I used to climb on your knees, ever so long ago, and listen to your fairy stories?"

"Eh! And is it possible that your Highness remembers?" wrinkles of delight gathering in his cheeks. "But why 'ever so long ago'? It was but yesterday. And your Highness remembers!"

"I am like my father; I never forget!" She looked toward the waters again. "I can recall only one story. It was about a princess who lost all her friends through the offices of a wicked fairy. I remember it because it was the only story you told me that had a sad ending. It was one of Andersen's. Her father and mother died, and the moment she was left alone her enemies set to work and toppled over her throne. She was cast out into the world, having no friend but a dog; but the dog always found something to eat, and protected her from giants and robbers and wolves.

"Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so unhappy. Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and weary, but in her own country no one dared aid her, for fear of displeasing the wicked fairy, who at this time was all powerful. So she entered a strange land, where some peasants took her in, clothed and fed her, and gave her a staff and a flock of geese to tend. And day after day she guarded the flock, telling her sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and the home of her childhood.

"One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by while hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He made inquiries, and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl was a princess, he offered to marry her. She consented to become his wife, because she was too delicate to drudge. So she and her dog went to live at the palace. Once she was married the dog behaved strangely, whining softly, and refusing to be consoled. The prince was very kind to them both.

"Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good fairy had lost all track of her, to find her when it was too late. The dog was a prince under a wicked spell, and when the spell fell away the princess knew that she loved him, and not her husband. She pined away and died. How many times I have thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale princess!"

The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow between his eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that story. But, as she repeated it, it was clothed with a strange significance. Somehow, he found himself voiceless; he knew not how to reply.

"Monsieur," she said suddenly, "tell me, what has my poor father done that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?"

"He has been kind to them, my child," his gaze still riveted on the doves; "that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he has made them a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his people's welfare is never understood. And ignorant and ungrateful people always hate those to whom they are under obligations. It is the way of the world."

"And—and you, Marshal?" timidly.

"And I?"

"Yes. They whisper that—that—O, Marshal, is it you who will forsake us in our need? I have heard many things of late which were not intended for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone. I have never known the comradeship of young people; I have never had that which youth longs for—a confidant of my own age. The young people I know serve me simply for their own ends, and not because they love me.

"I have never spoken thus before to-day, save to this dog. He has been my confidant; but he can not speak except with his kind old eyes, and he can not understand as I would have him. And they hate even him because they know that I love him. Poor dog!

"What my father has done has always been wrong in his own eyes, but he sinned for my sake, and God will forgive him. He gave up the home he loved for my sake. O, that I had known and understood! I was only six. We are so alone; we have no place to go, no friends save two, and they are helpless. And now I am to make a sacrifice for him to repay him for all he has done for me. I have promised my hand to one I do not love; even he forsakes me. But love is not the portion of princesses. Love to them is a fairy story. To secure my father's throne I have sacrificed my girlhood dreams. Ah! and they were so sweet and dear."

She put a hand to her throat as if something had tightened there. "Marshal, I beg of you to tell me the truth, the truth! Is my father dying? Is he? He—they will not tell me the truth. And I. .. never to hear his voice again! The truth, for pity's sake!" She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. "For pity's sake!"

He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake of this sad, lonely child.

"Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter—But there! I have none."

"My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine—in vain. I laugh and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is breaking, breaking."

At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him.

"Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you to join him."

"Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart.

"Ah! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did you not find it chilly in the gardens?"

"Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal Highness."

The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out from under them.

"Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been hers; this time it is my hand and brain."

The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed.

"I have promised to stand and fall with her."

"Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze.

"Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the other."

The archbishop absently stirred his eggs.

"God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest."

"Yes."

"And neutral."

"Yes; honest and neutral."

"But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine."

The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have feared you most of all—because you are honest."

The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together. "I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I have distrusted you."

"And why distrusted?"

"Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the way and coveted the archbishopric."

"I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes.

"And share his greatness," was the shrewd rejoinder. "I am an old man, and frankness in old age is pardonable. There are numbers of disinterested men in the world, but unfortunately they happen to be dead. O, I do not blame you; there is human nature in most of us. But the days of Richelieus and Mazarins are past. The Church is simply the church, and is no longer the power behind the throne. I have served the house of Auersperg for fifty years, that is to say, since I was sixteen; I had hoped to die in the service. Perhaps my own reason for distrusting you has not been disinterested."

"Perhaps not."

"And as I now stand I shall die neither in the service of the house of Auersperg nor of Osia. It is not the princess; it is the lonely girl."

"I need not tell you," said the prelate quietly, "that I am in Bleiberg only for that purpose. And since we are together, I will tell you this: Madame the duchess will never sit upon this throne. To-day I am practically regent, with full powers from his Majesty. I have summoned von Wallenstein and Mollendorf for a purpose which I shall make known to you." He held up two documents, and gently waving them: "These contain the dismissal of both gentlemen, together with my reasons. There were three; one I shall now destroy because it has suddenly become void." He tore it up, turned, and flung the pieces into the grate.

The Marshal glanced instinctively at his shoulder straps, and saw that they had come very near to oblivion.

"There is nothing more, Marshal," went on the prelate. "What I had to say to you has slipped my mind. Under the change of circumstances, it might embarrass you to meet von Wallenstein and Mollendorf. You have spoken frankly, and in justice to you I will return in kind. Yes, in the old days I was ambitious; but God has punished me through those I love. I shall leave to you the selection of a new Colonel of the cuirassiers."

"What! and Beauvais, too?" exclaimed the Marshal.

"Yes. My plans require it. I have formed a new cabinet, which will meet to-night at eight. I shall expect you to be present."

The two old men rose. Suddenly, a kindly smile broke through the austereness of the prelate's countenance, and he thrust out his hand; the old soldier met it.

"Providence always watches over the innocent," said the prelate, "else we would have been still at war. Good morning."

The Marshal returned home, thoughtful and taciturn. What would be the end?

Ten minutes after the Marshal's departure, von Wallenstein and Mollendorf entered the prelate's breakfast room.

"Good morning, Messieurs," said the churchman, the expression on his face losing its softness, and the glint of triumph stealing into his keen eyes. "I am acting on behalf of his Majesty this morning," presenting a document to each. "Observe them carefully." He turned and left the room. The archbishop had not only eaten a breakfast, he had devoured a cabinet.

Count von Wallenstein watched the retreating figure of the prelate till the door closed behind it; then he smiled at Mollendorf, who had not the courage to return it, and who stared at the parchment in his hand as if it were possessed of basilisk eyes.

"Monseigneur," said the count, as he glanced through the contents of the document, "has forestalled me. Well, well; I do not begrudge him his last card. He has played it; let us go."

"Perhaps," faltered Mollendorf, "he has played his first card. What are you going to do?"

"Remain at home and wait. And I shall not have long to wait. The end is near."

"Count, I tell you that the archbishop is not a man to play thus unless something strong were behind him. You do wrong not to fear him."

Von Wallenstein recalled the warning of the Colonel of the cuirassiers. "Nevertheless, we are too strong to fear him."

"Monseigneur is in correspondence with Austria," said the minister of police, quietly.

"You said nothing of this before," was the surprised reply.

"It was only this morning that I learned it."

The count's gaze roamed about the room, and finally rested on the charred slips of paper in the grate. He shrugged.

"If he corresponds with Austria it is too late," he said. "Come, let us go." He snapped his fingers in the air, and Mollendorf followed him from the room.

* * * * * *

The princess still remained on the rustic bench; her head was bowed, but her tears were dried.

"O, Bull," she whispered, "and you and I shall soon be all alone!"

A few doves fluttered about her; the hills flamed beneath the chill September sky, the waters sang and laughed, but she saw not nor heard.



CHAPTER XIX. A CHANCE RIDE IN THE NIGHT

Maurice, who had wisely slept the larger part of the day, and amused himself at solitary billiards until dinner, came out on the terrace to smoke his after-dinner cigar. He watched the sun as, like a ball of rusted brass, it slid down behind the hills, leaving the glowing embers of a smoldering day on the hilltops. The vermilion deepened into charred umber, and soon the west was a blackened grate; another day vanished in ashes. The filmy golden pallor of twilight now blurred the landscape; the wind increased with a gayer, madder, keener touch; the lake went billowing in shadows of gray and black, and one by one the lamps of the city sprang up, vivid as sparks from an anvil. Now and again the thin, clear music of the band drifted across from the park. The fountain glimmered in the Platz, the cafes began to glitter, carriages rolled hither and thither. The city had taken on its colorful night.

"Well, here's another day gone," he mused, rubbing his elbow, which was yet stiff. "I am anxious to know what that sinner is doing. Has he pulled up stakes or has he stayed to get a whack at me? I hope he's gone; he's a bad Indian, and if anything, he'll want my scalp in his belt before he goes. Hang it! It seems that I have poked my head into every bear trap in the kingdom. I may not get out of the next one. How clever I was, to be sure! It all comes from loving the dramatic. I am a diplomat, but nobody would guess it at first sight. To talk to a man as I talked to him, and to threaten! He said I was young; I was, but I grow older every day. And the wise word now is, don't imitate the bull of the trestle," as he recalled an American cartoon which at that day was having vogue in the American colony in Vienna.

"I like adventure, I know, but I'm going to give the Colonel a wide berth. If he sees me first, off the board I go. Where will he go—to the duchy? I trust not; we both can not settle in that territory; it's too small. And yet I am bound to go back; it is not my promise so much as it is my cursed curiosity. By George!" rubbing his elbow gently. "And to think, Maurice, that you might not have witnessed this sunset but for a bit of fencing trickery. What a turn that picture of Inez gave me! I knew him in a second—and like the ass I was, I told him so. And to meet him here, almost a left-handed king; no wonder I did not recognize him.

"I should like to come in on Fitzgerald to-night. His father must have had a crazy streak in him somewhere. Four millions to throw away; humph! And who the deuce has those certificates?" He lolled against the parapet. "If I had four millions, and if Prince Frederick had disappeared for good.... Why are things so jumbled up, at sixes and sevens? We are all human beings; why should some be placed higher than others? A prince is no better than I am, and may be not half so good.

"Sometimes I like to get up high somewhere and look down on every one else; every one else looks so small that it's comforting. The true philosopher has no desire; he sits down and views the world as if he were not a part of it. Perhaps it is best so. Yes, I would like four millions and a principality.... Heigho! how bracing the air is, and what a night for a ride! I've a mind to exercise Madame's horse. A long lone ride on the opposite side of the lake, on the road to Italy; come, let's try it. Better that than mope."

He mounted to the veranda, and for the first time he noticed the suppressed excitement which lit the faces of those around him. Groups were gathered here and there, talking, gesticulating, and flourishing the evening papers. He moved toward the nearest group.

"The archbishop has dismissed the cabinet... crisis imminent."

"The Austrian minister has recalled his invitations to the embassy ball."

"The archbishop will not be able to form another cabinet."

"Count von Wallenstein..."

"Mollendorf and Beauvais, too—"

"The king is dying... The archbishop has been given full powers."

"The army will revolt unless Beauvais is recalled."

"And the Marshal says here..."

Maurice waited to hear no more, but climbed through the window into the office.

"By George, something has happened since last night. I must have an evening paper." He found one, and read an elaborate account of what had taken place during the day. Von Wallenstein had been relieved of the finance. Mollendorf of the police, Erzberg of foreign affairs, and Beauvais of his epaulettes. There remained only the archbishop, the chancellor and the Marshal. The editorial was virulent in its attack on the archbishop, blustered and threatened, and predicted that the fall of the dynasty was but a matter of a few hours. For it asserted that the prelate could not form another cabinet, and without a cabinet there could be no government. It was not possible for the archbishop to shoulder the burden alone; he must reinstate the ministry or fall.

"And this is the beginning of the end," said Maurice, throwing aside the paper. "What will happen next? The old prelate is not a man to play to the gallery. Has he found out the double dealing of Beauvais? That takes a burden off my shoulders—unless he goes at once to the duchy. But why wasn't the cabinet dismissed ages ago? It is now too late. And where is Prince Frederick to the rescue? There is something going on, and what it is only the archbishop knows. That smile of his! How will it end? I'd like to see von Mitter, who seems to be a good gossip. And that poor, friendless, paralytic king! I say, but it makes the blood grow warm."

He left the chair and paced the office confines. Only one thing went echoing through his brain, and that was he could do nothing. The sooner he settled down in the attitude of a spectator the better for him. Besides, he was an official in the employ of a foreign country, and it would be the height of indiscretion to meddle, even in a private capacity. It would be to jeopardize his diplomatic career, and that would be ridiculous.

A porter touched him on the shoulder.

"A letter for your Excellency."

It was from the American minister in Vienna.

"My dear Carewe: I have a service to ask of you. The British minister is worried over the disappearance of a fellow-countryman, Lord Fitzgerald. He set out for Bleiberg, leaving instructions to look him up if nothing was heard of him within a week. Two weeks have gone. Knowing you to be in Bleiberg, I believed you might take the trouble to look into the affair. The British ambassador hints at strange things, as if he feared foul play. I shall have urgent need of you by the first of October; our charge d'affaires is to return home on account of ill-health, and your appointment to that office is a matter of a few days."

Maurice whistled. "That is good news; not Haine's illness, but that I have an excuse to meddle here. I'll telegraph at once. And I'll take the ride besides." He went to his room and buckled on his spurs, and thoughtfully slipped his revolver into a pocket. "I am not going to take any chances, even in the dark." Once again in the office, he stepped up to the desk and ordered his horse to be brought around to the cafe entrance.

"Certainly," said the clerk. Then in low tones "There has been a curious exchange in saddles, Monsieur."

"Saddles?"

"Yes. The saddle in your stall is, curiously enough, stamped with the arms of the house of Auersperg. How that military saddle came into the stables is more than the grooms can solve."

"O," said Maurice, with an assumption of carelessness; "that is all right. It's the saddle I arrived on. The horse and saddle belong to Madame the duchess. I have been visiting at the Red Chateau. I shall return in the morning."

"Ah," said the clerk, with a furtive smile which Maurice lost; "that accounts for the mystery."

"Here are two letters that must get in to-night's mails," Maurice said; "and also this telegram should be sent at once."

"As Monsieur desires. Ah, I came near forgetting. There is a note for Monsieur, which came this afternoon while Monsieur was asleep."

The envelope was unstamped, and the scrawl was unfamiliar to Maurice. On opening it he was surprised to find a hurriedly written note from Fitzgerald. In all probability it had been brought by the midnight courier on his return from the duchy.

"In God's name, Maurice, why do you linger? To-morrow morning those consols must be here or they will be useless. Hasten; you know what it means to me. Fitzgerald."

Maurice perused it twice, and pulled at his lips. "Madame becomes impatient. Poor devil. Somebody is likely to become suddenly rich and somebody correspondingly poor. What will they say when I return empty-handed? Like as not Madame will accuse me—and Fitzgerald will believe her!... The archbishop! That accounts for this bold move. And how the deuce did he get hold of them? I give up." And his shoulders settled in resignation.

He passed down into the cafe, from there to his horse, which a groom was holding at the curb. He swung into the saddle and tossed a coin to the man, who touched his cap.

The early moon lifted its silvery bulk above the ragged east, and the patches of clouds which swarmed over the face of that white world of silence resembled so many rooks. Far away, at the farthermost shore of the lake, whenever the moon went free from the clouds, Maurice could see the slim gray line of the road which stretched toward Italy.

"It's a fine night," he mused, glancing heavenward. The horse answered the touch of the spurs, and cantered away, glad enough to exchange the close air of the stables for this fresh gift of the night. Maurice guided him around the palaces into the avenue, which derived its name from the founder of the opera, in which most of the diplomatic families lived. Past the residence of Beauvais he went, and, gazing up at the lightless windows, a cold of short duration seized his spine. It bad been a hair's breadth betwixt him and death. "Your room, Colonel, is better than you company; and hereafter I shall endeavor to avoid both. I shall feel that cursed blade of yours for weeks to come."

Carriages rolled past him. A gay throng in evening dress was crowding into the opera. The huge placard announced, "Norma—Mlle. Lenormand—Royal Opera Troupe." How he would have liked to hear it, with Lenormand in the title role. He laughed as he recalled the episodes in Vienna which were associated with this queen of song. He waved his hand as the opera house sank in the distance. "Au revoir, Celeste, ma charmante; adieu." By and by he reached the deserted part of the city, and in less than a quarter of an hour branched off into the broad road bordering the lake. The horse quickened his gait as he felt the stone of the streets no longer beneath his feet, which now fell with muffled rhythm on the sound earth. Maurice shared with him the delight of the open country, and began to talk to the animal.

"A fine night, eh, old boy? I've ridden many backs, but none easier than yours. This air is what gives the blood its color. Too bad; you ought not to belong to Madame. She will never think as much of you as I should."

The city was falling away behind, and a yellow vapor rose over it. The lake tumbled in moonshine. Maurice took to dreaming again—hope and a thousand stars, love and a thousand dreams.

"God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason why? And I—I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope. For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog... and for this a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke."

The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a mile in advance.

"Hello! we're not the only ones jogging along. Eh, what's that?" Something flashed brightly, like silver reflecting moonlight; then came a spark of flame, which died immediately, and later Maurice caught an echo which resembled the bursting of a leaf against the lips. "Come; that looks like a pistol shot."

Again the flash of silver, broader and clearer this time; and Maurice could now separate the shadow-shapes. A carriage of some sort rolled from side to side, and two smaller shadows followed its wild flight. One—two—three times Maurice saw the sparks and heard the faint reports. He became excited. Something extraordinary was taking place on the lonely road. Suddenly the top of the carriage replied with spiteful flashes of red. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and the picture was vividly outlined. Two continuous flashes of silver.... Cuirassiers! Maurice loosened the rein, and the horse went forward as smoothly as a sail. The distance grew visibly less. The carriage opened fire again, and Maurice heard the sinister m-m-m of a bullet winging past him.

"The wrong man may get hit, Bucephalus," he said, bending to the neck of the horse; "which is not unusual. You're pulling them down, old boy; keep it up. There's trouble ahead, and since the cuirassiers are for the king, we'll stand by the cuirassiers."

On they flew, nearer and nearer, until the pistol shots were no longer echoes. Two other horsemen came into view, in advance of the carriage. Five minutes more of this exciting chase, and the faces took on lines and grew into features. Up, up crept the gallant little horse, his hoofs rattling against the road like snares on a drum. When within a dozen rods, Maurice saw one of the cuirassiers turn and level a revolver at him. Fortunately the horse swerved, and the ball went wide.

"Don't shoot!" Maurice yelled; "don't shoot!"

The face he saw was von Mitter's. His heart clogged in his throat, not at the danger which threatened him, but at the thought of what that carriage might contain.

A short time passed, during which nothing was heard but the striking of galloping hoofs and the rumble of the carriage. Maurice soon drew abreast of von Mitter. There was a gash on the latter's cheek, and the blood from it dripped on his cuirass.

"Close for you, my friend," he gasped; when he recognized the new arrival. "Have you—God! my leg that time," with a groan.

For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.

Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed. Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage horse lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his mate with him. The race had come to an end.

At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued toward the great forest, while the other took to the hills. Scharfenstein started in pursuit of the latter. As for the carriage, it came to an abrupt stand. The driver made a flying leap toward the lake, but stumbled and fell, and before he could regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and on his quarry. He caught the fellow by the throat and pressed him to the earth, kneeling on his chest.

"Hold him!" cried von Mitter, coming up with a limp, "hold him till I knock in his head, damn him!"

"No, no!" said Maurice, "you can't get information out of a dead man."

"It's all up with me," groaned the Lieutenant. "I'll ask for my discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid of shooting into the carriage."

Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. "Now, you devil," he cried, "a clean breast of it, or off the board you go. O!" suddenly peering down. "By the Lord, so it is you—you—you!" savagely bumping the fellow's head against the earth. "Spy!"

"You are killing me!"

"Small matter. Who is this fellow?" asked Maurice.

"Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else," answered von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. "Curse the leg!" He forced the door and peered inside. "Fainted! I thought as much." He lifted the inanimate bundle which lay huddled in between the seats and carried it to the side of the road, where he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's wrists, unmindful of the blood which fell from his face and left dark stains on her dress. "Thank God," heartily, "that her Royal Highness was suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright."

Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow limp. The rascal had fainted.

"Not her Highness?" Maurice asked, the weight of dread lifting from his heart.

"No. Her Royal Highness sent Camille, her maid of honor, veiled and dressed like herself, to play an innocent jest on her old nurse. Some one shall account for this; for they mistook Camille for her Highness. I'm going to wade out into the water," von Mitter added, staggering to his feet.

"You'll never get off your boot," said Maurice.

"I'll cut it off," was the reply, "I shall faint if I do not cool off the leg. The ball is somewhere in the calf." And he waded out into the water until it reached above his knees. Thus he stood for a moment, then returned to the maid, who, on opening her eyes, screamed. "It is all over, Camille," said the Lieutenant, throwing an arm about her.

"Your face is bleeding!" she cried, and sank back with her head against his broad breast.

As Maurice gazed at the pair he sighed. There were no obstacles here.

Soon Scharfenstein came loping down the hill alone.

"I killed his horse," he said, in response to queries, "but he fled into the woods where I could not follow. A bad night for us, Carl, a bad night," swinging off his horse. "A boy would have done better work. Whom have we here?"

"Kopf," said Maurice, "and he has a ball somewhere inside," holding up a bloody hand.

"Kopf?" Scharfenstein cocked his revolver.

The maid of honor placed her hands over her ears and screamed again. Max gazed at her, and, with a short, Homeric laugh, lowered the revolver.

"Any time will do," he said. "Ah, he opens his eyes."

The prisoner's eyes rolled wildly about. That frowning face above him... was it a vision? Who was it? What was he doing here?

"Who put you up to this?" demanded Maurice.

"You are choking me!"

"Who, I say?"

"Beauvais."

Scharfenstein and von Mitter looked at each other comprehensively.

"Who is this Beauvais? Speak!"

"I am dying, Herr... Your knees—"

Maurice withdrew his knees. "Beauvais; who is he?"

"Prince... Walmoden, formerly of the emperor's staff."

Johann's eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.

"He looks as if he were done for," said Maurice, standing up. "Let us clear up the rubbish and hitch a horse to the carriage. The mate's all right."

Von Mitter assisted the maid into the carriage and seated her.

"Go and stay with her," said Maurice, brusquely; "you're half fainting."

"You are very handy, Carewe," said von Mitter gratefully, and he climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.

Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed him into the pole.

Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to him....

"Ho, there! the prisoner!" cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs, and he sank to a sitting posture.

Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road. Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to sink; but he hung on to the horse.

"Hurry!" cried Maurice; "I've hit him and we'll find him along the road somewhere."

They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle, and they clattered off toward the city.



CHAPTER XX. THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT

The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber. Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch dogs.

Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in the service of the late king and the king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.

Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.

At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.

"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."

No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.

"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, he takes it at flood tide, which immediately begins to ebb."

The men on either side of him nodded wisely.

"The king can no longer speak. That is why the archbishop has dismissed the cabinet. While he could speak, his Majesty refused to listen to the downfall of his enemies. Why? Look to heaven; heaven only can answer. How many men of the native troops are quartered in these buildings? Not one—which is bad. Formerly they were in the majority. Extraordinary. His Majesty would have made friends with them, but the archbishop, an estimable man in his robes, practically ostracized them. Bad, very bad. Had we been comrades, there might be a different end.

"Faugh! if one of us sticks his head into the city barracks a breath of ice is our reward. Kronau never attends the receptions. A little flattery, which costs nothing, and they would have been willing to die for his Majesty. Now—" He knocked his pipe on the firedog. "Now, they would not lift a finger. A soldier will forgive all things but premeditated neglect.

"As for me, when the time comes I shall return to Dresden and die of old age. Maybe, though, I shan't. When his Majesty dies there is like to be a clash. The duchess is a clever woman, but she would make a balky wife; a capillary affection which runs in the family. Red hair in a man is useful; in a woman it is unmanageable." He refilled his pipe and motioned toward the tongs. The soldier nearest caught up a brand and held it out. The Captain laid his pipe against it and drew. "It's a dreary watch I have from ten till daylight, in his Majesty's antechamber, but he will trust no other man at that post." And with this he fell into silence.

Some time passed. Twice the Captain pulled out his watch and looked at it. Shortly after nine o'clock the beat of hoofs came up the driveway, and the Captain turned his head toward the entrance and waited. A moment later the door opened and three men stood framed in the doorway. Two of them—one in civilian dress—were endeavoring to hold up a third between them. The central figure presented an alarming picture. His cuirass and white trousers were splashed with blood, and his head rolled from side to side, almost insensibly.

"A thousand devils!" exclaimed the Captain at the sight of this unexpected tableau. He sprang up, toppling over his chair. "What's this? Von Mitter? Blood? Have those damned students—"

"A brush on the lake road," interrupted Sharfenstein, breathlessly. "Help him over to a chair, Monsieur Carewe. That's it."

"Have you a knife, Captain?" asked Maurice.

The Captain whipped out his knife, locked it, and gave it to Maurice. "Riemer," he called to one of the cuirassiers, who were rising from the mess table, "bring out your box of instruments; and you, Scharfenstein, a basin of cold water. Quick!"

Maurice knelt and deftly cut away the Lieutenant's boot. A pool of blood collected on the floor.

"God save us!" cried the Captain, "his boot is full of blood." He turned to Scharfenstein, who was approaching with the basin. "What has happened, Max?"

Scharfenstein briefly explained.

"And Kopf?"

"Got away, curse him!"

"And the others?" with a lowering brow.

"They all got away," adding an oath under his breath. Max set the basin on the floor.

"Bad, very bad. Why didn't you shoot?"

"He was afraid of hitting Mademoiselle Bachelier," Maurice interposed.

Max threw him a grateful look.

"Humph!" The Captain called his men around him. "Two of you—. But wait. Who's back of Kopf?"

"Our distinguished Colonel," snapped Max, "who was this day relieved of his straps. A case of revenge, probably."

"Beauvais! Ah, ah!" The Captain smiled grimly. He had always hated Beauvais, who had, for no obvious reason, passed him and grasped the coveted colonelcy, and because, curiously enough, the native troops had made an idol of him. "Beauvais? I am not surprised. An adventurer, with neither kith nor country."

"He is Prince Walmoden," said Maurice, "and for some reason not known, the emperor has promised to recall him."

This information caused the Captain to step back, and he muttered the name several times. "Austria...." A gloom settled on his face. "No matter. Prince or no prince, or had he one thousand emperors behind him, no matter. Four of you seek him and arrest him. If he offers resistance, knock him on the head, but arrest him. A traitor is without name, country or respect. His purpose... Never mind.

"Four of you seek for Kopf. Look into Stuler's, in at the opera, and follow Kopf's woman home. I'll take it upon myself to telegraph the frontier to allow no one to cross on the pain of being shot. Pass the word to the officers in the stables. Hurry away before the archbishop hears of the matter. Away with you, and quietly. And one of you seek that blockhead of a coachman, who did not know enough to come back here and inform us. Beauvais, make him a prisoner, you are not to know why. As for Kopf, dead or alive—alive will be less convenient for all concerned. Off with you!"

The guardroom was at once emptied, and the cuirassiers turned off toward the stables, where the main body of the troops was stationed.

Riemer, who was both surgeon and soldier, probed the wound in von Miner's leg and extracted the bullet, which had lodged in the fleshy part of the calf. He applied cold water, lints and bandages. All the while von Mitter sat in the chair, his eyes shut and his lips closed tightly.

"There!" said the surgeon, standing up, "that's better. The loss of blood is the worst part of it." Next he took a few stitches in the cut on the cheek and threw his cloak over the wounded man's knee. "He'll be all right in a day or so, though he'll limp. Carl?"

"O, I'm sound enough," answered von Mitter, opening his eyes. "A little weak in the knees, that's all. I shouldn't have given in, only Kopf got away when we had him fair and fast. We found his horse wandering about the Frohngarten, but no sign of Johann. He's got it, though, square in the back."

"I'm sure of it," said Maurice, who leaned over the back of the speaker's chair.

The Captain eyed him inquiringly.

"Pardon me," said Scharfenstein. "Captain, Monsieur Carewe, an American tourist, formerly of the United States cavalry. And a pretty shot, too, by the book! It would have gone badly with us but for him."

"My thanks," said the Captain, with a jerky nod. "Max, come, give me the whole story."

And Scharfenstein dropped into a chair and recounted in picturesque diction the adventure; how they had remained by the royal carriage till the nurse, recovering from her faint, had rushed out and told them of the abduction; and the long race on the south shore. While he listened the Captain smoked thoughtfully; and when the story was done, he rose and wagged his head.

"Call it revenge," he said, "if it strikes you in that light. Monsieur Carewe, what is your opinion?"

"It occurs to me," answered Maurice, rubbing the scratch the late Colonel's sword had left on his chin, "it occurs to me that the man played his hand a few days too late."

"Which is to say?"

"Well, I do not call it revenge," Maurice admitted, unwilling to venture any theory.

"No more do I;" and the Captain began drumming on the mantel. "What say, Max; how would the illustrious Colonel look with the shadow of a crown on his head? He comes from Austria, who, to my thinking, is cognizant of all he does and has done."

The answer was not spoken. The door, leading to the main palace through the kitchens, opened, and the Marshal, the princess, and the maid of honor came down the steps. The Captain, Max and the surgeon stood at salute. Maurice, however, drew back into the shadows at the side of the grate. The old soldier gazed down at the pale face of the young Lieutenant, and smiled kindly.

"Even the best of soldiers make mistakes," he said; "even the best. No," as von Mitter made an attempt to speak. "I've heard all about it, and from a most reliable source," nodding toward the anxious maid of honor. "Colonel," he addressed the Captain, whose eyes started at this appellation, "Colonel, you will report to me in the morning to assume your new duties. You have been a faithful Captain and a good soldier. I know your value, your name and your antecedents, which till now was more than I knew of your late predecessor. Von Mitter will take upon himself your duties as Captain of the household troop; and you, Scharfenstein, will hereafter take charge of her Royal Highness's carriage, and you may choose whom you will as your comrade."

"I have always tried to do my duty," said von Mitter. He felt a small hand secretly press his.

"And you have always succeeded, Captain," said a voice which made Maurice's foolish heart leap. "See, I am the first to give you your new rank. How you must suffer!"

"God bless your Royal Highness!" murmured the fellow, at once racked with pain and happiness. "But I am not the one you must thank for this night's work."

The Marshal peered at the silent figure beyond the fireplace. Maurice was compelled to stand forth. "Ah!" said the Marshal.

"Yes," went on von Mitter, "but for him no one knows what the end might have been. And I, thinking him one of the abducting party coming up from the rear, shot at him."

The princess took a step forward, anxiety widening her dark eyes; and the swift glance added to the fever in the recipient's veins.... How beautiful she was, and how far away! He laid his hand on the top of von Mitter's chair.

"Monsieur Carewe," said the Marshal, "seems to have plenty of leisure time on his hands—fortunately for us. You were not hit?"

"O, no," said Maurice, blushing. He had discerned an undercurrent of raillery in the Marshal's tones. "The ball came close to my ear, that was all. It is strange how that fellow got away. I am positive that I hit him."

"We shall find him," said the Marshal, with a look at the newly-appointed Colonel which said: "Your straps hang in the balance." He rubbed his nose. "Well, is your Royal Highness satisfied that there is no danger?"

"Yes, Marshal; but think, if he should have been killed! Ah, what does it all mean? What had this man against me, who have always been kind to him?"

"We shall, with your Highness's permission," said the Marshal, "leave all questions to the future. Let us return to the archbishop, who is doubtless awaiting the news. Take good care of yourself, Captain. To-morrow, Colonel; good evening to you, Monsieur Carewe;" and the terse old soldier proceeded to the door and held it open for the women.

"Good night, Messieurs," said her Highness. "I shall not forget. Thanks to you, Captain." One more glance, and she was gone. But this glance blossomed in one heart into a flower of hope.

The Marshal, having closed the door behind the women, returned to the group before the fireplace. They watched him interestedly.

"Colonel," he said, "make no effort to seek Beauvais. As for Kopf, that is different. But Beauvais—"

"To let him go?" exclaimed the Colonel in dismay.

"Aye, to let him go. We do not seek bears with birdshot, and that is all we have. He will leave the country."

"And go to the duchy!"

"So much the better; when the time comes, our case against him will be so much the stronger. Mind you, this is not from sentiment. I have none," glaring around to see if any dared refute this assertion. "It is policy, and Monseigneur concurs with me."

"But I have sent men after him!" cried the Colonel, in keen disappointment.

"Send men after them to rescind the order."

"And if they should catch him?"

"Let him go; that is my order. The servant will be sufficient for our needs. Monsieur Carewe, I rely on your discretion;" and the Marshal passed into the kitchens.

The men looked at each other in silence. A moment later the Colonel dashed from the room, off to the stables.

"Well, I'm off," said Maurice. The desire to tell what he knew was beginning to master him. It was too late now, he saw that. Besides, they might take it into their heads to detain him. He put on his hat. "Good night; and good luck to your leg, Captain."

"Till to-morrow," said von Mitter, who had taken a fancy to the smooth-faced young American, who seemed at home in all places.

"I am going away to-morrow," said Maurice, pressing the Lieutenant's hand. "I shall return in a day or so."

He led his horse to the hotel stables, lit a fresh cigar and promenaded the terrace. "Some day," he mused, "perhaps I'll be able to do something for myself. To-morrow we'll take a look at Fitzgerald's affairs, like the good fairy we are. If the Colonel is there, so much the worse for one or the other of us." He laughed contentedly. "Beauvais took my warning and lit out, or his henchman would never have made a botch of the abduction. It is my opinion that Madame wanted a hostage, for it is impossible to conceive that the man made the attempt on his own responsibility. I shall return to the duchy in a semi-official character as an envoy extraordinary to look into the whereabouts of one Lord Fitzgerald. Devil take me, but I did make a mess of it when I slapped him on the shoulder that night." The princess had not addressed a word to him. Why?

When the princess and her maid of honor had passed through the kitchens into the princess's boudoir, the maid suddenly caught her mistress's hand and imprinted a hasty kiss on it, to the latter's surprise and agitation. There was something in that kiss which came nearer to sincere affection than Mademoiselle Bachelier had ever shown before.

"Camille?"

"God bless your Highness!" whispered the girl, again pressing the cold hand to her lips. What had given rise to this new-born affection she herself could not say, but a sudden wave of pity rushed into her heart. Perhaps it was because she loved and was loved that caused this expansion of heart toward her mistress, who was likely never to love or beget love, who stood so lonely. Tears came into her eyes.

"You are hysterical!" said the princess.

"No; it is because—because—" She stopped and a blush suffused her face and temples.

The princess took the face between her hands and gazed long and earnestly into it. "Have you discovered a belated pity in your heart for me? Or is it because you thought him wounded unto death, and he was not?"

"It is both!" weeping.

The princess put her arms around the maid. "And you weep for happiness? Let us weep together, then; only—I can not weep for happiness."

To return to the flight of Kopf. As he dashed down the road he heard two reports. At the second he experienced a terrible burning blow under the right shoulder-blade, and immediately his arm became paralyzed. He coughed. With a supreme effort he managed to recover his balance. Already his collar-bone had been cracked by a bullet either from von Mitter or from Scharfenstein.

"God's curse on them all!" he sobbed, pushing his knees into his horse; "God's curse!" He bit his lips; and when he drew his breath the pain which followed almost robbed him of his senses. Behind him the sound of hoofs came no nearer; he had a chance. He could not look back to see if he gained, however, as his neck was stiffening.

"Curse him and his damned gold! He never warned me as he said he would." On he rode. The moon became obscured, and when it flashed again he could see it but indistinctly.... To reach the city, to reach Gertrude's, to give the horse a cut and send him adrift, this was his endeavor. But would he reach the city—alive? Was he dying? He could not see... Yet again he shut his jaws and drew on his entire strength. He was keeping in the saddle by will power alone. If the horse faltered he was lost. To Gertrude; she could use them. And after all he loved her. If he died she would be provided for.

The first of the city lamps. He sobbed. Into this street he turned, into that, expecting each moment to be challenged, for the white saddle blanket of the cuirassiers stood out conspicuously. At last he had but a corner to turn. He stopped, slid from the saddle and gave the animal a cut across the face. The horse reared, then plunged forward at a wild gallop. Johann staggered along the street, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.

Gertrude of the opera company was usually in the ballet. To-night she had left the stage after the first dance. She had complained of a severe headache, and as the manager knew her worth he had permitted her withdrawal from the corps. She lived off the Frohngarten, in an apartment on the second floor, over a cheap restaurant. She was bathing her temples in perfumed ammonia water, when she heard footsteps in the corridor, and later the rasp of a key in the lock. As the door opened she beheld a spectacle which caused her to scream.

"Hush! Gertrude, I am dying.... Brandy! I must talk to you! Silence!" Johann tottered to a lounge and dropped on his side.

The woman, still trembling with fright and terror, poured into her palm some of the pungent liquid with which she had been bathing her temples, and held it under his nose. It revived him. And in a few broken sentences he made known to her what had happened.

"Gertrude, I am lost!" He breathed with difficulty. "I have lived like a rascal, and I die like one. But I have always loved you; I have always been true to you; I have never beaten nor robbed you." His eyes closed.

"O God," she cried, "what shall I do? Johann, you must not die! We will leave the country together. Johann, you do not speak! Johann!" She kissed him, pressed him in her arms, regardless of the stains which these frantic fondlings gathered from his breast. "Johann!"

"Rich," he said dreamily; "rich... and to die like a dog!"

She left him and rushed to the sideboard, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and returned to his side. She raised his head, but he swallowed with effort.

"In the lungs," he said. "God! how it burns! Rich; we are rich, Gertrude; a hundred thousand crowns.... And I am dying!... What a failure! Curse them all; they never offered to lend a hand unless it led toward hell! Gertrude... I must tell you. Here; here, put your hand in this pocket; yes. Draw them out... A hundred thousand crowns!"

The woman shuddered. Her hand and what it held were wet with blood.

"Hide them!" And Johann fainted away for the second time. When he came to his senses, several minutes had passed. Quickly, with what remaining strength he had, he unfolded his plan.

And her one idea was to save him. She drenched her handkerchief with the ammonia, and bade him hold it to his nose, while she fetched a basin of water and a sponge. Tenderly she drew back his coat and washed the blood from his throat and lips, and moistened his hair.

"Listen!" he cried suddenly, rising on his elbow. "It is they! They have found me! Quick! to the roof!" He struggled to his feet, with that strength which imparts itself to dying men, super-human while it lasts. He threw one arm around her neck. "Help me!"

And thus they gained the hall, mounted the flight to the roof, he groaning and urging, she sobbing, hysterical, and frenzied. She climbed the ladder with him, threw back the trap, and helped him on the roof.

"Now leave me!" he said, kissing her hand.

She gave him her lips, and went down to her rooms, and waited and waited. This agony of suspense lasted a quarter of an hour, when again came the clatter of hoofs. Would this, too, prove a false alarm? She held her hand to her ear. If he were dying... They had stopped; they were mounting the stairs; O God, they were beating on the door!

"Open!" cried a voice without; "open in the king's name!"

She gasped, but words would not come. She clenched her hands until the nails sank into the flesh.

"Open, Madame, or down comes the door."

The actress in her came to the rescue. The calm of despair took possession of her.

"In a moment, Messieurs," she said. Her voice was without agitation. She opened the door and the cuirassiers pushed past her. "In heaven's name, Messieurs, what does this mean?"

"We want Johann Kopf," was the answer, "and we have it from good authority that he is here. Do not interfere with us; you are in no wise connected with the affair."

"He is not here," she replied. She wondered at herself, her tones were so even, her mind was so clear.

One of the cuirassiers caught up her gown. "What's this, Madame?" he demanded, pointing to the dark wet stains; "and this?" to her hands, "and this?" to the spots on the carpet, the basin and the sponge. "To the roof, men; he has gone by the roof! Up with you!"

The ballet dancer held forth her hands in supplication; life forsook her limbs; she sank.

The cuirassiers rushed to the roof.... When they came down it was slowly and carefully. What they had found on the roof was of no use to them. They laid the inanimate thing on the lounge, and frowned. One of the cuirassiers lifted the ballet dancer and carried her into her bed-room, and laid her on the bed. He had not the heart to revive her. Death softens all angers; even an enemy is no longer such when dead. And Johann Kopf was dead.



CHAPTER XXI. A COURT FETE AT THE RED CHATEAU

At eight o'clock of the following evening, that is to say, the nineteenth of September, Maurice mounted the Thalian pass and left the kingdom in the valley behind him. He was weary, dusty, lame and out of humor; besides, he had a new weight on his conscience. The night before he had taken the life of a man. True, this had happened before, but always in warfare. He had killed in a moment of rage and chagrin a poor devil who was at most only a puppet. There was small credit in the performance. However, the rascal would have suffered death in any event, his act being one of high treason.

In the long ride he had made up his mind to lock away forever the silly dream, the tender, futile, silly dream. All men die with secrets locked in their hearts; thus he, too, would die. His fancy leaped across the chasm of intervening years to the day of his death, and the thought was a happy one! He smiled sadly, as young men smile when they pity themselves. He knew that he would never get over it—in a day. But to-morrow, or to-morrow's to-morrow..

He took the pass's decline; the duchy spread away toward the south. A quarter of a mile below him he saw the barrack and the customs office which belonged to Madame the duchess. The corporal inspected him and his papers, spoke lowly to the customs inspector, who returned to his office.

"It is all right, Monsieur Carewe," said the corporal; "I ought to recognize the horse a mile away. You will arrive just in time."

"Just in time for what?"

"Ah, true. Her Highness gives a grand ball at the chateau to-night. The court has arrived from Brunnstadt. Some will reside at the chateau, some at General Duckwitz's, others at the Countess Herzberg's."

"Has the duchess arrived at last, then?" was the cynical inquiry.

"She will arrive this evening," answered the corporal, grinning. "A pleasant journey to you."

Maurice proceeded. "And that blockhead of an Englishman has not tumbled yet! The court here? A grand ball? What else can it mean but that Madame is celebrating a victory to come? If the archbishop has those consols, she will wage war; and this is the prelude." He jogged along. He had accomplished a third of the remaining distance, when he was challenged. The sentry came forward and scrutinized the rider.

"O, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried in delighted tones. He touched his cap and fell back into the shadows.

A mile farther, and the great chateau, scintillating with lights, loomed up against the yellow sky. He felt a thrill of excitement. Doubtless there would be some bright passages before the night drew to a close. He would make furious love to the pretty countess; it would be something in the way of relaxation. How would they greet him? What would be Madame's future plans in regard to Fitzgerald? How would she get him out of the way, now that he had served her purpose? He laughed.

"The future promises much," he said, half aloud. "I am really glad that I came back."

"Halt!"

Maurice drew up. A sentry stepped out into the road.

"O, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. With a short laugh he disappeared.

"Hang me," grumbled Maurice as he went on, "these fellows have remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them." He was mystified.

Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to dismount, an order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to stand again. He shook his legs, while the leader struck a match.

"Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!" he cried. "Good! We are coming out to meet you. This is a pleasure indeed."

Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his surprise beheld the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight since. He climbed on his horse again.

"I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron," he said dryly. "From what you imply, I should judge that you were expecting me."