"Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as early as two o'clock this after-noon," answered the baron. "Permit us to escort you to the chateau before the ladies see you. 'Tis a gala night; we are all in our best bib and tucker, as the English say. We believed at one time that you were not going to honor us with a second visit. Now to dress, both of us; at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General Duckwitz and Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister of police in Bleiberg."

Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it disturbed him.

"First, I should like to know—" he began.

"Later, later!" cried the baron. "The gates are but a dozen rods away. To your room first; the rest will follow."

"The only clothes I have with me are on my back," said Maurice.

"We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been reserved for you, at the suggestion of the Colonel."

And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.

"Were they courteous to you on the road?"

"Yes. But—"

"Patience! Here we are at the rear gates."

Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked the rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more were in advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop passed into the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of the front lawns and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with Chinese lanterns; gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted across his vision. Somewhere within the chateau an orchestra was playing the overture from "Linda di Chamounix." Indeed, with all these brave officers, old men in black bedecked with ribbons, handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels, it had the semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no restraint here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The women were young, the men were young; old age stood at one side and looked on. And the charming Voiture-verse of a countess, Maurice was determined to seek her first of all. He vaguely wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself throughout the ordeal.

The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.

"I'm a trifle too stiff to dance," Maurice innocently acknowledged.

The baron laughed. "You will have to take luck with me in the stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been turned into a ballroom, and the guard out of it."

"Lead on!" said Maurice.

At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing of the stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.

"This is Monsieur Carewe," said the baron, "who will occupy a corner in the guardroom."

"Ah! Monsieur Carewe," waving his hand cavalierly; "happy to see you again."

Maurice was growing weary of his name.

"Enter," said the baron, opening the door.

Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a hurry to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that body was doomed to proceed without the honor or the knowledge of his distinguished presence. Several troopers were lounging about. At the sight of the baron they rose.

"Messieurs," he said, "this is Monsieur Carewe, who was expected."

"Glad to see you!" they sang out in chorus. They bowed ironically.

Maurice gazed toward the door. As he did so four pairs of arms enveloped him, and before he could offer the slightest resistance, he was bound hand and foot, a scarf was tied over his mouth, and he was pushed most disrespectfully into a chair. The baron's mouth was twisted out of shape, and the troopers were smiling.

"My faith! but this is the drollest affair I ever was in;" and the baron sat on the edge of the table and held his sides. "Monsieur Carewe! Ha! ha! You are a little too stiff to dance, eh? Shall I tender your excuses to the ladies? Ass! did you dream for a moment that such canaille as you, might show your countenance to any save the scullery maids? Too stiff to dance! Ye gods, but that was rich! And you had the audacity to return here! I must go; the thing is killing me." He slipped off the table, red in the face and choking. "The telegraph has its uses; it came ahead of you. We trembled for fear you would not come! Men, guard him as your lives, while I report to Madame, I dare say she will make it droller in the telling."

He stepped to the door, turned, looking into the prisoner's glaring eyes; he doubled up again. "We are quits; I forgive you the broken arm; this laugh will repay me. How Madame the countess will laugh! And Duckwitz—the General will die of apoplexy! O, but you are a sorry ass; and how neatly we have clipped your ears!" And into the corridor he went, still laughing, heartily and joyously, as if what had taken place was one of the finest jests in the world.

Maurice, white and furious, was positive that he never would laugh again. And the most painful thought was that his honesty had brought him to this pass—or, was it his curiosity?

* * * * *

Fitzgerald stood alone in the library. The music of a Strauss waltz came indistinctly to him. He was troubled, and the speech of it lay in his eyes. From time to time he drummed on the window sill, and followed with his gaze the shadowy forms on the lawns. He was not a part of this fairy scene. He was out of place. So many young and beautiful women eyeing him curiously confused him. In every glance he innocently read his disgrace.

At Madame's request he had dressed himself in the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, which showed how deeply he was in the toils. Though it emphasized the elegant proportions of his figure, it sat uncomfortably upon him. His vanity was not equal to his sense of guilt. The uniform was a livery of dishonor. He could not distort it into a virtue, try as he would. He lacked that cunning artifice which a man of the world possesses, that of winning over to the right a misdeed.

And Carewe, on whose honesty he would have staked his life, Carewe had betrayed him. Why, he could not conceive. He saw how frail his house of love was. A breath and it was gone. What he had until to-day deemed special favors were favors common to all these military dandies. They, too, could kiss Madame's hand, and he could do no more. And yet she held him. Did she love him? He could not tell. All he knew was that it was impossible not to love her. And to-night he witnessed the culmination of the woman beautiful, and it dazzled him, filled him with fears and oppressions.... To bind her hand and foot, to carry her by force to the altar, if need; to call her his in spite of all.

If she were playing with him, making a ball of his heart and her fancy a cup, she knew not of the slumbering lion within. He himself was but dimly conscious of it. Princess? That did not matter. Since that morning the veil had fallen from his eyes, but he had said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak. Would she laugh at him? No, no! The knowledge that had come to him had transformed wax into iron. Princess? She was the woman who had promised to be his wife.

Only two candles burned on the mantel-piece. The library was a room apart from the festivities. A soft, rose-colored darkness pervaded the room. Presently a darker shadow tiptoed over the threshold. He turned, and the shadow approached. Madame's gray eyes, full of lambent fires, looked into his own.

"I was seeking you," she said. The jewels in her hair threw a kind of halo above her head.

"Have I the happiness to be necessary to you?" he asked.

"You have not been enjoying yourself."

"No, Madame; my conscience is, unhappily, too green." He turned to the window again for fear he would lose control of himself.

"I have a confession to make to you," she said humbly. How broad his shoulders were, was her thought.

"It can not concern me," he replied.

"How?"

"There is only one confession which I care to hear. You made it once, though you are not willing to repeat it. But I have your word, Sylvia; I am content. Not all the world could make me believe that you would willingly retract that word."

Her name, for the first time coming from his lips, caused her to start. She sent him a penetrating glance, but it broke on a face immobile as marble.

"I do not recollect granting you permission to use my given name," she said.

"O, that was before the world. But alone, alone as we are, you and I, it is different." The smile which accompanied these words was frankness itself, but it did not deceive Madame, who read his eyes too well. "Ali, but the crumbs you give this love of mine are so few!" "You are the only man in the world permitted to avow love to me. You have kissed my hand."

"A privilege which seems extended to all."

Madame colored, but there was not light enough for him to perceive it.

"The hand you kissed is the hand of the woman; others kiss it to pay homage. Monsieur, forgive me for having deceived you, you were so easy to deceive." His eyes met hers steadily.

"I am not Madame simply. I am Stephonia Sylvia Auersperg; the name I assumed was my mother's." His lack of surprise alarmed her.

"I am well aware of that," he said. "You are the duchess."

Something in his tone warned her of a crisis, and she put forth her cunning to avert it. "And, you—you will not love me less?" her voice vibrant as the string of a viol. "I am a princess, but yet a woman. In me there are two, the woman and the princess. The princess is proud and ambitious; to gain her ends she stops at nothing. As a princess she may stoop to trickery and deceit, and step back untouched. But the woman-ah, well; for this fortnight I have been most of all the woman."

"And all this to me-is a preamble to my dismissal, since my promise remains unfulfilled? Madame, do not think that because fate has willed that my promise should become void, that my conscience acquits me of dishonor. For love of you I have thrown honor to the winds. But do I regret it? No. For I am mad, and being mad, I am not capable of reason. I have broken all those ties which bind a man's respect to himself. I have burned all bridges, but I laugh at that. It is only with the knowledge that your love is mine that I can hold high my head.

"As the princess in you is proud, so is the man in me. A princess? That is nothing; I love you. Were you the empress of all the Russias, the most unapproachable woman in the world, I should not hesitate to profess my love, to find some means of declaring it to you. I love you. To what further depths can I fall to prove it?" Again he sought the window, and leaned heavily on the sill. He waited, as a man waits for an expected blow.

As she listened a delicious sensation swept through her heart, a sensation elusive and intangible. She surrendered without question. At this moment the Eve in her evaded all questions. Here was a man. The mood which seized her was as novel as this love which asked nothing but love, and the willingness to pay any price; and the desire to test both mood and love to their full strength was irresistible. She was loved for herself alone; hitherto men had loved the woman less and the princess more. To surrender to both mood and love, if only for an hour or a day, to see to what length this man would go at a sign from her.

He was almost her equal in birth; his house was nearly if not quite as old and honored as her own; in his world he stood as high as she stood in hers. She had never committed an indiscretion; passion had never swayed her; until now she had lived by calculation. As she looked at him, she knew that in all her wide demesne no soldier could stand before him and look straight into his eyes. So deep and honest a book it was, so easily readable, that she must turn to its final pages. Love him? No. Be his wife? No. She recognized that it was the feline instinct to play which dominated her. Consequences? Therein lay the charm of it.

"Patience, Monsieur," she said. "Did I promise to be your wife? Did I say that I loved you? Eh, bien, the woman, not the princess, made those vows. I am mistress not only of my duchy, but of my heart." She ceased and regarded him with watchful eyes. He did not turn. "Look at me, John!" The voice was of such winning sweetness that St. Anthony himself, had he heard it, must have turned. "Look at me and see if I am more a princess than a woman."

He wheeled swiftly. She was leaning toward him, her face was upturned. No jewel in her hair was half so lustrous as her eyes. From the threaded ruddy ore of her hair rose a perfume like the fabulous myrrhs of Olympus. Her lips were a cup of wine, and her eyes bade him drink, and the taste of that wine haunted him as long as he lived. He made as though to drain the cup, but Madame pushed down his arms, uttered a low, puzzled laugh, and vanished from the room. He was lost! He knew it; yet he did not care. He threw out his arms, dropped them, and settled his shoulders. A smile, a warm, contented smile, came into his face and dwelt there. For another such kiss he would have bartered eternity.

And Madame? Who can say?



CHAPTER XXII. IN WHICH MAURICE RECURS TO OFFENBACH

Midnight; the music had ceased, and the yellow and scarlet lanterns had been plucked from the autumnal hangings. The laughing, smiling, dancing women, like so many Cinderellas, had disappeared, and with them the sparkle of jewels; and the gallant officers had ridden away to the jingle of bit and spur. Throughout the courtly revel all faces had revealed, besides the happiness and lightness of spirit, a suppressed eagerness for something yet to come, an event surpassing any they had yet known.

Promptly at midnight Madame herself had dropped the curtains on the gay scene because she had urgent need of all her military household at dawn, when a picture, far different from that which had just been painted, was to be limned on the broad canvas of her dreams. Darkness and quiet had fallen on the castle, and the gray moon film lay on terrace and turret and tile.

In the guardroom, Maurice, his hands and feet still in pressing cords, dozed in his chair. He had ceased to combat drowsiness. He was worn out with his long ride, together with the chase of the night before; and since a trooper had relieved his mouth of the scarf so that he could breathe, he cared not what the future held, if only he might sleep. It took him a long time to arrive at the angle of comfort; this accomplished, he drifted into smooth waters. The troopers who constituted his guard played cards at a long table, in the center of which were stuck half a dozen bayonets, which served as candlesticks. They laughed loudly, thumped the board, and sometimes sang. No one bothered himself about the prisoner, who might have slept till the crack of doom, as far as they were concerned.

Shortly before the new hour struck, the door opened and shut. A trooper shook the sleeper by the sleeve. Maurice awoke with a start and gazed about, blinking his eyes. Before him he discovered Madame the duchess, Fitzgerald and Mollendorf, behind whom stood the Voiture-verse of a countess. The languor forsook him and he pulled himself together and sat as upright as his bonds would permit him. Something interesting was about to take place.

Madame made a gesture which the troopers comprehended, and they departed. Fitzgerald, with gloomy eyes, folded his arms across his breast, and with one hand curled and uncurled the drooping ends of his mustache; the Colonel frowned and rubbed the gray bristles on his upper lip; the countess twisted and untwisted her handkerchief; Madame alone evinced no agitation, unless the perpendicular line above her nose could have been a sign of such. This lengthened and deepened as her glance met the prisoner's.

He eyed them all with an indifference which was tinctured with contempt and amusement.

"Well, Monsieur Carewe," said Madame, coldly, "what have you to say?"

"A number of things, Madame," he answered, in a tone which bordered the insolent; "only they would not be quite proper for you to hear."

The Colonel's hand slid from his lip over his mouth; he shuffled his feet and stared at the bayonets and the grease spots on the table.

"Carewe," said Fitzgerald, endeavoring to speak calmly, "you have broken your word to me as a gentleman and you have lied to me."

The reply was an expressive monosyllable, "O!"

"Do you deny it?" demanded the Englishman.

"Deny what?" asked Maurice.

"The archbishop," said Madame, "assumed the aggressive last night. To be aggressive one must possess strength. Monsieur, how much did he pay for those consols? Come, tell me; was he liberal? It is evident that you are not a man of business. I should have been willing to pay as much as a hundred thousand crowns. Come; acknowledge that you have made a bad stroke." She bent her head to one side, and a derisive smile lifted the corners of her lips.

A dull red flooded the prisoner's cheeks. "I do not understand you."

"You lie!" Fitzgerald stepped closer and his hands closed menacingly.

"Thank you," said Maurice, "thank you. But why not complete the melodrama by striking, since you have doubled your fists?"

Fitzgerald glared at him.

"Monsieur," interposed the countess, "do not forget that you are a gentleman; Monsieur Carewe's hands are tied."

"Unfortunately," observed Maurice.

Madame looked curiously at the countess, while Fitzgerald drew back to the table and rested on it.

"I can not comprehend how you dared return," Madame resumed. "One who watches over my affairs has informed me of your dishonorable act."

"What do you call a dishonorable act?" Maurice inquired quietly.

"One who breaks his sacred promise!" quickly.

The prisoner laughed maliciously. Madame had answered the question as he hoped she would. "Chickens come home to roost. What do you say to that, my lord?" to the Englishman.

This time it was not the prisoner's cheeks which reddened. Even Madame was forced to look away, for if this reply touched the Englishman it certainly touched her as deeply. Incidentally, she was asking herself why she had permitted the Englishman to possess her lips, hers, which no man save her father had ever possessed before. A kiss, that was all it had been, yet the memory of it was persistent, annoying, embarrassing. In the spirit of play—a spirit whose origin mystified her—she had given the man something which she never could regain, a particle of her pride.

Besides, this was not all; she had in that moment given up her right to laugh at him when the time came; now she would not be able to laugh. She regretted the folly, and bit her lip at the thought of it. Consequences she had laughed at; now their possibilities disturbed her. She had been guilty of an indiscretion. The fact that the Englishman had ruined himself at her beck did not enter her mind. The hour for that had not yet arrived.

Seeing that his neat barb had left them all without answer, Maurice said: "Doubtless the informant who watches over your interests and various other interests of which you have no inkling, was the late Colonel Beauvais? For my part, I wish it was the late Beauvais in the sense in which we refer to the departed ones. But let us give him his true name—Prince Konrad, the last of the Walmodens, a cashiered gamester."

Only Fitzgerald showed any surprise. Maurice once saw that the others were in the secret. They knew the Colonel. Did they know why he was in Bleiberg? Let them find it out for themselves. He would not lift a finger to aid them. He leaned back and yawned.

"Pardon me," he said, with mock politeness, "but my hands are tied, and the truth is, I am sleepy."

"Count," said Madame, "release him. He will be too well guarded to fear his escaping."

The Colonel performed this service with alacrity. He honestly admired the young fellow who so seldom lost his temper. Besides, he had a sneaking idea that the lad was being unjustly accused.

Maurice got up and stretched himself. He rubbed his wrists, then sat down and waited for the comedy to proceed.

"So you confess," said Madame, "that you sold the consols to the archbishop?"

"I, confess?" Maurice screwed up his lips and began to whistle softly:

"Voici le sabre de mon Pere."

"You deny, then?" Madame was fast losing patience, a grave mistake when one is dealing with a banterer.

Maurice changed the tune:

"J'aime les militaires, Leur uniforme coquet, Leur moustache et leur plumet—"

"Answer!" with a stamp of the foot.

"Je sais ce que je voudrais, Je voudrais etre cantiniere!"...

"Monsieur," said the pretty countess, after a furtive glance at Madame's stormy eyes, "do you deny?"

The whistle ceased. "Madame, to you I shall say that I neither deny nor affirm. The affair is altogether too ridiculous to treat seriously. I have nothing to say." The whistle picked up the thread again.

Doubt began to stir in the eyes of the Englishman. He looked at Madame with a kind of indecision, to find that she was glancing covertly at him. His gaze finally rested on Maurice, who had crossed his legs and was keeping time to the music with his foot. Indeed, these were not the violent protestations of innocence he had looked for. This demeanor was not at all in accord with his expectations. Now that he had possessed Madame's lips (though she might never possess the consols), Maurice did not appear so guilty.

"Carewe," he said, "you have deceived me from the start."

"Ah! c'est un fameux regiment, Le regiment de la Grande Duchesse!"

"You knew that Madame was her Highness," went on the Englishman, "and yet you kept that a secret from me. Can you blame me if I doubt you in other respects?"

"Sonnez donc la trompette, Et battez les tambours!"

And the warbler nodded significantly at Madame, whose frown grew still darker.

"Eh! Monsieur," cried the Colonel, with a protesting hand, "you are out of tune!"

"I should like to know why you returned here," said Madame. "Either you have some plan, or your audacity has no bounds."

The whistle stopped again. "Madame, for once we agree. I, too, should like to know why I returned here."

"Carewe," said Fitzgerald, "if you will give me your word—"

"Do not waste your breath, Monsieur," interrupted Madame.

"Will you give me your word?" persisted Fitzgerald, refusing to see the warning in Madame's eyes.

"I will give you nothing, my lord; nothing. I have said that I will answer neither one way nor the other. The accusation is too absurd. Now, Madame, what is your pleasure in regard to my disposition?"

"You are to be locked up, Monsieur," tartly. "You are too inquisitive to remain at large."

"My confinement will be of short duration," confidently.

"It rests with my pleasure alone."

"Pardon me if I contradict your Highness. I returned here incidentally as a representative of the British ambassador in Vienna; I volunteered this office at the request of my own minister."

A shade of consternation came into the faces of his audience.

"If nothing is heard of me within two days, an investigation will ensue. It is very droll, but I am here to inquire into the whereabouts of one Lord Fitzgerald, who has disappeared. Telegrams to the four ends of the world have brought no news of his present residence. The archbishop instituted the latter inquiries, because it was urgent and necessary he should know."

Fitzgerald became enveloped in gloom.

"And your credentials, Monsieur?" said the duchess. "You have them, I presume?"

"I came as a private gentleman; a telegram to my minister in Vienna will bring indorsement."

"Ah! Then you shall be locked up. I can not accord you recognition; without the essential representations, I see nothing in you but an impertinent meddler. To-morrow evening you shall be conveyed to Brunnstadt, where you will reside for some time, I can assure you. Perhaps on your head will rest the blood of many gallant gentlemen; for within another twenty-four hours I shall declare war against Leopold. This will be the consequence of your disloyalty to your word." And she moved toward the door, the others imitating her. Fitzgerald, more than any one else, desired to get away.

And one by one they vanished. Once the countess turned and threw Maurice a glance which mystified him; it was half curtained with tears. Presently he was alone. His eye grasped every object. There was not a weapon in sight; only the bayonets on the table, and he could scarcely hope to escape by use of one of these. A carafe of water stood on the table. He went to it and half emptied it. His back was toward the door. Suddenly it opened. He wheeled, expecting to see the troopers. His surprise was great. Beauvais was leaning against the door, a half humorous smile on his lips. The tableau lasted several minutes.

"Well," said Beauvais, "you do not seem very glad to see me."

Maurice remained silent, and continued to gaze at his enemy over the tops of the upturned bayonets.

"You are, as I said before, a very young man."

"I killed a puppet of yours last night," replied Maurice, with a peculiar grimness.

"Eh? So it was you? However, Kopf knew too much; he is dead, thanks to your service. After all, it was a stroke of war; the princess, whose little rose you have, was to have been a hostage."

"If she had refused to be a wife," Maurice replied.

Beauvais curled his mustache.

"I know a good deal more than Kopf."

"You do, certainly; but you are at a convenient nearness. What you know will be of no use to you. Let us sit down."

"I prefer to stand. The honor you do me is too delicate."

"O, you may have no fear."

"I have none—so long as my back isn't turned toward you."

Beauvais passed over this. "You are a very good blade; you handle a sword well. That is a compliment, considering that I am held as the first blade in the kingdom. It was only to-day I learned that formerly you had been a cavalryman in America. You have the making of a soldier."

Maurice bowed, his hand resting near one of the bayonets.

"You are also a soldier of fortune-like myself. You made a good stroke with the archbishop. You hoodwinked us all."

Maurice did not reply.

"Very well; we shall not dwell on it. You are discreet."

Maurice saw that Beauvais was speaking in good faith.

"You have something to say; come to it at once, for it is trying to watch you so closely."

"I will give you—" He hesitated and scratched his chin. "I will give you ten thousand crowns as the price of your silence in regard to the South American affair."

A sardonic laugh greeted this proposal. "I did not know that you were so cheap. But it is too late."

"Too late?"

"Doubtless, since by this time the authorities are in possession of the interesting facts."

"I beg to differ from you."

"Do as you please," said Maurice, triumphantly. "I sent an account of your former exploits both to my own government and to the one which you so treacherously betrayed. One or the other will not fail to reach."

"I am perfectly well aware of that," Beauvais smiled. He reached into a pocket, and for a moment Maurice expected to see a pistol come forth. But he was needlessly alarmed. Beauvais extracted two envelopes from the pocket and sailed them through the intervening space. They fell on the table. "Put not your trust in hotel clerks," was the sententious observation. "At least, till you have discovered that no one else employs them. I am well served. The clerk was told to intercept your outgoing post; and there is the evidence. Ten thousand crowns and a safe conduct."

Maurice picked up the letters mechanically. They were his; the stamps were not canceled, but the flaps were slit. He turned them this way and that, bewildered. He was convinced that he could in no way cope with this man of curious industries, this man who seemed to have a key for every lock, and whom nothing escaped. And the wise old Marshal had permitted him to leave the kingdom without let or hindrance. Perhaps the Marshal understood that Beauvais was a sort of powder train, and that the farther he was away from the mine the better for all concerned.

"You are a great rascal," Maurice said finally.

"We will waive that point. The matter at present is, how much will it take to buy your silence for the future?"

"And I am sorry I did not kill you when I had the chance," continued Maurice, as if following a train of thought.

"We never realize how great the opportunity is till it has passed beyond our reach. Well, how much?"

"I am not in need of money."

"To be sure; I forgot. But the archbishop could not have given you a competence for life."

"I choked a few facts out of Kopf," said Maurice. "You will wear no crown—that is, earthly."

"And your heavenly one is near at hand," rejoined Beauvais.

Maurice absently fingered a bayonet.

"You refuse this conciliation on my part?" asked Beauvais.

"Positively."

"Well, then, if anything happens to you, you will have only yourself to blame. I will leave you to digest that suggestion. Your life hangs in the balance. I will give you till to-morrow morning to make up your mind."

"Go to the devil!"

"In that, I shall offer you the precedence." And Beauvais backed out; backed out because Maurice had wrenched loose one of the bayonets.

Maurice flung the bayonet across the room, went back to his chair, and tore his ill-fated letters into ribbons. When this was done he stared moodily at the impromptu candlesticks, and tried to conceive the manner in which Beauvais's threat would materialize.

When the troops returned to their watch, they found the prisoner in a recumbent position, staring at the cracks in the floor, oblivious to all else save his thoughts, which were by no means charitable or humane. They resumed their game of cards. At length Maurice fell into a light slumber. The next time he opened his eyes it was because of a peculiar jar, which continued; a familiar, monotonous jar, such as the tread of feet on the earth creates. Tramp, tramp, tramp; it was a large body of men on the march. Soon this was followed by a lighter and noisier sound—cavalry. Finally, there came the rumbling of heavy metal—artillery. More than an hour passed before these varying sounds grew indistinct.

Maurice was now fully awake. An army had passed the Red Chateau.



CHAPTER XXIII. A GAME OF POKER AND THE STAKES

The next morning Beauvais came for his answer. It was not the answer he had expected.

"So be it," he replied. "Your government had better appoint your successor at once. Good morning."

"You will die suddenly some day," said Maurice.

Beauvais shrugged, and departed.

It was a dreary long day for the prisoner, who saw no one but his jailers. He wondered what time they would start for Brunnstadt. He had never seen Brunnstadt. He hoped the city would interest him. Was he to be disposed of on the road? No, that would scarcely be; there were too many witnesses. In the city prison, then; that was possible. The outlook was not rose-colored. He set to work to challenge each of his jailers, but this did not serve. At five o'clock the bluff old Colonel Mollendorf came in. He dismissed the troopers, who were glad enough to be relieved.

"I'll be responsible for the prisoner from now on," he said. As soon as he and Maurice were alone he propped his chin and contemplated the sullen face of the prisoner. "Well, my son, I am positive that you have been accused somewhat hastily, but that's the way women have, jumping at conclusions before they read the preface. But you must give Madame credit for being honest in the matter, as well as the others. Beauvais is positive that the move of the archbishop is due to your selling out to him. Come, tell me the story. If you wish, I'll promise not to repeat it. Madame is determined to lock you up in any event."

There was something so likable about the old warrior that Maurice relented.

"There was nothing in the gun-barrels," he said. "Some one had entered that room before me. I thought at first that Beauvais had them; but he is the last man in the world to dispose of them to the prelate. But has the archbishop got them? I wish I knew. That's all there is to the story."

"And her Royal Highness's dog?" slyly.

"What! Did you hear about that?" Maurice flushed.

"There is little going on in Bleiberg that we don't hear about. The princess is charming. Poor girl!"

"Madame's victory will have a strange odor. Can she not let the king die in peace?"

"My son, she dares not. If that throne were vacant of a king—Let us not talk politics."

"Madame has no love for me," said Maurice.

"Madame has no love for any one, if that will give you any satisfaction."

"It does. My lord the Englishman came near striking me last night."

"I would not lay that up against him. Madame was the power behind the throne."

"And the impulse behind Madame?" smiling.

"You are the only man who has ever crossed Madame's path; she can not forget it."

"And she has put me in a bad light, as far as Fitzgerald is concerned. A man will believe anything a woman says to him, if he loves her."

"Let us avoid dissertations."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Yourself; you are interesting, entertaining, and instructive," the Colonel answered, laughing. "I never ran across an American who wasn't, and I have met a number. What have you done to Beauvais?"

"It is not exactly what I've done; it is what I know."

"What do you know?"

Maurice repeated the story.

"And you bested him at the rapiers?" in astonishment.

"Is there anything startling about it?" asked Maurice.

"He has no match hereabout." The Colonel looked across the table at the smooth-faced boy—he was scarcely else—and reflected. "Why did you give up the army?"

"The army in America doesn't run to good clothes; the officers have to work harder than the privates, and, save in Washington, their social status is nil. Besides, there is too much fighting going on all the time. Here, an officer is always on dress parade."

"Still, we are always ready. In the past we show up pretty well in history. But to return to Beauvais, it is very embarrassing, very."

"It will be for him, if I live long enough."

"Eh?"

"Beauvais has promised to push me off the board, to use his own words. I am wondering how he will do it."

"Don't let that disturb you; he will do nothing—now. Well, well; it is all a sorry game; and I find that making history has its disadvantages. But I have dandled Madame as a child on my knee, and her wish is law; wherever her fortunes lead, I must follow. She will win; she can not help winning. But I pity that poor devil of a king, who, they say, is now bereft of speech. Ah, had he been a man, I could have gone into this heart and soul."

"He is on his deathbed. And his daughter, God knows what is in store for her. Prince Frederick is dallying with his peasant girl. The day for the wedding has come and gone, unless he turned up to-day, which is not likely."

"Which is not likely indeed," repeated the Colonel sadly. He pulled out his pipe, and smoked for a time. "But let us not judge harshly, says the Book. There may be circumstances over which Prince Frederick has no control. I suppose your sympathies are on the other side of the path. Youth is always quick and generous; it never stops to weigh causes or to reason why. And strange, its judgment is almost always unerring. I am going to share my dinner with you to-night. I'll try to brighten you up a bit."

"Thanks."

"Then after dinner we'll play poker until they come to take you to Brunnstadt."

"What sort of a city is it?"

"You will not see much of it; so I will not take the trouble to tell you that it is slightly inferior to Bleiberg."

Sure enough, when the dark of evening fell, two servants entered with trays and baskets, and proceeded to lay the table. They put new candles in the bayonets.

"Ha!" said the Colonel; "you have forgotten the wine, rascals!"

"Bring a dozen bottles," Maurice suggested, having an idea in mind.

"Eh?"

"Remember, Colonel, I've been a soldier and a journalist in a country where they only wash with water. In the summer we have whisky iced, in the winter we have it hot; an antidote for both heat and cold. Ah, Colonel, if you only might sniff a mint julep!"

"A dozen bottles, then," said the Colonel to the servants, who retired to execute the order.

"How old will it be?" asked Maurice.

"Twice your age, my son. But do not make any miscalculation about my capacity for tokayer."

"Any miscalculation?" Maurice echoed.

"Yes; if you plan to get me drunk. There are no troopers about, and it would be easy enough for you to slip out if I should lose my head."

Maurice's laugh had a false ring to it. The Colonel had made a very shrewd guess.

"Well!" said the Colonel, with a gesture toward the table.

They sat down, and both made an excellent dinner. Maurice demolished a roasted pheasant, stuffed with chestnuts, while the Colonel disintegrated a duck. The wine came, and the servants ranged six bottles on the side of each plate. It was done so gravely that Maurice laughed heartily. The wine was the oldest in Madame's cellar, and Maurice wondered at the Colonel's temerity in selecting it. The bottles were of thick glass, fat-bottomed, and ungainly, and Maurice figured that there was more than a pint in each. It possessed a delicious bouquet. The Colonel emptied three bottles, with no more effect than if the wine had been water. Maurice did not appreciate this feat until he had himself emptied a bottle. It was then he saw that the boot was likely to be on the other foot.

He looked at the Colonel enviously; the old soldier was a gulf. He had miscalculated, indeed. But he was fertile in plans, and a more reasonable one occurred to him. He drank another bottle and began to talk verbosely. Later he grew confidential. He told the Colonel a great many things which—had never happened, things impossible and improbable. The Colonel listened soberly, and nodded now and again. Dinner past, they pushed the remains aside and began to play poker, a game at which the Colonel proved to be no novice, much to Maurice's wonder.

"Why, you know the game as thoroughly as an Arizona corporal."

"I generally spend a month of the winter in Vienna. One of your compatriots taught me the interesting game." The Colonel shuffled the cards. "It is the great American game, so I am told."

"O, they play checkers in the New England states," said Maurice, hiccoughing slightly. "But out west and in all the great cities poker has the way."

"What have you got?" asked the Colonel, answering a call.

"Jacks full."

"Takes the pot;" and this Americanism came so naturally that Maurice roared.

"Poker is a great preliminary study to diplomacy," said the Colonel, as he scrutinized his hand. "You raise it?"

"Yes. One card. Diplomacy? So it is. I played a game with the Chinese ambassador in Washington one night. I was teaching him how to play. I lost all the ready money I had with me. Next day I found out that he was the shrewdest player in the diplomatic circles. Let's make it a jackpot."

"All the same to me."

And the game went on. Presently Maurice threw aside his coat. He was feeling the warmth of the wine, but he opened another bottle.

"Is there any truth," said the Colonel, "about your shooting a man who is found cheating in your country?"

"There is, if you can draw quicker than he." Maurice glanced at his hand and threw it down.

"What did you have?"

"Nothing. I was trying to fill a straight."

"So was I," said the Colonel, sweeping the board. "It's your deal." He unbottoned his coat.

Maurice felt a shiver of delight. Sticking out of the Colonel's belt was the ebony handle of a cavalry revolver, and he made up his mind to get it. There were no troopers around—the Colonel had admitted as much. He began talking rapidly, sometimes incoherently. In a corner of the room he saw the cords which had been around his wrists and ankles the night before.

"Poker," said the Colonel, "depends mostly on what you Americans call bluff. A bluff, as I understand it, is making the others think you have them when you haven't, or you haven't got them when you have. In one case you scare them, in the other you fish. You're getting flushed, my son; you'll have a headache to-night; and in an hour you start."

An hour! There was fever in Maurice's veins, but it was not caused wholly by the heat of the wine. How should he manage it? He must have that revolver.

"Call? What have you got?" asked the Colonel.

"Three kings—no, by George! only a pair. I thought a queen was a king. My head's beginning to get shaky. Colonel, I believe I am getting drunk."

"I am sure of it."

Maurice got up and rolled in an extraordinary fashion, but he was careful not to overdo it. He began to sing. The Colonel got up, too, and he was laughing. Maurice accidentally knocked over some empty bottles; he kicked them about.

"Sh!" cried the Colonel, coming around the table; "you'll stampede the horses."

Maurice staggered toward him, and the Colonel caught him in his arms. Maurice suddenly drew back, and the Colonel found himself looking into the cavernous tube of his own revolver. Not a muscle in his face moved.

"Take off your coat," said Maurice, quietly.

The Colonel complied. "You are not so very drunk just now."

"No. It was one of those bluffs when you make them think you haven't them when you have."

"What next?" asked the Colonel.

"Those cords in the corner."

The Colonel picked them up, sat down and gravely tied one around his ankles. Maurice watched him curiously. The old fellow was rather agreeable, he thought.

"Now," the Colonel inquired calmly, "how are you going to tie my hands? Can you hold the revolver in one hand and tie with the other?"

"Hang me!" exclaimed Maurice, finding himself brought to a halt.

"My son," said the Colonel, "you are clever. In fact, you are one of those fellows who grow to be great. You never miss an opportunity, and more often than not you invent opportunities, which is better still. The truth is, you have proceeded exactly on the lines I thought you would; and thereby you have saved me the trouble of lying or having it out with Madame. I am a victim, not an accomplice; I was forced at the point of a revolver; I had nothing to say. If I had really been careless you would have accomplished the feat just the same. For it was easily accomplished you will admit. 'Tis true I knew you were acting because I expected you to act. All this preamble puzzles you."

Certainly Maurice's countenance expressed nothing less than perplexity. He stepped back a few paces.

"You have," continued the Colonel, "perhaps three-quarters of an hour. You will be able to get out of here. You will have to depend on your resources to cross the frontier."

"Would you just as soon explain to me—"

"It means that a certain young lady, like myself, believes in your innocence."

"The countess?" Maurice cried eagerly, remembering the look of the night before and the tears which were in it.

"I will not mention any names. Suffice it to say that it was due to her pleading that I consented to play poker—and to let you fall into my arms. Come, to work," holding out his hands.

First Maurice clasped the hand and wrung it. "Colonel, I do not want you to get into trouble on my account—"

"Go along with you! If you were really important," in half a banter, "it would be altogether a different matter. As it is, you are more in the way than anything else, only Madame does not see it in that light. Come, at my wrists, and take your handkerchief and tie it over my mouth; make a complete job of it while you're at it."

"But they'll wonder how I tied you—"

"By the book, the boy is quite willing to sit down and play poker with me till the escort comes! Don't trouble yourself about me; Madame has too much need of me to give me more than a slight rating. Hurry and be off, and remember that Beauvais has promised to push you off the board. Take the near path for the woods and strike northeast. If you run into any sentries it will be your own fault."

"And the army?"

"The army? Who the devil has said anything about the army?"

"I heard it go past last night."

"Humph! Keep to the right of the pass. Now, quick, before my conscience speaks above a whisper."

"I should like to see the countess."

"You will—if you reach Bleiberg by to-morrow night."

Maurice needed no further urging, and soon he had the Colonel securely bound and silenced. Next he put on the Colonel's hat and coat, and examined the revolver.

"It was very kind of you to load it, Colonel."

The Colonel blinked his eyes.

"Au revoir!" said Maurice, as he made for the door. "Vergis mein nicht!" and he was gone.

He crept down the stairs, cautiously entered the court, it was deserted. The moon was up and shining. The gate was locked, but he climbed it without mishap. Not a sentry was in sight. He followed the path, and swung off into the forest. He was free. Here he took a breathing spell. When he started onward he held the revolver ready. Woe to the sentry who blundered on him! For he was determined to cross the frontier if there was a breath of life in him. Moreover, he must be in Bleiberg within twenty hours.

He was positive that Madame the duchess intended to steal a march, to declare war only when she was within gunshot of Bleiberg. It lay with him to prevent this move. His cup of wrath was full. From now on he was resolved to wage war against Madame on his own account. She had laughed in his face. He pushed on, examining trees, hollows and ditches. Sometimes he put his hand to his ear and listened. There was no sound in the great lonely forest, save for the low murmur of the wind through the sprawling boughs. Shadows danced on the forest floor. Once he turned and shook his clenched fist toward the spot which marked the location of the Red Chateau. He thanked Providence that he was never to see it again. What an adventure to tell at the clubs when he once more regained his Vienna! Would he regain it?

Why did Madame keep Fitzgerald to her strings? He concluded not to bother himself with problems abstract; the main object was to cross the Thalians by a path of his own choosing. When he had covered what he thought to be a quarter of a mile, he mounted a lookout. The highway was about three hundred yards to the left. That was where it should be. He saw no sentries, so he slid down from the tree and resumed his journey. The chestnuts, oaks, and firs were growing thicker and denser. A dead branch cracked with a loud report beneath his feet. With his heart almost in his throat, he lay down and listened. A minute passed; he listened in vain for an answering noise. He got up and went on.

Presently he came upon a cluster of trees which was capable of affording a hiding place for three or four men. He stood still and surveyed it. The moon cast moving shadows on either side of it, but these had no human shape. He laughed silently at his fear, and as he was about to pass the cluster a man stepped out from behind it, his eyes gleaming and his hand extended. He was rather a handsome fellow, but pale and emaciated. He wore a trooper's uniform, and Maurice, swearing softly, concluded that his dash for liberty had come to naught. He, too, held a revolver in his hand, but he dared not raise it. There was a certain expression on the trooper's face which precluded any arguing.

"If you move," the trooper said, in a mild voice; "if you utter a sound, I'll blow off the top of your cursed head!"



CHAPTER XXIV. THE PRISONER OF THE RED CHATEAU

There the two stood, mottled in the moonshine and shadow, with wild eyes and nostrils distended, the one triumphant, the other raging and impotent. Maurice was growing weary of fortune's discourtesies. He gazed alternately from his own revolver, lying at his feet, to the one in the hand of this unexpected visitant. Only two miles between him and freedom, yet he must turn back. The Colonel had reckoned without Madame, and therefore without reason. This man had probably got around in front of him when he climbed the tree. He turned sullenly and started to walk away, expecting to be followed.

"Halt! Where the devil are you going?"

"Why, back to your cursed chateau!" Maurice answered surlily.

The strange trooper laughed discordantly. "Back to the chateau? I think not. Now, then, right about face—march! Aye, toward the frontier; and if I have to go on alone, so much the worse for you. I've knocked in one man's head; if necessary, I'll blow off the top of yours. You know the way back to Bleiberg, I don't; that is why I want your company. Now march."

But Maurice did not march; he was filled with curiosity. "Are you a trooper in Madame the duchess's household?" he asked.

"No, curse you!"

"Who are you, then?"

"Come, come; this will not pass. No tricks; you have been following me these twenty minutes."

"The deuce I have!" exclaimed Maurice, bewildered. "To Bleiberg, is it?"

"And without loss of time. When we cross the Thalians I shall be perfectly willing to parley with you."

"To Bleiberg, then," said Maurice. "Since that is my destination, the devil I care how I get there."

"Do you mean to tell me that you are going to Bleiberg?" surprise mingling with his impatience.

"No place else."

"Are you a spy?" menacingly.

"No more than you."

"But that uniform!"

"I fancy yours looks a good deal like it," Maurice replied testily.

"I confess I never saw you before, and your tongue has a foreign twist," with growing doubt.

"I am sure I never saw you before, nor want to see you again."

"What are you doing in that uniform?"

"You have the advantage of me; suppose you begin the introduction?"

"Indeed I have the advantage of you, and propose to maintain it. Who are you and what are you doing here? Answer!"

There was something in the young man's aspect which convinced Maurice that it would be folly to trifle. Besides, he gave to his words an air which distinguishes the man who commands from the man who serves. Maurice briefly acquainted the young man with his name and position.

"And you?" he asked.

"I?" The young man laughed again. It was an unpleasant laugh. "Never mind who I am. Let us go, we are losing time. What is the date?" suddenly.

"The twentieth of September," answered Maurice.

"My God, a day too late!" The young man had an attack of vertigo, and was obliged to lean against a tree for support. "Are you telling me the truth about yourself?"

"I am. I myself was attempting to dispense with the questionable hospitality of the Red Chateau—good Lord!" striking his forehead.

"What's the matter?"

"Are you the mysterious prisoner of the chateau, the man they have been keeping at the end of the east corridor on the third floor?"

"Yes. And woe to the woman who kept me there! How came you there?"

Maurice, confident that something extraordinary was taking place, related in synopsis his adventures.

"And this cursed Englishman?"

"Will drain a bitter cup. Madame is playing with him."

"And the king; is he dead?"

"He is dying." Maurice's wonder grew. What part had this strange young man in this comedy, which was rapidly developing into a tragedy?

"And her Highness—her Royal Highness?" eagerly clutching Maurice by the arm; "and she?"

"She does not murmur, though both her pride and her heart are sore. She has scarcely a dozen friends. Her paralytic father is the theme of ribald jest; and now they laugh at her because the one man who perhaps could have saved the throne has deserted her like a coward. Hang him, I say!"

"What do they say?" The tones were hollow.

"They say he is enamoured of a peasant girl, and dallies with her, forgetting his sacred vows, his promised aid, and perhaps even this, his wedding day."

"God help him!" was the startling and despairing cry.... He was again seized with the vertigo, and swayed against the tree. For a moment he forgot Maurice, covered his face with his unengaged hand, and sobbed.

Maurice was helpless; he could offer no consolation. This grief he could not understand. He stooped and picked up his revolver and waited.

"I am weak," said the other man, dashing his hand from his eyes; "I am weak and half starved. It would be better for all concerned if I blew out my brains. The twentieth, the twentieth!" he repeated, dully. "Curse her!" he burst forth; "as there's a God above us, I'll have revenge. Aye, I'll return to the chateau, Madame, that I will, but at the head of ten thousand men!... The twentieth! She will never forgive me; she will think I, too, deserted her!" He broke down again.

"An army!" cried Maurice.

"Aye, and ten thousand men! Come," taking Maurice by the arm; "come, they may be seeking us. To the frontier. Every hour is precious. To a telegraph office! We shall see if I dally with peasant girls, if I forsake the woman I love!"

"You?" Maurice retreated a step. The silver moonshine became tinged with red.

"I am Prince Frederick, and I love her Highness. I would sacrifice a thousand kingdoms to spare her a moment's sorrow. I have always loved her."

"What a woman!" Maurice murmured, as the scheme of Madame's flashed through his mind. "What a woman! And she had the audacity to kidnap you, too!"

"And by the most dishonorable device. I and my suite of gentlemen were coming to Bleiberg to make the final arrangements. At Ehrenstein I received a telegram which requested me to visit till the following train a baron who was formerly a comrade of my father. The telegram advised me of his sudden illness, and that he had something important to disclose to me. I bade my gentlemen, save one, proceed to Bleiberg. My aide and I entered the carriage which was to convey us to the castle. We never reached it. On the road we fell into an ambush, a contrivance of Madame's. I was brought to the chateau. Whatever happened to Hofer, my aide, I do not know. Doubtless he is dead. But Madame shall pay, both in pride and wealth. I will lay waste this duchy of hers, though in the end the emperor crush me. Let us be off."

They stumbled on through the forest. So confused was Maurice that he forgot his usual caution. The supreme confidence of this woman and the flawlessness of her schemes dazed him. So far she had stopped at nothing; where would she end? A Napoleon in petticoats, she was about to appall the confederation. She had suppressed a prince who was heir to a kingdom triple in power and size to the kingdom which she coveted. Madame the duchess was relying on some greater power, else her plans were madness.

As for the prince, he had but one thought: to reach Bleiberg. The confinement, together with mental suffering, anxiety and forced inaction, began to tell on him. Twice he tripped and fell, and Maurice had to return to assist him to his feet. However could they cross the mountains, a feat which needed both courage and extreme physical endurance?

"I am so weak," said the prince, "so pitiably weak! I thought to frighten the woman by starving myself, poor fool that I was!"

And they went on again. Maurice was beginning to feel the effect of his wine-bibbing; he had a splitting headache.

"Silence!" he suddenly whispered, sinking and dragging the prince with him.

A hundred yards in advance of them stood a sentinel, his body bent forward and a hand to his ear. Presently he, too, lay down. Five minutes passed. The sentinel rose, and convinced that his ears had tricked him, resumed his lonely patrol. He disappeared toward the west, while the fugitives made off in an easterly direction. Maurice was a soldier again. Every two or three hundred yards he knelt and pressed his ear to the cold, damp earth and waited for a familiar jar. The prince watched these movements with interest.

"You have been a soldier?" he asked.

"Yes. Perhaps we had better strike out for the mountains. The sentry line can not extend as far as this."

But now they could see the drab peaks of the mountains which loomed between the partly dismantled trees. Beyond lay the kingdom. Would they ever reach it? There was only one pass; this they dared not make. Yet if they attempted to cross the mountains in a deserted place, they might very easily get lost; for in some locations it was fully six miles across the range, and this, with the ups and downs and windings in and out, might lengthen into twenty miles. They struck out toward the mountains, and after half an hour they came upon an unforeseen obstacle. They sat down in despair. This obstacle was the river, not very, wide, but deep, turbulent and impassable.

"We shall have to risk the pass," said Maurice, gloomily; "though heaven knows how we are to get through it. We have ten shots between us."

They followed the river. The roar of it deadened all other sounds. For a mile they plodded on, silent, watchful and meditative. The prince thought of his love; Maurice tried to forget his. For him the romance had come to an end, its logical end; and it was now only a question of getting back to the world to which he belonged and remaining there. He recalled a line he had read somewhere: a deep love, gashes into the soul as a scar is hewn upon the body and remains there during the whole life...

"Look!" cried the prince. He pointed toward the west.

Maurice came out of his dream and looked. Some distance west of the pass, perhaps half a mile from where they stood, Maurice saw the twinkle of a hundred campfires. It was Madame's army in bivouac.

"What does this mean?" asked the prince.

"It means that the duchess is on the eve of striking a blow for her crown," answered Maurice. "And how are we to make the pass, which is probably filled with soldiers? If only we could find a boat! Ah! what would your Highness call this?" He pointed to a thread-like line of bare earth which wended riverward.

"A sheep or cattle path," said the prince, after a close inspection.

"Then the river is perhaps fordable here!" exclaimed Maurice jubilantly. "At any rate, we'll try it; if it gets too deep, we'll come back."

He walked to the water's edge, studied the black whirling mass, shrugged and stepped in. The prince came after him, unhesitatingly. Both shivered. The water was intensely cold. But the bed was shallow, and the river never mounted above the waist. However, in midstream it rushed strongly and wildly along, and all but carried them off their feet. They arrived in safety at the opposite shore, weak and cold in body, but warm in spirit. They lay on the grass for several moments, breathing heavily. They might now gain the pass by clambering up the mountain and picking their way down from the other side. It was not possible that Madame's troopers had entered into the kingdom.

"I am giving out," the prince confessed reluctantly. "Let us make as much headway as we can while I last."

They stood up. Now the moon fell upon them both; and they viewed each other with no little curiosity. What the prince saw pleased him, for he possessed a good eye. What Maurice saw was a frank, manly countenance, youthful, almost boyish. The prince did not look to be more than three and twenty, if that; but there was a man's determination in his jaw. This jaw pleased Maurice, for it confided to him that Madame had now something that would cause her worry.

"I put myself in your care," said the prince, offering his hand. "I am not equal to much. A man can not see his wedding day come and go without him, helpless to prevent it, and not have the desire to sit down and weep and curse. You will see nothing but the unfavorable side of me for the next dozen hours."

"I'm not altogether amiable myself," replied Maurice with a short laugh. "Let us get out of the moonlight," he added; "we are somewhat conspicuous, and besides, we should keep moving; this cold is paralyzing. Is your Highness equal to the climbing?"

"Equal or not, lead the way. If I fall I'll call you."

And the weary march began again; over boulders, through tangles of tough shrubbery, up steep inclines, around precipices, sometimes enveloped in mists, yet still they kept on. Often the prince fell over ragged stones, but he picked himself up without assistance; though he swore some, Maurice thought none the less of him for that bit of human weakness. The cold was numbing, and neither felt the cuts and bruises.

After two hours of this fatiguing labor they arrived upon a small plateau, about two thousand feet above the valley. The scene was solemn and imposing. The world seemed lying at their feet. The chateau, half hidden in the mist, sparkled like an opal. Maurice scowled at it. To the prince the vision was as reviving as a glass of wine. He threatened it with his fist, and plunged on with renewed vigor. There are few sensations so stimulating as the thought of a complete revenge. The angle of vision presently changed, and the historic pile vanished. Maurice never saw the Red Chateau again.

Little more in the way of mishap befell them; and when the moon had wheeled half way down from the zenith, the kingdom lay below them. A descent of an hour's duration brought them into the pass. Maurice calculated that nearly five hours had passed since he left the chateau; for the blue was fading in the east. The phantom vitality of the prince now forsook him; his legs refused their offices, and he sank upon a boulder, his head in his hands. Maurice was not much better; but the prince had given him the burden of responsibility, and he was determined to hold up under it.

"If your Highness will remain here," he said, "I will fetch assistance, for the barrack can not be far off."

The prince nodded and Maurice tramped away. But the miniature barrack and the quaint stone customs house both were wrapt in gloom and darkness. Maurice investigated. Both buildings were deserted; there was no sign of life about. He broke a window, and entered the customs office. Remembering that Colonel Mollendorf smoked, he searched the inner pocket of his coat. He drew forth a box of wax matches, struck one and looked about. A struggle had taken place. Evidences were strewn on the floor. The telegraph operator's table had been smashed into bits, the instrument twisted out of shape, the jars broken and the wires cut. Like indications of a disturbance were also found in the barrack.

Maurice began to comprehend. Madame's troopers had crossed the frontier, but they had returned again, taking with them the handful of troopers belonging to the king. It was plain that the object of this skirmish had been to destroy communications between Bleiberg and the frontier. Madame desired to effect a complete surprise, to swoop down on the capital before it could bring a large force into the field.

There is an unwritten law that when one country intends to wage war against its neighbor a formal declaration shall be made. But again Madame had forsaken the beaten paths. More than three weeks had passed since the duchy's representative in Bleiberg had been discredited and given his passports. At once the duchess had retaliated by discrediting the king's representative in Brunnstadt. Ordinarily this would have been understood as a mutual declaration of war. Instead, both governments ignored each other, one suspiciously, the other intentionally. All of which is to say, the gage of war had been flung, but neither had stooped to pick it up.

Perhaps Madame expected by this sudden aggressiveness to win her fight with as little loss of blood as possible, which in justice to her was to her credit. Again, a declaration of war openly made might have moved the confederation to veto it by coercion. To win without loss of life would leave the confederation powerless to act. Therefore it will be seen that Madame was not only a daring woman, but a general of no mean ability.

This post was an isolated one; between it and Bleiberg there was not even a village. The main pass from the kingdom into the duchy was about thirty miles east. Here was a small but lively city named Coberg, a railway center, garrisoned by one thousand troops. At this pass Madame's contemplated stroke of war would have been impossible. The railway ran directly from Coberg to Brunnstadt, fifty miles south of the frontier. A branch of the railway ran from Brunnstadt to a small town seven miles south of the Red Chateau, which accounts for the ease with which Madame's troops had reached the isolated pass. It was now likely that Madame would arrive before Bleiberg ere her enemies dreamed of the stroke. Maurice could see how well the traitorous administration had played into Madame's hands. Here was the one weak spot, and they had allowed it to remain thus weak.

"The kingdom is lost," thought Maurice. "His Highness and I may as well return to the chateau, for all the good our escape will do us. Hang them all!"

He began to forage, and discovered a bottle full of peach brandy. He drank half the contents, reserving the remainder for the prince. As he lowered the bottle there came a sound which caused him almost to lose hold of the vigorous tonic. The sound he heard was the shrill whinney of a horse. He pocketed the bottle and dashed out to the stables. To his joy several horses stamped restlessly in the stalls. The attacking party had without doubt come on foot. He led out two, saddled and bridled them and returned to the prince, who had fallen asleep. Maurice roused him.

"To Bleiberg, your Highness," he cried, at the same time offering the bottle, which the prince did not hesitate to empty.

"Ha!" staggering to his feet. "Where are the men?"

Maurice explained the cause of their absence. The prince swore, and climbed with difficulty into the saddle.

"Thank God," he said, as they galloped away, "we shall be there first."

"Adieu, Madame!" Maurice cried, airily. He was free.

"To our next meeting, duchess!" The prince, too, was free, but he thirsted for a full revenge.

They had been on the way but a short time when Maurice lifted his arm.

"Look!"

The prince raised his head. It was dawn, yellow and cold and pure.

They fell into silence; sometimes Maurice caught himself counting the beat of the hoofs and the variation of sounds, as when they struck sand or slate, or crossed small wooden bridges. Here and there he saw peasants going into the fields to begin the long, long day of toil. The saddle on which he sat had been the property of a short man, for the stirrups were too high, and the prince's were too low. But neither desired to waste time to adjust them. And so they rode with dangling legs and bodies sunken in the saddles; mute, as if by agreement.

They had gone perhaps ten miles when they perceived a horse flying toward them, half a mile away. The rider was not yet visible. They felt no alarm, but instinctively they drew together. Nearer and nearer came the lonely horseman, and as the distance lessened into some hundred yards they discerned the flutter of a gown.

"A woman!" exclaimed Maurice. "And alone this time of morning!"

"Eh?" cried the prince; "and heading for the duchy? Let us wait."

They drew up to the side of the highway. The woman came fearlessly on, her animal's head down and his tail flaring out behind. On, on; abreast of them; as she flew past there was a vision of a pale, determined face, a blond head bared to the chill wind. She heeded not their challenge; it was a question whether or not she heard it. They stood watching her until she and her horse dwindled into a mere moving speck, finally to become lost altogether in a crook of the road.

"I should like to know what that means," said Maurice.

"It is very strange," the prince said, musingly. "I have seen that woman before. She is one of the dancers at the opera."

"Mayhap she has a lover on the other side."

"Mayhap. Let us be on. There's the sun, and we are a good thirteen miles away!" and the prince slapped the neck of his horse, which bounded forward.

This tiring pace they maintained until they mounted the hill from which they could see the glittering spires of the city, and the Werter See as it flashed back the sunlight.

"Bleiberg!" Maurice waved his hand.

"Thanks to you, that I look on it."

It was ten o'clock when they passed under the city gates.

"Monsieur, will you go with me to the palace?" asked the prince.

"If your Highness will excuse me," said Maurice; "no, I should be in the way; and besides I am dead for want of sleep."

"I shall never sleep," grumbled the prince, "till I have humbled that woman. And you? Have you no rankle in your heart? Have you no desire to witness that woman's humiliation?"

"Your Highness, I belong to a foreign country."

"No matter; be my aide. Come; I offer you a complete revenge for the treatment you have received at Madame's hands. Your government shall never know."

Maurice studied the mane of his horse. Suddenly he made a gesture. This gesture consigned to the four winds his diplomatic career. "I accept," he said. "You will find me at the Continental. I confess that I have no love for this woman. She has robbed me of no little conceit."

"To the palace, then; to the palace! And this hour to-morrow we, you and I, will drink to her Royal Highness at the Red Chateau. To the palace!"

Up the Strasse they raced, through the lower town to the upper, and down the broad asphalt to the palace gates. The prince rushed his horse to the very bars and shook them in his wild impatience.

"Ho! open, open!" he called.

Several cuirassiers lounged about. At the sight of these two hatless, bedraggled men storming the gates, they ran forward with drawn swords and angry cries. Lieutenant Scharfenstein was among them. At second glance he recognized Maurice, who hailed him.

"Open, Lieutenant," he cried; "it is his Highness, Prince Frederick!"

The bars came down, the gates swung in.

"Go and sleep," said the prince to Maurice; "I will send an orderly for you when the time comes." And with this he dashed up the driveway to the main entrance of the palace, leaped from his horse and disappeared.

Maurice wheeled and drove leisurely to the Continental, leaving the amazed cuirassiers gaping after him. He experienced that exuberance of spirits which always comes with a delightful day dream. He forgot his weariness, his bruises. To mingle directly in the affairs of kings and princes, to be a factor among factors who surround and uphold thrones, seemed so at variance with his republican learning that he was not sure that all this was not one long dream—Fitzgerald and his consols, the meeting with the princess, the adventures at Madame's chateau, the duel with Beauvais, the last night's flight with the prince across the mountains! Yes; he had fallen asleep somewhere and had been whisked away into a kind of fairyland. Every one was in trouble just now, as they always are in certain chapters of fairy tales, but all would end happily, and then—he would wake.

Meanwhile the prince entered the palace and was proceeding up the grand corridor, when a bared sword stayed his progress.

"Monsieur," said von Mitter, "you have lost your way. You can not enter here."

"I?" a haughty, threatening expression on his pale face. "Are you sure?"

Von Mitter fell back against the wall and all but lost hold of his saber. "Your Highness?" he gasped, overcome.

"Even so!" said the prince. "The archbishop! the Marshal! Lead me to them at once!"

Von Mitter was too much the soldier not to master his surprise at once. He saluted, clicked his heels and limped toward the throne room. He stopped at the threshold, saluted again, and, in a voice full of quavers, announced:

"His Highness Prince Frederick of Carnavia."

He stepped aside, and the prince pushed past him into the throne room. At this dramatic entrance there rose from the archbishop, the Marshal, the princess, the Carnavian ambassador, from all the court dignitaries, a cry of wonder and astonishment.

"His Highness!"

"Aye!" cried the prince, brokenly, for his joy at seeing the princess nigh overcame him. "I have been a prisoner of Madame's, who at this moment is marching on Bleiberg with an army four thousand strong!" And stumblingly he related his misadventures.

The Marshal did not wait until he had done, nor did the new Colonel of the cuirassiers; both rushed from the room. The archbishop frowned; while the princess and the court stared at the prince with varying emotions. Before the final word had passed his lips, he approached her Highness, fell on his knee and raised her hand to his lips. He noticed not how cold it was.

"Thank God, Mademoiselle," he said, "that once more I look into your eyes. And if one wedding day is gone—well, there is yet time for another!" He, rose, and proudly before them all he drew her toward him and kissed her cheek. It was his right; she was, the light of all his dreams, at once his bride-to-be and lady-love. But in his joy and eagerness he did not see how pale she grew at the touch of his lips, nor how the lids of her eyes trembled and fell.

Next the prince recounted Maurice's adventures, how he became connected with those at the chateau, even Fitzgerald's fall from grace. The indignation and surprise which was accorded this recital was unbounded.

The brown eyes of the princess filled. In a moment she had traversed the space of ten years to a rare September noon, when a gray-haired old man had kissed her hand and praised her speech. A young dog stood beside her, ready for a romp in the park. Across the path sat her father, who was smiling, and who would never smile again. How many times had her girlish fancy pictured the son of that old man! How many times had she dreamed of him—aye, prayed for him! The room grew dark, and she pressed her hand over her heart. To her the future was empty indeed. There was nothing left but the vague perfume of the past, the faint incense of futile, childish dreams. To stand on the very threshold of life, and yet to see no joy beyond! She struggled against the sob which rose, and conquered it.

"To arms, Messieurs, to arms!" cried the prince, feverishly. "To arms!"

The archbishop stepped forward and took the prince's hand in his own.

"God wills all things," he said, sadly, "and perhaps he has willed that your Highness should come too late!" And that strange, habitual smile was gone—forever. No one could fathom the true significance of this peculiar speech.

"But 'aux armes' was taken up, and spread throughout the city.



CHAPTER XXV. THE FORTUNES OF WAR

War! The whole city was in tumult. The guests were leaving the hotels, the timid were preparing to fly, and shopkeepers were putting up their blinds and hiding their valuables; the parks and cafes were deserted. The railway booking office was crowded, and a babel of tongues quarreled for precedence. The siege of Paris was but yesterday's news, and tourists did not propose to be walled in from the outer world. Some looked upon the scene as a comic opera; others saw the tragedy of men snarling at one another's throats.

Two hundred gendarmes patrolled the streets; for in war time the dregs of a city float to the surface. Above the foreign legations flags rose, offering protection to all those who possessed the right to claim it. Less than four thousand troops had marched from the city that day, but these were the flower of the army, consisting of two thousand foot, six cannon and twelve hundred horse. Europe has always depended largely on the cavalry, which in the past has been a most formidable engine in warfare.

With gay plumes and banners, glittering helmets and flashing cuirasses, they had gone forth to meet Madame and drive her back across the range. They had made a brave picture, especially the royal cuirassiers, who numbered three hundred strong, and who were to fight not only for glory, but for bread. Fifty of them had been left behind to guard the palaces.

In the royal bedchamber the king lay, all unconscious of the fate impending. The brain had ceased to live; only a feeble pulse stirred irregularly. The state physician shook his head, and, from time to time, laid his fingers on the unfeeling wrist. To him it was a matter of a few hours.

But to the girl, whose face lay hidden in the counterpane, close to one of those senseless hands, to her it was a matter of a breaking heart, of eyes which could be no longer urged to tears, the wells having dried up. Dear God, she thought, how cruel it was! Her tried and trusted friend, the one playmate of her childhood, was silently slipping out of her life forever. Ah, what to her were crowns and kingdoms, aye, and even war? Her father dead, what mattered it who reigned? How she prayed that he might live! They would go away together, and live in peace and quiet, undisturbed by the storms of intrigue.... It was not to be; he was dying. She would be the wife of no man; her father, hovering in spirit above her, would read her heart and understand. Dead, he would ask no sacrifice of her. Henceforth only God would be her king, and she would worship him in some sacred convent.

The old valet, who had served his master from boyhood, stood in the anteroom and fumbled his lips, his faded eyes red with weeping. He was losing the only friend he had. Elsewhere the servants wandered about restlessly, waiting for news from the front, to learn if they, too, were to join in the mad flight from the city. Few servants love masters in adversity. Self-interest is the keynote to their existences.

In the east wing three men were holding a whispered consultation. The faces of two were pale and deep-lined; the face of the third expressed a mixture of condolence and triumph. These three gentlemen were the archbishop, the chancellor and the Austrian ambassador. History has not taken into account what passed between these three men, but subsequent events proved that it signified disaster to one who dreamed of conquest and of power.

Said the ambassador, rising: "After what has been said, his Imperial Majesty will, I can speak authoritatively, further discredit Walmoden; for I have this day received information from a reliable source which precludes any rehabilitation of that prince. My deepest sympathies are with her Highness; his Majesty highly honored her unfortunate father. Permit me to bid you good day, for you know that the matter under my hand needs my immediate attention."

When he had gone the prelate said: "My friend, our services to the kingdom are nearly over."

"We are lost!" replied the chancellor. "The king is happy, indeed."

"I find," said the prelate, "that we have been lost for ten years. Had this Englishman proved true, it would not have mattered; had Prince Frederick arrived in time, still it would not have mattered. But above all, I was determined that Madame the duchess should not triumph. The end was written ten years ago. How invincible is fate! How incontestible its decrees!"

In the lower town the students were preparing a riot, which was to take place that night. Old Stuler's was thronged. Stuler himself looked on indifferently, even listlessly. He had heard of Kopf's death.

It was half after five of the afternoon. Six miles beyond the Althofen bridge, in all thirteen miles from Bleiberg, a long, low cloud of dust hung over the king's highway. This cloud of dust was caused by the hurried, rhythmic pad-pad of human feet, the striking of hoofs and the wheels of cannon. It marked the progress of an army. To the great surprise of the Marshal, the prince and the staff, they had pushed thus far during the afternoon without seeing a sign of the enemy. Was Madame asleep? Was she so confident her projects were unknown that she had chosen night as the time of her attack? Night, indeed, when the strength of her forces would be a matter of conjecture to the assaulted, who at the suddenness of her approach would succumb to panic! The prince was jubilant and hopeful. He had no doubt that they would arrive at the pass just as Madame was issuing forth. This meant an easy victory, for once the guns covered the narrow pass, though Madame's army were ten times as strong, its defeat was certain. A small force might hold it in check for hours.

A squadron of cuirassiers had been sent forward to reconnoiter, and as yet none had returned with alarms. The road had many windings, and was billowed frequently with hills, and ran through small forests. Only the vast blue bulk of the mountains remained ever in view.

"We shall drink at the Red Chateau to-night," said the prince, gaily, to Maurice.

"That we shall," replied Maurice; "and the best in the cellars."

Only the Marshal said nothing; he knew what war was. In his youth he had served in Transylvania, and he was not minded to laugh and jest. Then, too, there was injustice on both sides. Poor devil! as his thoughts recurred to the king. Touched for the moment by the wings of ambition, which is at best a white vulture, he had usurped another's throne, and to this end! But he was less answerable than the archbishop, who had urged him.

Occasionally he glanced back at the native troops, the foot, the horse, the artillery, and scowled. From these his glance wandered to the cold, impassive face of General Kronau, who rode at his side, and he rubbed his nose. Kronau had been a favorite of Albrecht's... How would he act? In truth, the Marshal's thoughts were not altogether pleasant. Some of these men surrounding him, exchanging persiflage, might never witness another sunset. For, while the world would look upon this encounter as one looks upon a comedy, for some it would serve as tragedy. Often he lent his ear to the gay banter of the young American, and watched the careless smile on his face. What was he doing here? Why was he risking his life for no cause whatever, an alien, in natural sympathy neither with the kingdom nor with the duchy? A sad, grim smile parted his lips.

"O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!" he murmured.

Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration—the soldier's exhilaration—quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed. Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.

He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before. Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright, resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation, no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.

The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to Madame's chateau in the guise of a conqueror was a most engaging thought. She had humbled his self-love, now to humble hers! He no longer bothered himself about Beauvais, whose case he had placed in the hands of the Austrian ambassador.

Gay and debonair he rode that late September afternoon. No man around him had so clear an eye nor so constant a vivacity. Since he had nothing but his life to lose, he had no fear. Let the theater be full of light while the play lasted, and let the curtain fall to a round of huzzas! For a few short hours ago he had kissed a woman's hand and had looked into her sad brown eyes. "Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my prayers go with you." Was not that an amulet? His diplomatic career! He fell to whistling.

"Ah! que j'aime les militaires!"

More than once the prince felt the sting of envy in his heart at the sight of this embodiment of supreme nonchalance. It spoke of a healthy salt in the veins, a salt such as kings themselves can not always boast of. A foreigner, a republican? No matter; a gallant man.

"Monsieur," he said impulsively, "you shall always possess my friendship, once we are well out of this."

"Thanks, your Highness," replied Maurice, and laughing; "the after-thought is timely!"

The sun lay close to the western rim of hills; an opal sky encompassed the earth; the air was balmy.

"The French call this St. Martin's summer," said Maurice. "In my country we call it Indian summer—ah!" lifting in his stirrups.

The army was approaching a hill, when suddenly a whirlwind of dust rolled over the summit, and immediately a reconnoitering patrol came dashing into view, waving their sabers aloft.... The enemy was less than a mile away, and advancing rapidly.

To anticipate. Madame the duchess had indeed contemplated striking the blow at night. That morning, like the brave Amazon she was, she had pitched her tent in the midst of her army, to marshal and direct its forces. It was her intention to be among the first to enter Bleiberg; for she was a soldier's daughter, and could master the inherent fears of her sex.

That same morning a woman entered the lines and demanded an audience. What passed between her and Madame the duchess others never knew. She had also been apprised of the prisoners' escape, but, confident that they would not be able to make a crossing, she disdained pursuit. The prince had missed his wedding day; he was no longer of use to her. As to the American, he would become lost, and that would be the end of him.

But the Englishman.... He was conscience eternally barking at her heels. The memory of that kiss still rankled in her mind, and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths at a sign from her. There was something in her heart which she had not yet analyzed. First of all, her crown; as to her heart, there was plenty of time in which to study that peculiar and unstable organ. The possibility of the prince's arriving in Bleiberg before her in no way disturbed her. Whenever her attack was made, failure would not attend it. She broke camp at two o'clock and took the road leisurely toward Bleiberg.

Thus, the two armies faced each other comparatively in the open. A battle hung in the air.

The king's forces came to an abrupt halt. Orderlies dashed to and fro. The artillery came rumbling and creaking to the front, wheeled, the guns unlimbered and ranged so as to enfilade the road. The infantry deployed to right and left while the cavalry swung into position on the flanks. All this was accomplished with the equanimity of dress parade. Maurice could not control his admiration. Madame, he thought, might win her crown, but at a pretty cost.

The Marshal and the staff posted themselves on the right breast of the hill, from whence, by the aid of binoculars, they could see the enemy. From time to time General Kronau nervously smoothed his beard, formed his lips into words, but did not utter them, and glanced slyly from the corner of his eye at the Marshal, who was intent on the enemy's approach. Maurice was trying with naked eye to pierce the forest and the rolling ground beyond, and waiting for the roar of the guns.

Orders had been issued for the gunners to get the range and commence firing; but as the gunners seemed over long in getting down to work, Maurice gazed around impatiently. The blood rushed into his heart. For this is what he saw: the infantry leaning indolently on their guns, their officers snipping the grasses with their swords; the cuirassiers hidden in the bulk of the native cavalry; artillerymen seated carelessly on the caissons, and the gunners smoking and leaning against the guns. All action was gone, as if by magic; nothing but a strange tableau remained! Moreover, a troop of native cavalry, which, for no apparent reason, had not joined the main body, had closed in on the general staff. Appalled by a sudden thought, Maurice touched the prince, who lowered his glasses and turned his head. Bewilderment widened his eyes, and the flush on his cheeks died away. He, too, saw.

"Devil's name!" the Marshal burst forth, "why don't the blockheads shoot? The enemy—" He stopped, his chin fell, for, as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on his face changed into a sickly purple, and the glasses slipped from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.

"Marshal," began General Kronau, "I respect your age and valiant services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you are prisoners."

For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced to his sides.

"Kronau... you?" he roared. "Betrayed! You despicable coward and traitor! You—" But speech forsook him, and he would have fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.

"Traitor?" echoed Kronau, coolly. "To what and to whom? I am serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept your oath?"

But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.

"I admit," went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, "that the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one."

The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who permitted them to strike him.

"God's witness," the prince cried furiously, "but your victory shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight hours."

"Perhaps," said Kronau, shrugging.

"It is already on the way."

"Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me, will never be given;" and he urged his horse down the slope.

The army of the duchess had now gained the open. The advance was composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on either side, and with great dash and splendor.

A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.

This was the incident upon which Madame the duchess relied.

With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene. The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at the cuirassiers; they at least had come to sell their lives honestly for their bread. Presently the two armies came together; all was confusion and cheers. Kronau approached the leader of the cavalry.... Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned toward the prince.

"Your Highness," he whispered, "I am going to make a dash for the road."

"Yes, yes!" replied the prince, intuitively. "My God, yes! Warn her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and God be with you, my friend! We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks as if he were dying."

The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuirassiers, had pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups. Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs. Quick as he was, two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.

While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau, drew his revolver.

"There goes a man," he cried, "who must not escape. He is so valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!" And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill and down the other side.

Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone hereafter; he knew too much.

The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising dust.



CHAPTER XXVI. A PAGE FROM TASSO

For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.