As the darkness of the mountain road deepened, swift vision came to him. The possible danger of attack ... Out of the gloom of shadowy rocks, he had a vision of men who interposed, barring his way, a man in a cap asking the time. Vienna—the night that he had left Marishka, when the three men had attacked him! The face of the man in the cap, and the stranger of Bartfeld—they were the same!

He could have shouted aloud in the joy of the revelation. The man who had attacked him in the streets of Vienna—this cigarette-smoking stranger in Bartfeld. A German? Who else? Perhaps the man who had shot at him—in Vienna—at the Konopisht railroad station, a minion of Goritz. Then Goritz could not be far away....

Renwick strode down the mountain side toward the distant lights of the valley, like a man in seven-league boots, searching eagerly meanwhile the gloomy peaks above him to his left for signs of Schloss Szolnok. He could distinguish nothing amid the deep shadows of the mountain side. But the lights below beckoned warmly, and finding a road to his right at the foot of the declivity, he went toward them rapidly, knocking boldly at the door of the first house to which he came.

An old man answered his summons, a tall old man with a long pipe in his hand, who inspected the visitor narrowly.

"I have lost my way," said Renwick with a smile, "and thought you might let me have a cup of milk and some bread, for which I will pay generously."

The man in the doorway waved his hand in assent, and Renwick followed him into the house, where his host made a motion for him to be seated. A girl and a woman sat by the table knitting, and an old crone sat in a large chair by the fireplace, in which some embers still glowed. Renwick was hungry, but not nearly so hungry as impatient for the crumbs of information that these worthy people might possess, and so he invented a story while he ate which the girl, who spoke German more fluently than the old man, translated to her elders. The woman at the table spoke a little German and shyly added her share to the rather desultory conversation. Bartfa was not far, only a few miles over the mountain—a short distance by wagon or horseback, but something of a distance for one who was weary and footsore. Herr Schoff had come all the way from Mezo Laborez—and afoot? A newspaper writer? That was a dangerous occupation in times like these.

Renwick, having finished his bread and milk, deftly directed the conversation to the possibilities of Dukla Pass from the Russian point of view as a means of invasion of the Hungarian plain, and it was soon quite clear that this possibility had not been absent from their minds. Renwick praised the effectiveness of the Austrian army which he had seen, and quickly reassured them. For Dukla Pass, as he had heard, was but a slit in the mountains, which the Austrians could easily defend. A few guns upon the rocks, and a million Cossacks could not break through.

It was encouraging, the man put in in his patois, for they had been greatly disturbed by rumors among the country-folk and many soldiers already had passed through.

"It is a place of historical interest," said Renwick easily, "a Schloss or two perhaps."

"Javorina—Jaegerhorn, yes—but mere ruins, long ago the property of the Rakoczi family. And Szolnok——" Here the man paused, glanced at the girl and the woman, and they both made the sign of the cross with their forefingers at their breasts.

In the slight period of embarrassment which followed, Renwick regarded them with a new interest. The old crone at the fireside, who had been leaning forward with a hand cupped at her ear, caught the significance of the gesture and solemnly imitated them.

"Ah, I remember now," said Renwick with an air of seriousness which matched their own. "Was it not at Szolnok that Baron Neudeck was killed?"

The old man glanced at the others before speaking.

"Yes. It was there," he said quietly.

"And the place is no longer occupied?" asked the Englishman.

No one replied.

"There is a mystery attached to Schloss Szolnok?" asked Renwick, lighting his pipe.

"He asks if there is a mystery," said the woman dully. And then followed as before the strange ceremony of the cross.

"I am a stranger in these parts," Renwick went on, "and no mischief maker. This story interests me. I should like to know——" He paused again as the old man leaned forward toward him, and laid his skinny forefinger along Renwick's knee.

"It is the abode of the devil," he whispered, and then crossed himself again.

"Ah—something mysterious——"

"It is not a matter which we talk about in this house. We are poor, hard-working people who fear God. But strange things are happening up yonder night after night. Here in the valley, we no longer go near by day—nor even look."

"Ah, I see. Then the place has long been unoccupied?"

The old man was silent, but the woman, gathering confidence, took up the story.

"It was always a place of mystery—even in the days of Baron Neudeck, who was an evil man. The servants were strangers to our people and spoke not at all. They never came into the valley."

"And they did not come for food—for milk, eggs, butter?"

"Szolnok farm was above the Schloss upon the mountain side. They had what they needed."

"Ah, I understand. And since the death of the Baron?"

"We do not know. We do not go there. Two years ago a young man from this village went there seeking a sheep which had gone astray. He never came back. And the sheep skin was found some days later at the foot of the precipice. And scarcely a month ago, a venturesome young man from Bartfa climbed the road to the castle in the dead of night on a wager. What he saw no one will ever know, for he came running down the road to his companion stricken with terror, and has never spoken of the matter from that day to this. It was a ghost he saw, they say——"

"Or a devil," put in the old man.

"And by day? You see no one?"

"The Schloss is well within the gorge. I do not go to look, my friend."

"Have there been no lights at night for three years?"

"None that I remember—until now."

"Then it is only for a month or more that they have been seen?"

"Perhaps. I do not know."

The man was growing reticent and his family followed his example. The character of the occupants of Szolnok was not a popular topic for conversation in Dukla Valley. But this man could help Renwick, and he determined to use him. And so as the woman bade him good night and went upstairs, Renwick rose and went to the door, where the old man followed him.

"It is late, my friend," he said, "and a weary walk for me to Bartfa. I will pay you well for a bed."

"Willingly, if we but had the room——"

"Or a pallet of straw in your stable. I am not fastidious."

"Ah, as to that, of course. It can be managed." Renwick took out a hundred-kroner note, and held it before the man's eyes.

"If you will do as I ask I will give you this."

"And what is that?"

"A place in your stable tonight—breakfast at three in the morning, and the clothing you now stand in——"

"My clothing?"

"No questions asked, and silence. Do you agree?"

"But I do not understand."

"It is not necessary that you should. I shall do you no harm."

"A hundred kroner—it is a large sum——"

"Yours—if you do what I ask——" And he thrust the note into the old man's fingers.

This bound the bargain.



CHAPTER XXIII

SCHLOSS SZOLNOK

The night and day which followed the terrible events in the house of the Beg of Rataj were like an evil dream to Marishka Strahni. She slept, she awoke, always to be hurried on by her relentless captors, too ill to offer resistance or any effort to delay them. Hugh Renwick was dead. All the other direful assurances as to her own fate were as nothing beside that dreadful fact. And Goritz—the man who sat beside her—Hugh's murderer! Fear—loathing—she seemed even too weak and ill for these, lying for the first part of their long journey, inert and helpless. The man beside her watched her furtively from time to time, venturing attention and solicitude for her comfort, but she did not reply to his questions or even look at him. At the house of Selim Ali she recovered some of her strength, and again upon the following night, at a small inn not far from the Serbian border, she fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, from which she was aroused with difficulty. The machine was stopped frequently, and its occupants were questioned, but in each case Captain Goritz produced papers from his pocket, which let them pass. They were now well within the borders of Hungary, and as the girl grew stronger, courage came, and with it the thought of escape. But in spite of her apparent helplessness she was aware that her captors were watching her carefully, permitting no conversation with anyone, locking the doors of the rooms in which she slept, at the houses where they stopped, and taking turns at keeping guard outside. But their very precautions gave her an appreciation of the risks that they ran. She was a prisoner in her own country. All those she passed upon the road were her friends. She had only to make her identity known, and the object of her captors, to gain her freedom. She was somewhere in eastern Hungary, but just where she did not know. The chauffeur spoke the language fluently, and Marishka's ignorance of it made her task more difficult. But one night at an inn in a small village, she found a girl who spoke German, and in a moment when the attention of her guards was relaxed, she managed to make the girl understand, promising her a sum of money if she would summon the police of the town, to whom Marishka would tell her story. The girl agreed, and in the early morning just as the machine came around to the door Goritz found himself confronted by two men in uniform.

Marishka, who had been waiting, trembling, in her room above, came running down the stairs and threw herself upon their mercy, telling her story and begging their intercession.

But even as she spoke she realized that the very wildness of her narrative was against its verity in the minds of these rustic policemen.

"It is an extraordinary tale," said the elder man, "and one which of course must be investigated—an abduction!"

"If you will permit me," said Goritz smiling calmly. "This lady is my wife. I am taking her to the north for the baths. As you observe, she is the subject of delusions——"

"It is not true," cried Marishka despairingly. "I beseech you to listen—to investigate——"

"I regret," said Goritz, with a glance at his watch, "that I have no time to delay. I am Lieutenant von Arnstorf of the Fifteenth Army Corps, bearing a safe conduct from General von Hoetzendorf, which all police officers of the Empire are constrained to respect. Read for yourself."

And he handed them the magic paper which already had done him such service. The men read it through with respect and not a little awe, bestowing at the last a pitying glance upon Marishka, which too well indicated their delicacy in interfering in the affairs of one in such authority.

"And you will not summon the mayor? What I tell is the truth. In the name of the Holy Virgin, I swear it."

One of the men crossed himself and turned away. Goritz had already laid his fingers firmly upon her arm and guided her toward the machine.

"Come, Anna," he said in a sober, soothing tone, "all will be well—all will be well."

And so Marishka, with one last despairing glance in the direction of the two officers, permitted herself to be handed into the machine by Captain Goritz who, before the automobile departed, handed a piece of money to the girl who had done Marishka this service. The last glimpse that Marishka had of the police officers showed them standing side by side, their fingers at their caps. Her case was hopeless. She had no friend, it seemed, in all Hungary, and she abandoned herself to the depths of her despair. How could she have expected to cope with such a man as this?

Goritz said nothing to her of warning or of reproach, but in the same afternoon, after drinking a cup of coffee which he urged upon her, she became drowsy and slept.

She awoke in a large room with walls of panelled wood, and a groined ceiling. She lay upon a huge bed, raised high above the floor, over the head of which was a faded yellow silken hanging. Her surroundings puzzled her, but she seemed to have no desire to learn the meaning of it all, lying as one barely alive, gazing half conscious toward the narrow Gothic window near by, through which she had a glimpse of mountains and blue sky. But the sunlight which fell in patches upon the Turkey rug dazzled her aching eyes, and she closed them painfully. She felt wretchedly ill. Her throat was parched, and her body was so weak that even to move her hand had been an effort. She slept again, woke and slept again, aware now, even in her stupor, of someone moving near her in the room. At last with all the will-power left at her command, she opened wide her eyes and raised herself upon an elbow. It was night, but lamps upon two tables shed a generous glow.

As she moved, a figure that had sat near the foot of the bed, rose and came toward her. It was a very old woman with a wrinkled face and the inturned lips of the toothless. But her face was kindly, and her voice when she spoke had in it a note of commiseration.

"The Excellency is feeling stronger?" she asked.

"I—I do not know," said Marishka painfully struggling to make her lips enunciate. "I—I still feel ill. What is this place?"

"Schloss Szolnok, Excellency, in the Carpathians." She laid her rough hand over Marishka's. "You have some fever. I will get medicine."

"A—a glass of water——"

"At once." The woman moved away into the shadows and Marishka tried to focus her eyes upon the objects in the room—large chests of drawers, and tables, a cheval glass, a prie-dieu, a carved escritoire with ormolu mountings, a French dressing table, portraits let into the panelling, massive oaken chairs, well upholstered—a room of some grandeur. Schloss Szolnok? What mattered it where she was? Death at Schloss Szolnok could be no worse than death elsewhere. Weakness overpowered her, and she sank back into her pillow, aware of her throbbing temples and a terrible pain that racked her breast. Death. Hugh, too. He was calling to her. She would come. Hugh! With his name upon her lips she sank again into unconsciousness.

For weeks, the very weeks that Hugh Renwick lay in the Landes Hospital, Marishka lay upon the tall bed in the great room at Schloss Szolnok, struggling slowly back to life from the clutches of pneumonia. There was a doctor brought from Mezo Laborcz, who stayed in the castle for a week until the danger point had passed, and then came every few days until the patient was well upon the road to recovery. Marishka did not learn of this until much later when, convalescent, she sat by the window, looking out over the sunlit mountains beyond the gorge, and then in wonder and something of disappointment that Goritz had not permitted her to die. And when the old woman, who bore the name of Ena, related that the Herr Hauptmann had himself driven the automobile which brought the doctor in the dead of night to Szolnok, the wonder grew. Marishka had learned to think of Goritz as one interested only in her death or imprisonment, and after Sarajevo she had even believed that her life while in his keeping had hung by a hair. He had killed Hugh, brought her into this far country against her will, had even drugged her that he might avoid a repetition of her attempt at escape. And now he was sparing no pains to bring her back to health, daily sending her messages of good will and good wishes, with flowers from the garden in the courtyard, which, as Ena had reported, he had plucked with his own hand. It was monstrous!

A few mornings ago he had written her a note saying that he awaited her pleasure, craving the indulgence of a visit at the earliest moment that she should care to see him. Marishka, much to Ena's chagrin, had sent no reply. The very thought of kindness from such a man as Goritz—a kindness which was to pay for Hugh's death and her favor, made a mockery of all the beauties of giving—a mockery, too, of her acceptance of them, whether tacitly or otherwise. A man who could kill without scruple, a woman-baiter, courteous that he might be cruel, tolerant that he might torment! By torture of her spirit and of her body he had brought her near death that he might gain the flavor of saving her from it.

He was of a breed of being with which her experience was unfamiliar. The note of sentiment in his notes, while it amazed, bewildered and frightened her a little. She was completely in the man's power. What was Schloss Szolnok? Who was its owner? Ena would not talk; she had received instructions. Before her windows was spread a wonderful vista of mountains and ravines, which changed hourly in color, from the opalescent tints of the dawn, through the garish spectrum of daylight to the deep purple shadows of the sunset, to the crepuscular opalescence again. Under any other conditions, she would have been content to sit and muse alone with her grief—and Hugh. He was constantly present in her thoughts. It was as though his spirit hovered near. She seemed to hear him speak, to feel the touch of his hand upon her brow, soothing her anguish, praying her to wait and be patient. Sometimes the impression of his presence beside her was so poignant that she started up from her chair and looked around the vast room, as though expecting him to appear in the spirit beside her. And then realizing that the illusions were born of her weakness, she would sink back exhausted, and resume her gaze upon the restful distance.

Ena, her nurse, was very kind to her, leaving nothing undone for her comfort, sitting most of the while beside her, and prattling of her own youth and the Fatherland. And so, sure of the woman's growing interest and affection, she slowly revealed the story of Konopisht Garden, her share in it, and the events that had followed. Marishka could see that the woman was greatly impressed by the story which lost no conviction from the pallid lips which told it. And of her own volition, that night, Ena promised the girl to reveal no word of her confidences, and gave unreservedly the outward signs of her friendship for the tender creature committed to her care. She had believed that the kindness of the Herr Hauptmann had meant the beginnings of a romance. But she understood, and aware of the sadness of the sick woman's thoughts, did what she could to delay a meeting which she knew must be painful.

In reply to Marishka's questions, now, she was less reticent, and told of the long years at Schloss Szolnok under the Barons Neudeck, father and son, of the coming of Herr Hauptmann Goritz, and of the threat which had hung over them for three years since the dreadful night when her young master had been killed. There had been no heirs to the estate and no one knew to whom the half-ruined Schloss belonged, but each month money had arrived from Germany, and so she and Wilhelm Strohmeyer, her man, and two other servants under orders from Germany, had remained. She had lived here almost all her life. The people in the village a mile away were the nearest human folk, and Baron Neudeck had not endeared himself to them, for once he had beaten a farmer who had questioned the Excellency's right to shoot upon his land. And so the country people passed aside and did not venture up the mountain road which indeed had become overgrown with verdure. And for their part the servants were contented to stay alone. It was very quiet, but as good a place to die in as any other.

Marishka listened calmly, trying to weave the complete story and Captain Goritz's part in it. Whether Schloss Szolnok was or was not the property of the German government—and it seemed probable that it would have been confiscated upon the discovery of Baron Neudeck's treachery—the fact was clear that Goritz was now its occupant and master. She had not dared to wonder what was still in store for her at the hands of Captain Goritz, and had lived from day to day in the hope that something might happen which would end her imprisonment and martyrdom. She heard nothing from the outside, and Ena, who had long ago given up the world, was in no position to inform her.

But as she gained her strength, Marishka knew that she could not longer deny herself to Captain Goritz. The mirror showed her that her face, while thin and wan, was still comely. Wisdom warned her that however much she loathed the man, every hope of liberty hung upon his favor. And so she gained courage to look about her and to plan some means of outwitting him or some mode of escape from durance. The latter alternative seemed hopeless, for it seemed that the castle was built upon a lonely crag, its heavy walls, which dated from feudal times, imbedded in the solid rock. From her bedroom window, below the buttressed stone, were precipitous cliffs which fell sheer and straight to the rocky bed of the stream which rushed through the ravine two hundred meters below. But there would be other modes of egress, and so, feeling that her strength was now equal to the task, she determined to go forth and test the cordon which constrained her. One morning, therefore, she called Ena's attention to her pallid face and suggested the sunlight of the garden as a means to restoration. The woman was delighted, and attired in a costume of soft white silk crepe, which she had fashioned in her convalescence from some posthumous finery that Ena had discovered, Marishka walked forth of her room down a stone stairway into the great hall of the castle; and so into the ancient courtyard where the flower garden was. She had expected Captain Goritz to join her, and in this surmise she was not mistaken, for she had culled an armful of blossoms which she sent to her room by Ena when the German appeared. She heard his voice behind her, even before she had summoned courage for the interview.

"My compliments upon your appearance, Countess," he said soberly. "I hope that you find yourself well upon the road to recovery."

"Thanks," she replied in a stifled tone. "I am feeling much stronger."

"It has been a very pitiful experience for you—one which has caused me many qualms of conscience," he muttered, "but I have tried to atone and would beg you to believe that all my happiness for the future depends upon your forgiveness."

"I can—never forgive—never——" said Marishka, her throat closing painfully. "I hoped to die," she sighed, "but even that you denied me."

"I have only done my duty—my duty, Countess—a sweeter duty than that which urged me to Vienna—to undo the wrong that I have done you, to bring again the roses into your cheeks."

She waved her hand in deprecation. "For your courtesy, for the kindness of your servants, I thank you. But for what you are yourself—only the God that made you can understand—can forgive—that."

He straightened a moment and then slowly leaned against the wall beside her, his chin cupped in his hand.

"You are cruel——"

"I am truthful. Anything else from me to you would be beneath my womanhood. I would kill you if I had the strength or if I dared." She gave a bitter laugh. "It is at least something, that we understand each other."

He paused a long moment before replying.

And then, "Do we understand each other? I hope that you will permit me to speak a few words in extenuation of a person you have never known—of Leo Goritz, the man."

"A man who makes war upon a woman—who uses violence to compel obedience——"

"A woman—but an enemy to my country. Between my duty to Germany and my own inclinations, I had no choice. I was an instrument of the State, pitiless, exact and exacting. You have spoken the truth. So shall I. Had my duty to Germany required it of me, I should have killed you with my own hand—even if you had been my sister."

She gazed at him with alien eyes.

"It is monstrous! I would to God you had."

He bowed.

"That is merely my official conception of my obligation to the Fatherland," he said quietly.

She still gazed at him unbelieving, but he met her glance squarely.

"You need not believe me unless you choose, but I speak the truth. My orders were to bring you safely into Germany, or to—to eliminate you. Perhaps you will understand now my difficulties in keeping you unscathed."

"My death would have relieved you of that responsibility. It would have been so easy to have let me die——"

"I could not!" He bent his head over his folded arms. "I could not," he repeated. And then, after a silence, "Countess Strahni, I beg that you will consider that I have succeeded so far in saving you from personal danger."

"And yet you used me as a shield to save yourself from the bullets of the man you killed——" She broke off, laughing bitterly.

"He would not fire. I knew it. He was a fool to give me the chance. I took it. There was nothing else——"

"It was murder. And you——"

She glanced at him once and then turning away, hid her head in her arm. "O God!" she whispered, as though to herself. "How I loathe you!"

Though the words were not even meant for him to hear, he did not miss them.

"That is your privilege," he said after a moment, "and mine—to—to adore you," he said in deep accents.

Slowly she lowered her hands and gazed at him with eyes that though they looked, seemed to see not.

"You—you—! You care for me!" She dropped her hands to her sides, and then with a voice that sought steadiness in its contempt, "What object has the Fatherland to gain by this new hypocrisy, Herr Goritz?"

He stood stock still, making no effort to approach her.

"I think you do me some injustice," he said.

"Injustice!" she said coldly. "I do you injustice? I think you forget."

"If you will permit—it is only fair at least that you should listen. Even if what I say does not interest you."

She waved a hand in a gesture of deprecation—but he went on rapidly in spite of her protest, with an air of pride, which somehow robbed the confession of its sincerity.

"Your words have been cruel, Countess, but the cruelest were those in which you attribute the highest motive of my life to the baseness of hypocrisy. I have done many wrongs, broken many oaths, sinned many sins—in the interests of my country—the service of which has been the only aim of my existence. I have been entrusted by the Emperor himself with missions which would have tested the courage of any man, and I have not failed. That is my pride—the glory of my manhood, for the means of accomplishment no matter how unworthy, are unimportant compared with the great mission of the Germanic race in the betterment of humanity."

"I fail to see, Herr Hauptmann, how——"

He commanded her silence with an abrupt gesture.

"If you will be pleased to bear with me a little longer. Bitte. I shall not be very long. I merely wanted you to understand how my whole life has been devoted to the great uses of the State, with the most unselfish motives. I have been not a human sentient being, but a highly specialized physical organism to which any wish, any emotion, unless of service to the state, was forbidden. Charity, kindness, altruism, all the gentler emotions—I foreswore them. I relinquished friendship. I became a pariah, an outcast, save to those few beings from whom I took my orders, and to them I was merely the piece of machinery which always accomplished its tasks. I have had no happiness, no friendships, no affection, but I am the most famous secret agent in Germany. A somber picture, is it not?"

He paused and shrugged expressively. And then his voice lowered a note. "Perhaps you will believe me when I say that my whole existence is a living lie. Ah, yes, you think that. It is a lie, Countess, because no human being can defy the living God that is within him. He cannot forever quell the aspirations of the spirit. The spark is always alight. Sometimes it glows and fades, but sometimes a worthy motive sets it on fire. It is that spark which has survived in me, Countess Strahni, in spite of my efforts—my desires even—to deny its existence. Your illness——"

"Herr Hauptmann, I beg of you——"

"No. You cannot deny me. I nursed you, there—brought you back to life. Ah, you did not know. I brought a doctor at the hazard of the discovery of my hiding place. Charity came, love——"

"Herr Hauptmann, I forbid you," whispered Marishka chokingly, wondering now why she had listened to him for so long. "I must go—go to my room."

Goritz straightened and stood aside.

"You need not fear me, Countess," he said. "You see?" he added quickly. "I do not touch you."

Marishka moved a few paces away and then turned to look at him. He stood erect, smiling at her, his cap in his hand.

"I—I must go to my room, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured haltingly. "I—I am yet—far from strong."

"I am sorry. I pray that you will feel stronger in the morning. Adieu!"

"Adieu——" she murmured, and hurried through the stone portal, aware of the gaze of those dark, slightly oblique eyes which had puzzled, then fascinated—then frightened her.



CHAPTER XXIV

PRISONER AND CAPTIVE

It was with mingled feelings that Marishka found the sanctuary of her sleeping room. Her abhorrence of Goritz as the murderer of Hugh Renwick was uppermost in her breast, her fear of him as her captor of scarcely less import, but his tumultuous plea for her forgiveness and his strange avowal had given her food for thought. Such a rapid volte-face was beyond credence. This man had watched by her bedside, nursed her during the week that she had lain unconscious. Her cheeks burned hot at the thought of the situation, and quickly she questioned Ena who at last reluctantly admitted the truth. Herr Hauptmann Goritz had sat many nights by the bedside while she, Ena, had slept so as to be fresh for the day to follow. He had commanded her silence, and Ena had obeyed. She hoped that the Excellency would understand.

Marishka nodded and sent her from the room, for she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. He had watched by her sickbed, carrying out the orders of the doctor while she had lain unconscious—Goritz, the master craftsman of duplicity—Goritz, the insensible! What did it mean? Had the man spoken the truth? Was he—? Love to such a man as Goritz! It was impossible.

He had always been courteous and considerate, but there was a new note in his voice which rang strangely. Another lie—another hypocrisy? And yet the very frankness of his admission with regard to her safety for a moment disarmed her. He would have killed her—"eliminated" her—had the necessities of his duty demanded it of him. And yet he had confessed his love for her. What was the meaning of the paradox? Had he something to gain by her favor? Had a change taken place in their situation? A chance phrase had revealed the fact that there was now a danger of the revelation of this hiding place. They had been pursued—what had balked him in the continuance of their flight into Germany? Meditation only served to enhance the mystery, and she emerged from an hour of thought over the scene in the courtyard with no very clear idea of what the future had in store for her, sure only of one thing—that she must not hang importance upon the words of this man, who had already proved himself a deadly enemy to her happiness. He had hired assassins to kill Hugh, and when they had failed, had accomplished his purpose by a vile expedient.

Love! She knew what love was. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her arms in wordless, silent grief for the man to whom she had given all that was best and noblest of her—Hugh! But she could not weep. It seemed as though, long since, the fountains of her misery were dry. For a long while she crouched in the window, motionless, and when at last she raised her head and gazed out down the shimmering vista of the gorge, it was with a look of new resolution and intelligence. She must escape. Every iota of cleverness must be given to find a way out of Schloss Szolnok. What if, in spite of all, the things that Leo Goritz had confessed were true! She doubted it and yet—if he loved her—! Here was a woman's revenge, to bait, to charm, to spurn; and then to outwit him! A test of the sincerity of his professions, and of her own feminine art—a dangerous game which she had once before thought of playing, until his cruelty had atrophied all impulse.

But now! If he really cared—her power would grow with the venture, her own safety the pledge of his purity—a dangerous game, indeed, here alone upon this crag in the mountains, but if he were sincere, she was armed with a flaming sword to defend—to destroy! If—? She would not trust him, but she would fight him with the weapons she had. Her lips closed in a thin line, and a glint as of polished metal came into her eyes as the scene in the house of the Beg of Rataj shut out the lovely landscape before her. To destroy—to fan the spark to flame that she might extinguish it; to corrode the spirit with the biting acid of contempt; to envenom the soul—newly born, perhaps—to the sweeter uses of beneficence, and then escape! If he cared!

And if he did not care—if, as she really believed, he lied to gain an end....

This was the thought of him that obsessed her. A liar, always. Why not now? Men of his kind were unusual to women of hers, but even in the midst of his confession—as near self-abasement as a man of his type could come, the note of egotism rang clear above the graceful phrases—too graceful to be anything but manufactured in that clear inventive brain of his.

She paced the floor, thinking deeply, and at last stopped by the window and sought again the counsel of the eternal hills. After a while she turned again into the room and peered into a mirror, seeking in her face the answer to the riddle. It was pale, resolute, but it was not ugly.

She planned her campaign with the calm forethought of a general who picks out his own battlefield, disposing his forces to the best advantage, for attack or for repulse, for victory, or defeat. She must mask her approach, conceal her intentions, and develop slowly the real strength of her position. There was much that she wished to learn as to Schloss Szolnok, and its security from those who sought to intercept them, much in regard to the plans of her captor for the future, but she knew that she must act with caution and skill, if she hoped to escape.

Goritz had previously expressed a wish that when she grew strong enough to leave her bedroom, she would join him at dinner, which she heard was served in one end of the great Hall, but she decided that the first skirmish should take place in a situation of her own choosing. And so after dusk, the moon coming out, she went again upon the terrace where she leaned upon the wall of the bastion and looked down with an air of self-sought seclusion, upon the mists of the valley.

Goritz was not long in joining her. She heard his footsteps as he approached but did not give any sign or acknowledgment of his presence.

"May I talk with you, Countess Strahni?" he asked easily.

Her shrug, under her cloak, was hardly perceptible.

"Since you have already done so it seems that my own wishes do not matter," she said coolly.

"I have no wish to intrude."

Marishka laughed. "I can go in——" She drew her wrap more closely about her throat and straightened.

"I hope that you will not do that," he said.

"Is there anything you wished to speak to me about—? That is—er—anything of importance?"

Goritz looked past her toward the profile of the distant mountain, and smiled.

"I thought that you might be interested to learn something of my reasons for stopping here."

"The insect in the web of the spider has little emotion left for curiosity."

"The spider! I have always admired your courage, Countess."

"I can die but once."

"Perhaps you may care to know that you are not in the slightest danger of death."

"Thanks," she said coolly. "Your kindness is overwhelming. Or is my—'elimination' no longer essential?"

The more flippant her tone, the more somber Goritz became.

"My purposes, Countess Strahni, I think, you no longer have any reason to doubt. You are quite safe at Schloss Szolnok——"

"So is the insect in the web—from all other insects but the spider." She turned away. "You cannot blame me, Herr Hauptmann, if I judge of the future by the past."

"I would waste words to make further explanations which are so little understood, but there are matters of interest to you."

"Ah."

"You have been ill. Many things have happened. You would like to hear?"

"I am listening."

"It is the trifles of the world which make or prevent its greatest disasters. The man with the lantern at the bridgehead at Brod did not know that he held the destiny of Europe in his hand. And yet, this is the truth. Had he permitted us to pass unquestioned we should have reached Sarajevo in time to prevent the greatest cataclysm of all the ages."

Marishka turned toward him, her interest now fully aroused.

"What do you mean?"

"War, Countess Strahni—the most bloody—terrible—in the history of the world—the event that I have striven all my life to prevent. All of Europe is ablaze. Millions of men are marching—battles have already been fought——"

"Horrible? I cannot believe——"

"It is the truth. It followed swiftly upon the assassination at Sarajevo——"

"Serbia!"

"Serbia first—then Russia—Germany—Belgium—France—England, too——"

"You are speaking the truth?"

"I swear it."

"And Austria?"

"Germany and Austria—against a ring of enemies bent on exterminating us——"

"England—?"

And while with eager ears she listened, he told her the history of the long weeks, now growing into months, in which she had been hidden from the world—including the defeat of the Austrians by the Serbians along the Drina, and the advance of the Russians in East Prussia and Galicia.

She heard him through until the end, questioning eagerly, then aware of the dreadful significance of his news, forgetting for the moment her own animosities, her own questionable position in the greater peril of her country—and his. His country and hers at war against the world!

"Russia has won victories against Austria—in Galicia?" she urged.

"Yes—the Cossacks already are approaching Lemberg——"

"Lemberg!"

"They are less than two hundred kilometers from us at the present moment."

"And will they come—here?"

"I hope not," he said with a slow smile. "But Schloss Szolnok is hardly equipped to resist a siege of modern ordnance."

"And you—why are you here?"

The ingenuousness of her impetuous question seemed to amuse him.

"I?" he said. "I am here because—well, because you—because I had no other place to go."

"Will you explain?"

"I see no reason why I should not. I chose the place as a temporary refuge from pursuit. Your illness marred my plans. The war continues to mar them."

"How?"

He smiled.

"The insect has curiosity, then? Schloss Szolnok has proved safe. I have no desire to take unnecessary risks."

"You were pursued?"

He nodded. "Yes. And I managed to get away—here, but the other end of this pass is now strongly guarded. I could have gone through when I first came, but you were very ill. You would probably have died if I had gone on. Now it is too late. You see," he said with a shrug, "I am quite cheerful about it."

She turned and examined him with an air of timidity.

"You mean that—that to save my life you—you have sacrificed all hope of winning through to Germany?"

"With you, yes—for the present," he smiled.

She turned away and leaned upon the wall.

"I—I think that I—I have done you some injustice, Herr Hauptmann," she murmured with an effort.

"Thank you."

"But I cannot understand. The papers which passed you through Hungary—signed by General Von Hoetzendorf——"

"Unfortunately are of no further service. An order for my arrest has been issued in Vienna."

"Your arrest? For taking me?"

"For many things——" And he shrugged.

"What do you propose to do?"

"Remain here for the present," he said slowly. "It is doubtful if anyone would think of seeking us here. The Schloss has an evil name along the countryside. None of the peasants dares to come within a league of the place."

"And I—?" she asked.

"It seems, Countess Strahni," he said slowly, smiling at her, "that our positions are now reversed—you the captor—I the prisoner. And yet, as you see," with a shrug, "I am making no effort to escape. You have led captivity captive."

His phrases were too well spoken, and the look in his eyes disturbed her.

"You—you wish me to understand that I am free to go——"

"Hardly that," he interrupted with a short laugh. "Only this morning you said that you would kill me if you dared. I do not relish the notion of being delivered into the hands of the police."

"You think that I would do that?" she questioned.

"Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. I——"

"I am sure of it. I am no longer under any illusions with regard to your sentiments toward myself. This morning I uncovered my heart to you—and you plunged a dagger into it. It was too much—beyond my deserts. I am no man for a woman to spit upon, Countess Strahni. You are still a prisoner—as completely under my power as though you and I were the last people left upon the earth."

His tone was mild, but there was a depth of meaning under it.

"I—I can scarcely be unaware of it," she murmured. "What are you going to do with me?"

"For the present we shall stay here—until an opportunity presents——"

"For escape?"

"I could go alone tonight—and reach Germany—without you. That is not my purpose."

"Then you propose to take me with you?"

"When the coast is clear—yes."

"And if the coast should not be clear?"

"I shall remain."

The situation was as she had supposed, but his motive—the real motive! She drew the wrap more closely around her throat and turned away from him again. To escape from him! That was the only thing she could think of now. Upon the road, his attitude of firm consideration, his cool insistence upon compliance with his wishes, had not been nearly so ominous as the personal note which he had injected into their relations. He frightened her now. But to escape? She was watched, she was sure, for in the afternoon, while the drawbridge was lowered, she had made out the figure of a man on guard at the end of the causeway. But while her conversation with Goritz dismayed her, she studied him keenly, trying to read him by what he did not say.

She smiled at him impudently.

"And suppose I attempted to escape?" she asked.

"You would fail. There is but one exit from Szolnok—the drawbridge—and that is continually guarded."

"You have ordered your men to shoot me?"

"No—but you will not pass."

"I see. Your contrition does not go as far as that."

"Not beyond the walls of Schloss Szolnok," he said coolly.

"And you ask me to believe in the integrity of your motives? What was the use, Herr Hauptmann? I could understand duplicity to me in the performance of a duty, but to practice your machine-made emotions upon my simplicity—! I could hardly forgive you that."

He kept himself well in hand and even smiled again.

"You wrong me, Countess Strahni. I have spoken the truth."

"You cannot deny me the privilege of doubting you," she replied.

"What further proof would you have me give you that I am honest in my love for you?"

She pointed past the drawbridge along the causeway toward the valley below.

"Permit me to go—there—alone—tonight."

He laughed quietly.

"Alone? I do not know what danger may lurk in the valley. The fact that I wish to keep you here—is a better proof of my tenderness."

She turned away from him and leaned upon the wall. But to him at least she did not show fear.

"We cannot remain here indefinitely," she said coolly.

"Are you not comfortable? Is not everything provided for you? It has been my pride to make your convalescence agreeable in all ways," he said, leaning a little nearer to her. "I have tried to atone for the discomforts of your journey. Was it not my solicitude for your health which balked my own plans? You have questioned the truth of my professions, but you cannot deny the evidences of your safety."

Marishka was thinking quickly. Much as she abhorred the man, she realized that, if she were to have any chance of success she must meet him with weapons stronger than his own. And so she turned to him with a smile which concealed her growing terror.

"Herr Hauptmann, I do not wish you to think that I am ungrateful for the many indulgences that you have shown me. Your position has been a difficult one. But from the beginning we have been enemies——"

"Before the outbreak of the war—but allies now——"

"Not if you persist in your plan to carry me to Germany."

He asked her permission to smoke, and when she had granted it he went on coolly.

"Perhaps something may happen to prevent the execution of my plan," he said.

"What?" she stammered.

He searched her face eagerly for a moment.

"You may be sure, Countess Strahni," he said in a half-whisper, "that it is very painful to me that you should think of me as an enemy. Enemy I am not. It is my duty to take you to Germany, but it is very painful to me to do anything which makes you unhappy. Here, safe from detection, I am still doing my duty. And in remaining here you, too, are safe. Will you not try to be contented—to endure my society just for a little while? I want to show you that I can be as other men——"

She laughed to hide her fears.

"All men are alike where a woman is concerned—"

"Will you try? I will be your slave—your servant. Within the castle you may come and go as you please. No one shall approach you without your permission. You see, I am not an exacting jailer. All I ask is the hope of your friendship, a glimpse of your returning smile, and such companionship as you care to give me. It is not much. Do I not deserve it? Bitte, think a little."

Marishka gasped and fought the impulse to run from him, for his face was very near her shoulder, his voice very close to her ear.

"I—I think that—we may be friends," she murmured.

"Will you give me your hand, Countess Strahni?"

She extended it slowly and he bowed over it, pressing it to his lips.

She found her excuse in a cough, a vestige of her illness which she summoned to her rescue.

"It—it is getting late, Herr Hauptmann," she said. "I must be going in. The night air——"

"By all means." He accompanied her to the portal of the hall and then she left him.

That night Marishka did not sleep, and the next day, pleading fatigue, remained in her bedroom, trying to muster up the courage to go forth and meet Goritz at this tragic game of his own choosing. That she had stirred some sort of an emotion in the man was not to be doubted. She read it in his eyes, in the touch of his fingers, and in the resonant tones of his voice, but she read too, the sense of his power, the confidence of his egotism to which all things were possible. And much as she wished to believe the testimony of his flashes of tenderness, the hazard of her position stared her in the face. But she knew that with such a man she must play a game of subtlety and courage. And so she resolved to meet him frequently, testing every feminine device to win him to her service which would obliterate all things but her own wishes, and present at last an opportunity for her escape.

In the week that followed she walked out with him across the causeway into the mountain road, visiting Szolnok farm and climbing the hills adjacent to the castle, but she saw no one except the German farmers, and it seemed indeed as though the gorge was taboo to all human beings. Goritz made love to her, of course, but she laughed him off, gaining a new confidence as the days of their companionship increased. Slowly, with infinite patience, with infinite self-control, she established a relationship which baffled him, a foil for each of his moods, a parry for each attack. With a smile on her lips which masked the lie, she told him that Hugh Renwick had been nothing to her.

And Goritz told her of the women he had met in the performance of his duty from London to Constantinople, women of the secret service of England, France, Russia, who had set their wits to match his. Some of them were ugly and clever, some were stupid and beautiful, but they had all been dangerous. He had passed them by. No woman in the world that he had ever known had had the nobility of spirit, the courage, the self-abnegation of the Countess Strahni.

It was in these moods of adulation and self-revelation that Marishka found him most difficult. But she managed to keep him at arm's length by the mere insistence of her spirituality which accepted his friendship upon its face value, telling him that she forgave the past, and vaguely suggesting hope for the future. With that he had to be content, though at times he was dangerously near rebellion. She promised him many things but denied him her lips, hoping day by day for the rescue which came not, and praying night after night that the God who watched over her would forgive her for her duplicity and for the hatred of him that was in her heart.

But there came a day when the walks beyond the causeway ceased, and from the window of her bedroom she learned the reason. Far, far below her in the valley along the road which wound through the Pass, she saw the figures of marching men. Austrian soldiers! What did their presence mean? They were going toward the other end of the pass—thousands of them. Had the Russians crossed Galicia? That night there were no lights in the side of the castle toward the gorge save the candle in her room, which was screened by heavy hangings. And when at dinner she questioned Goritz he gave her the briefest of replies. The Cossacks were coming? Perhaps, but they would not take Dukla Pass. He warned her not to show her figure at the castle windows or above the wall of the rampart, and she obeyed.

For several days Goritz disappeared, and she gained a breathing space to think over her position. She ventured out many times into the courtyard in the hope of finding an opportunity to elude her guard, but each time she approached the drawbridge she saw the chauffeur Karl seated in the shadow of the wall, smoking his pipe. And so she knew that any attempt to pass him would be impossible.

At the end of the fourth day, Captain Goritz joined her at the supper table. He had now discarded his Austrian uniform and wore a rough suit of working clothes, similar to the peasant costume which Ena's husband wore. He greeted her gladly, but she asked him no questions as to his absence, upon her guard as she always was against the unknown quality in the man, which held her in constant anxiety. But after he had eaten, the cloud which had hung over him seemed to pass, and he leaned forward, smiling at her across the table.

"You have been obedient?" he asked.

"What else is left for me?" she smiled. "I have wondered where you were."

"Ah," he laughed, "you missed me? That is good. You wondered what would happen to you if I did not come back." He laughed as he lighted his cigarette. "I am not so easily to be lost, I assure you. I have been through Dukla Pass."

"Many soldiers have gone through the pass today—many this morning—many more this afternoon."

"Yes, I saw them."

"And the Russians?"

He was silent for a while, and then spoke very quietly. "They are coming."

She made no sound and seemed to be frozen into immobility by the import of the information.

"The Austrians have fortified the other end of the Pass, but it is said that the Russians are in great numbers, sweeping everything before them——"

"Przemysl—! Lemberg—!"

"Lemberg has fallen. The fate of Przemysl hangs in the balance." He shrugged. "Tomorrow, perhaps, may see the Cossacks at Dukla Pass."

"And then——"

"I do not wish to alarm you," he said gently. "Six hundred years have passed over Schloss Szolnok, and it still stands. I am not going to run away."

"But you can do nothing—against so many."

"They will not bother us, I think. The Austrians, you see, have passed us by. They are taking all their artillery to Javorina and Jaegerhorn and mounting them upon the old emplacements of the ruins. The defense will be made there where the gorge is narrower."

"But if they should come—here—the Cossacks—!" she whispered fearfully.

He laughed easily. "Ah, Countess, I am not a half-bad jailer, after all?"

"The Cossacks!" she repeated.

"They shall not come here."

"What can you do?"

"The place is impregnable—sheer cliffs upon all sides—the causeway two hundred meters long. I could pick them off one by one from the top of the keep. With the drawbridge up, we are as safe as though we were in Vienna."

"But their artillery?"

"They will not think us worth their while. In the armory there are six repeating hunting rifles and four shotguns, ammunition plentiful——" He broke off and, rising, came over and stood beside her. "But we will not think of unpleasant possibilities. It has been so long since I have seen you—too long."

She let him take her hand and press it to his lips, but tonight that condescension did not seem to be enough. He fell to one knee beside her and would have put his arm about her waist if she had not risen and struggled away from him.

"You forget, Herr Hauptmann, the dependence of my position here—alone with you. Whatever our personal relations, a delicacy for my feelings must warn you——"

"Marishka!" he broke in. "What does a man who loves as I do, care for the conventions of the sham world you and I have left so far behind. I adore you. And you flout me."

"For shame! Would you care for me if I were a woman without delicacy or dignity? I beg of you——"

But he had held her by the hand and would not release her.

"I adore you—and you flout me—that is all that I know. Your indifference maddens me. Perhaps I am not as other men, and must not be judged by other standards than my own which are sufficient for myself as they should be sufficient for you. You know that I—I worship you—that by staying here I have forgotten my duty to my country at a time when I am most needed. Does that mean nothing to you? Can you be callous to a love like mine which lives only in your happiness and hangs upon your pleasure? I worship you, Marishka. Just one kiss, to tell me that you care for me a little. I will be content——"

She struggled in his grasp, her fear of him lending her more strength. Her lips—? Hugh's! Never—never—as God witnessed.

"One kiss, Marishka——"

She struggled free and struck him with her clenched fist furiously, full in the face, and then ran to the window, as he released her, breathing hard, trembling, but full of defiance. The suddenness of the affair and its culmination had driven them both dumb, Marishka with terror, Goritz with chagrin at his mistake and anger at her temerity. He touched his face with the fingers of one hand and stared at her with eyes that burned with black fire in the pallor of his face.

"You have struck me," he muttered. And then, with a shrug, "That was not a love tap, Countess Strahni."

She could not speak for very terror of the consequences of the encounter, but stood watching him narrowly, one hand upon the window-ledge beside her.

"Well," he asked presently, "are you dumb?"

"You—you insulted me," she gasped.

"Whatever I have done, you have repaid me," he muttered.

She glanced out of the window into the black void beneath.

"I—I am not afraid to die, Herr Goritz," she said.

He caught the meaning of her glance and her poise by the window-ledge, and their significance sobered him instantly. He drew back from her two or three paces and leaned heavily against an oaken chair.

"Am I so repellent to you as that?" he whispered.

"My lips—are mine," she said proudly. "I give them willingly or not at all."

His gaze flickered and fell before the high resolve that he read in her face. And her courage enthralled him.

"Herr Gott!" he muttered, "you have never been so beautiful as now, Marishka!"

She did not reply or move, but only watched him steadily.

He paced the floor stiffly, his hands behind him, struggling for his self-control. And the better instinct in him, the part of him that had made life possible for Marishka at Schloss Szolnok, was slowly triumphant.

"A kiss means much or little," he said quietly at last. "To me, the consecration of a love which has leaped the bounds of mere platitude. A woman of your training perhaps cannot grasp the honesty of my unconvention. I have meant you no harm. But that you should have misunderstood—!"

"One thing only I understand—that you have violated the hospitality of Schloss Szolnok."

"I beg of you——"

"It is true. Was your kindness, your courtesy, your consideration, but the means to this end? I can never believe in you again."

"Do you mean that?"

"I do——"

"It is a pity."

"It is the truth. Fear and affection cannot survive together."

"Fear?"

"I can never trust you again. Let me go—I beg that you will excuse me."

He bowed. "If that is your wish——" and turned and walked to the window opposite, while Marishka found her way up the stairs and so to her room where she lay upon her bed fully dressed, in a high state of nervous excitement.



CHAPTER XXV

THE RIFT IN THE ROCK

Hugh Renwick in his borrowed plumage, strode forth before dawn, and reaching a spot where the valley narrowed into the gorge and marked the grim outline of Schloss Szolnok against the lightening East, slowly climbed the rugged slope of the mountain on his left which faced it. He meant to spend the morning in a study of the approaches to the castle, and if possible devise some means by which he could inspect it unobserved at closer range. Daylight found him perched in a crevice of rock among some trees, through the leaves of which he could clearly see the distant mass of stone which rose in solitary dignity, an island above the mists of the valley, a grim relic of an age when such a situation meant isolation and impregnability.

Indeed, it scarcely seemed less impregnable now, for upon two sides at least, the cliffs rose sheer from the gorge until they were joined by the heavy buttresses which tapered gracefully until they joined the walls of the crenelated towers and bastions. In the center of the mass of buildings rose the square solid mass of the keep, with its crenelated roof and small windows commanding every portion of the space enclosed within the gray walls. He marked the dim lines of a road which ascended from the valley upon the further mountain, now scarcely visible because of the vegetation which grew luxuriantly on the hillsides, and he studied this approach to the castle most attentively—the straight reach of wall, built to span a branch of the gorge beyond, perhaps two hundred feet deep and six hundred wide. This was the main entrance to the castle, a narrow causeway, that terminated at the gate where he marked a drawbridge now raised, which hung by chains to the heavy walls above.

The only means of access? Perhaps, and if the gate were guarded, impassable by night as well as day. But Renwick was not sure that there was no other means of ingress. To the left of the keep, and on a level with the top of the long curtain of wall, the building fell away in ruins, for portions of old bastions were missing, and there was a breach in the northern wall, which had tumbled outward over the precipice into the ravine below.

As daylight came Renwick watched the windows and ramparts intently. There was no sign of life, but remembering that here there was no need for early rising, he waited patiently, gazing steadily through the leaves across the valley. At last his patience was rewarded, for from a building in the courtyard near the central mass, he made out a thin pale blue line which ascended straight into the sky. Smoke! Breakfast was cooking. His heart gave a leap. There were no devils in Schloss Szolnok—but Goritz! In a short while, still watching intently, he saw a figure pass from the gate toward the main buildings, where it disappeared. Renwick would have given the remainder of his hundred-kroner notes for a good pair of field glasses, by which it might have been possible to distinguish the identity of any figure that could be seen. But he realized that he had accomplished the object of his visit, for the raised drawbridge indicated that whoever occupied the castle, seclusion was important to him. Deciding that he knew enough to warrant closer investigation, Renwick moved slowly along the mountain side into the gorge, under the cover of rocks and undergrowth, slowly descending toward the road, with the idea of crossing the stream and climbing the rugged cliff beyond, from which he could gain a nearer view of the northern and ruined end of the castle.

But after an hour of careful progress, as he reached a projection of rock which hung over the road below, he crouched, suddenly listening. For he heard the sound of voices, a rumble of wheels, and the creaking and clanking of heavy metallic objects. The sounds came nearer, swelling in proportion, now clearly distinguishable; and so lying flat upon his stomach, he parted the bushes at the edge of the rock and peered over. There was a cloud of dust and the clatter of iron-shod boots against the flints of the road, and in a moment he made out long ranks of soldiers, marching rapidly to the northward into the Pass. Renwick knew that the northern end of the Pass was already strongly guarded, for his host had told him that many soldiers had gone through during the weeks before; but the sight of these hurrying men, the shrouded guns which lumbered amidst them, and the long line of motor trucks and wagons which followed, gave Renwick a notion that events of military importance were pending in the Galician plain beyond. He tried to form some idea of the number of men that passed. A regiment—two, three, four—artillery—three batteries at least. For an hour or more they passed, and then at last, silence and solitude.

Although adequately disguised, Renwick was in no position to be stopped and searched, for if he wore no marks of identification, his automatic, and the money pinned in his trousers lining, would have made him an object of suspicion, the more so in a country where soldiers were moving in so precarious a military situation.

And so he descended slowly, hiding in a copse at the base of the rocks where he waited for a while listening, and then peered cautiously out. Then matching his footsteps to those of the soldiers, he crossed the road obliquely and plunged through the bushes down over the rocks to the bed of the Dukla, where he waited and listened again, crossing the stream at last by a fallen tree and reaching the protection of the undergrowth upon the farther bank.

Though he had been able to learn little in Budapest of the military situation, even from Herr Koulos, the sight of Austrian soldiers marching toward the northern end of the Pass assured him that the Russians must have won important victories in Galicia, thus placing all the passes of the Carpathians in jeopardy. But whatever his interest in conjectures regarding the possibility of victory or defeat, his own business was too urgent to admit of other issues, and so he made his way forward cautiously through the underbrush, which in places was almost impenetrable. Four-footed things, startled by this unusual invasion of their hunting ground, started up almost beside him and fled—rabbits, squirrels, a wolf, and a brown bear, which rocked upon its four legs dubiously for a moment, and then lumbered comically away. These creatures and the pathless woods advised him that however frequented the mountain road below, the inhabitants hereabout were not in the habit of traversing the wooded mountain sides. Moving forward slowly he climbed the hills in the general direction of the castle, the sunlit bastions of which suddenly appeared through the foliage above him and to the right.

He moved more warily now, for if Goritz were in hiding within Schloss Szolnok, he would of course take pains that every avenue of approach should be watched. But a careful inspection of the crag upon which the castle was perched, and from this new angle, led Renwick to the conclusion that Goritz might be so sure of its inaccessibility from the north that no guard at the ruined end would be thought necessary. At first glance, indeed, Renwick was inclined to that opinion himself, for the rocks, though fissured and scarred as though by the blasts of winter, though not so high, were scarcely less precipitous than upon the southern side. At his very feet, perhaps already buried for years in the loam and moss, were the huge blocks of stone which had fallen from the northern towers and rolled down the steep slope of the natural counterscarp which the conformation of the mountain provided.

Renwick scrutinized the beetling wall of rock above the incline with a dubious eye, seeking a possible path or succession of footholds by means of which he might make his way to the breach in the stone rampart above. The task seemed hopeless, but he knew that the most formidable difficulties are often solved by the simplest devices, and so he studied the wall patiently, his gaze suddenly focusing upon a fissure in the cliff, a little to his right, which went upward at an angle, its apex passing a projection of the rock which extended for a hundred feet or more to the southward. Above that precarious platform, the cliff was splintered and torn as though the agencies which had devastated the wall above had wreaked their vengeance here too. But there were finger holds and footholds, a desperate climb even in the daylight to a member of an Alpine club. But Renwick from his ambush studied the face of that rock foot by foot, and at last decided that when night came, the possibilities of entrance having been denied him elsewhere, he would make the effort.

He did not know what he would find among the ruins above, their connection with the habitable part of the castle having probably been walled up by Baron Neudeck, and granting that Renwick succeeded in making his way to the top, his chances of reaching the main buildings might be slim indeed. And suppose after all this effort, that Marishka were not here—that Goritz had gone on—!

But how could he have gone on? Surely not by a road guarded by an army at its other end. And it was only last night that he had seen Goritz's fellow assassin and hireling. Marishka was within, and Renwick had not permitted a doubt of it to enter his mind since yesterday.

But to make certain of the matter he decided upon further investigation, retracing his steps for some hundred yards down the declivity, making sure of his landmarks as he went, until he reached the lower level of the valley, where crossing a brook he began climbing the steeper slope of the northern mountain. Here a greater degree of caution was required, for the rock upon which the Schloss was built was close to the northern slope and it was over the eastern reaches of the northern crags that the road passed which led to the causeway. To make his investigation more difficult of accomplishment, most of the mountain side was in bright sunlight while the castle was in shadow. And so, it being now the middle of the afternoon, he decided to move slowly at first, find a secluded spot and eat of the bread and cheese which was to be both his breakfast and supper.

From his position, well up among the rocks, he had a view of the tree-tops of the valley below with a glimpse of the road a short distance from the spot where he had crossed it in the morning. The ruined end of the castle he commanded, too, from a new angle. He was now above the level of the crag and made out among the twisted mass of stone the vestiges of what had once been a chapel, and a watchtower. There was an arch which seemed to lead into a vaulted structure, but from his position he could not see within it.

Renwick's eyes were good and they searched the valley below him ceaselessly. He thought he heard a rumble as of thunder in the distance, but as the sky was clear he knew that he must have been mistaken, but after a while along the road below him more soldiers passed, riding rapidly and silently—into the deeper shadows of the gorge. Their clattering wagons followed, and this, Renwick decided, was the cause of the distant sound that he had heard. Once or twice he thought that he saw motion among the undergrowth at some distance below him, but decided that he had been mistaken. Again—nearer and to his right. There was no doubt of it now. Renwick crawled deeper into his place of concealment and peered out.

Some one was climbing up over the rocks below him, mounting slowly a little farther up the gorge. He heard the crackling of twigs and the sound of voices in a subdued murmur. There were two of them. Venturing his head beyond the leaves he got a glimpse through the trunks of the pine-trees—a tall man and a shorter, stouter one. They were more than a hundred yards away and moving up the mountain side away from him, but to Renwick's mind, fixed only upon the men he sought and those who sought himself, the figures, though wearing rough clothing like his own, seemed strangely like those of Herr Windt and Spivak. Of course he might have been mistaken, for within two miles of this spot at least two hundred people lived, but the profusion of game in the valley confirmed the report of his host of last night that the peasants who lived in the vicinity of Dukla were not in the habit of venturing into the Pass. And if not peasants and not the men he had imagined them to be, who were they and what were they doing here? He lay quietly, listening for the sound of their footsteps which seemed to pass toward the castle above him and at last died away in the distance.

Windt here? It seemed incredible that he had traced Renwick so quickly. Or was it as Herr Koulos had said, that the same sources of information which had been open to Renwick had been open to Herr Windt also? Was he seeking Goritz or Renwick or both, trusting to the relations between Renwick and Marishka to bring all trails to this converging point? If the strangers among the rocks above him were Windt and Spivak, he was indeed in danger of detection and capture, and the fate of an Englishman taken armed in a region where Austrian troops were massing was unpleasant to contemplate. And yet Renwick decided that before he made the rash attempt to mount the cliff he must further investigate. And so he lay silent until nightfall when with drawn automatic he emerged from his hiding place and quietly made his way along the mountain side. He searched the undergrowth eagerly, as a man only can when his life depends upon the keenness of his senses, and without mishap reached a point opposite the castle where he commanded both the courtyard and the mass of buildings around the central tower. The distance across the narrow gorge at this side of the castle was perhaps two or three hundred yards, and Renwick from the shelter of a bush could see the windows quite distinctly. As the night grew dark two lights appeared—both, he noted, upon the side of the buildings toward where he sat—lights which could not be visible from the deeper, wider valley upon the other side or from the road below. He saw figures moving—the small bent figure of a woman in the building upon the left which seemed to be the kitchen, a man in the courtyard near the gate which Renwick had seen from the other side. The room upon the right near the keep, seemed to be the Hall, for the windows were longer than any others and denoted a high ceiling within. There was a light here too, and Renwick watched the windows, his heart beating high with hope. In his anxiety to see who was within the apartment he forgot the strangers upon the mountain side, the danger of his position, the hazardous feat before him—all but the hope that Marishka was here.

He had almost given up hope of seeing her when she appeared. He knew her instantly, though he could not easily distinguish her features. She sat in a chair at a table, conversing with some one whom he could not see. A pang of jealousy shot through him. Goritz—!

What if believing him dead Marishka had learned to tolerate the German agent, even to the point of friendship. There they were, sitting face to face at table, as they had done for two months or more. What were their relations? Prisoner and captive? And which was which? How could he have blamed Marishka,—Renwick, a dead man?

He knew that she had grieved, that she must have hated the man who had done him to death—perhaps still hated him as Renwick did. He peered at the fragment of Marishka's white dress, the only part of her that was visible to him, and upbraided himself for his unworthy thoughts of her.

And when the dead came to life what would she say to him?

Hedged about with difficulties and dangers as he was, the sight of the girl so near him and yet so inaccessible was maddening. Now that he had discovered her, every impulse urged him to the feat of scaling the wall. And yet, as though fascinated, he still sat, his gaze fixed on the bit of white drapery which was a part of Marishka. He tried to imagine what Goritz was saying to her, for he seemed to know that Goritz was her companion, seemed to hear the murmur of their voices. He waited long and then the white drapery vanished, reappeared, and Marishka's figure stood in the window, leaning with one hand upon the casement, in silhouette against the light. And now quite distinctly against the velvety soft background of the breathless night the sound of her voice, refined by the distance between them, but fearful in its tone and significance.

"I—I am not afraid to die, Herr Goritz," it said.

Renwick started to his feet as though suddenly awaking from a dreadful dream into a still more dreadful reality. Marishka still stood in the window motionless, but the words that she had spoken seemed to be ringing endlessly down the silent gorge and in his brain, which was suddenly empty of all but its echoes. He wanted to shout to her a cry of encouragement—and hope, but he remained silent, grimly watching and listening.

Marishka said something else and then turned into the room, while through another window he saw the dark figure of Goritz pass away from her toward the outward wall. Of Marishka he saw no more, but at intervals he saw Goritz pacing to and fro....

How much longer Renwick watched he did not know, but after a while he found himself stumbling along the face of the mountain, descending by the way that he had come, Marishka's words singing their message through and through him. It was as though the words had been meant for him instead of Goritz, that Renwick even in death should know of her danger and come to her aid. He was coming now, not as an avenging spirit, but in the flesh, armed with righteous wrath and a fearful lust for vengeance. He understood what the message meant. Hers was not a cry of despair but of defiance.... What had happened? He had not seen.

"I am not afraid to die." Nor was Renwick—but to live were better—to live at least for tonight. Fury gave him desperation, but for the task before him he needed coolness, too. And realizing that haste might send him hurtling to the bottom of the gorge, he moved more cautiously, stepping down with infinite pains until he reached the brook, which he crossed carefully, and then moved back up the declivity toward the castle.

The night was clear, starlit but moonless, and the cliff as he reached it looked down upon him with majestic and sullen disdain. The ages had passed over and left it scarred and seared but still defiant and inaccessible. Renwick paused a moment to be sure of his ground and then boldly crawled up over the chaos of tumbled bowlders and broken masonry, until he reached the wall of solid rock, where he stopped again to regain his breath and examine the fissure that he had studied earlier in the day. It was a cleft in the rock, the result of some subterranean upheaval which had caused the whole crag to settle into its base; a fissure, originally a mere crack which had been widened and deepened by the erosion of time. Upon closer inspection, it was larger than it had appeared from below, perhaps ten feet in width at the outside, and tapering gradually as it rose.

He entered and ran his fingers along its sides, penetrating to its full depth until there was just room enough in which to wedge his bent body. Then rising cautiously, seated, so to speak, upon the incline which seemed to be about thirty degrees from the vertical, he dug the iron-shod toes of his peasant's boots into the roughnesses of the wall before him and rose, pushing with elbows and arms where the wall was too smooth for a foothold. It was hard work, and at the end of ten minutes, perspiring profusely, and leg and arm weary, he stopped upon a projecting ledge, where he found a perfect balance for his entire body, and relaxed. But he had gained fifty feet.

Above him was the long streak of pallid light shimmering against the gloom of the rock like the blade of a naked sword, with its point far above him among the stars. For a full five minutes he rested, and then went upward again, feeling with his finger ends while he braced his body, taking advantage of every foothold before and behind. At one spot the fissure widened dangerously, but he struggled inward; at another it went almost straight upward, requiring sheer strength of fingers; but at last he found another ledge and braced himself with his feet for another rest. He did not dare to look downward now, for fear of dizziness, but he knew that he had already come high. The sword blade was shorter, curved now more like a scimitar at its tip, which showed that the angle was greater.

But what if before he reached the rocky platform, the cleft should grow too narrow to admit the passage of his body? It was too late now to think of any such impediment. He struggled upward again, slipping back at times, clawing like a cat, with toes and fingers, fighting for his breath, but always mounting higher, his gaze upward toward a star in the heavens near the point of the scimitar. Would he ever reach the top? Bits of the rock crumbled, broke off and flew out into space, and once he slipped and slid outward, only saving himself from destruction by the aid of a jutting piece of jagged rock which caught in his clothing. A desperate venture—but successful, for with one final effort, with fingers torn, and knees and elbows bruised and bleeding, he hauled himself up to the level of the flat projection of rock upon which he dragged himself, exhausted and breathless, but so far, safe.

He lay there for a long time, flat on his back, his eyes dimmed with effort, his gaze on the stars, which now seemed to blink in a friendly way upon his venture. To succeed so far—failure was now impossible. Fearfully he peered over the edge of the cliff upon the velvety tree-tops of the valley below. Three hundred feet, four perhaps, and beyond to the left where the crag fell down to the very bed of the Dukla itself, black void—vacancy.

Above him still was the hazardous climb up the broken face of the rocks, but he did not fear it. His nerves were iron now. There were roots growing here, and small bushes, stunted trees, growing in the interstices of the rocks, and he climbed steadily, always looking upward, toward the breach in the wall now so very near, fifty feet, forty—and then the wall seemed to hang over him smooth and bare. So he hung there by a sturdy branch, one foot clinging, and studied the surface, descending a few feet carefully and then rising again to the left in a fissure, swinging himself along a narrow ledge where the masonry of the bastion joined the rock. Over this he climbed, finding solid footing at last, and then rest and a breathing space within the broken walls.

He lay behind a pile of rocks which had fallen from the walls of the watchtower, recovering his breath again, and the strength of his fingers, every bone of which was crying out in protest. He peered over into the depths below, trying to measure the distance he had come—three hundred feet—perhaps more. Could he find a rope of that length within the castle—? After a while he straightened in the shadow of the wall and peered cautiously up at the dark bulk of the keep and the tower, beyond the ruined chapel, searching its roofs and window for a sign of life. Silence. The ruin was deserted. For half an hour he watched and waited, and then sure that there was no chance that he had been observed, rose to his feet and moved forward stealthily into the shadows of the chapel. The roof had long since fallen in and been removed, but Renwick stumbled over a dusty tomb, toward the fragment of altar with the reredos still showing traces of sculpture, partially protected by a fragment of roof over the apse which had been spared by the wind and storm. To the right of the altar was a Gothic door, which had at one time led into the building adjoining, but upon investigation he found that it had been built in with solid blocks of stone. The other arch of the vaulted structure outside which he had noted from the mountain side was also filled by a wall. So far as Renwick could see, the ruined part of Schloss Szolnok was isolated, with no mode of egress from the habitable part.

Renwick had screened his movements as far as possible from view of the windows in the keep and other buildings, and now discovered that the lowest one was at least fifteen feet above the level of this rampart; and so before planning any action, he investigated the guardhouse, a fallen ruin upon the north bastion. He seemed to make out the forms of what had once been the stone treads of a circular stair in a tumbled mass. At first the appearance of the place discouraged him, for it seemed too far away from the main mass of buildings to furnish any communication with them, but as he peered among the fallen masonry he thought he detected a darker spot in the obscurity, and bending forward was aware of a heavy smell, as of mold and dampness. Upon investigation he discovered an irregular hole under the mass of stone, a little wider than his body.

He dared not strike a match for fear the glow of it might be observed from one of the windows of the keep, but testing the balance of the heavy stone steps, he decided to investigate, and so lowering his legs into the dark aperture he let himself hang from his waist and found that his toes encountered solidity. He tested his footing with his weight, and then let go, descending into the hole, which seemed to be a stairway, leading from the tower into the bowels of the rock. With a touch of fingers upon the efflorescent walls he moved cautiously down, step by step, sure now that this was the ancient corridor by which the men-at-arms passed from the guardhouse to the other rampart. Sixty-two steps down he counted, and then he reached a level, where he paused a moment to look at the vague blotch of gray which was the starlight. Even with eyes that had now grown accustomed to the darkness he could see nothing, and so deeming himself safe from observation, he struck a match, which struggled a moment against the foul air and then went out. But in the brief moment of partial illumination, Renwick made out a corridor extending straight before him, slightly downward. He followed it cautiously his hands stretched out, his toes feeling for pitfalls, and at last came to a rough wall.

Was this the end—a wall which shut off communication with the ruins? Emptiness to the right. He turned and followed the wall blindly, down its tortuous way, aware of a difficulty in breathing, and a throbbing at his temples down which the moisture was pouring profusely. In a while which seemed hours, the rough wall stopped, and his fingers encountered a wooden upright—a doorway—open. And testing the stone floor carefully he passed through it, the echoes of footfalls advising him that he was in a larger space. He peered in all directions, seeking a sign of light within, for it seemed that the air had now grown fresher, but he saw nothing, and so striking a third match which burned more brightly, he held it over his head for a moment and looked about him.

It was a kind of crypt in a good state of preservation, octagonal in shape, about twelve feet high, and the ceiling was supported by arches which sprang from dwarf columns of stone at the angles. From the center of the ceiling by a heavy chain hung an ancient iron lamp which still contained the remnants of a candle. There was a heavy wooden table at one side, and two heavy chairs, but Renwick's gaze passed these quickly to a partition of rough boards in one of the walls opposite, and then his match burnt his fingers and expired.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE DEATH GRIP

He stood in the middle of the stone floor, matchbox in hand, trying to decide what he must do next. As nearly as he could judge by his observations during the afternoon, and the direction of the steps and passageways, the vault was somewhere under the main group of buildings, the keep or one end of the Hall, two or three stories below the level of the chapel floor. Part of the corridor through which he had passed was hewn from the solid rock, and part was built of masonry. The wooden partition opposite him was obviously the beginning of the used part of the castle, but admitting that he could pass it, in which direction would it lead him? He feared to strike another match, for beyond the door perhaps someone might be moving. It was now, as nearly as Renwick could judge, about one o'clock in the morning. He crossed the crypt carefully and found the partition, feeling its surface, which was made of rough boards loosely nailed together. He put his eye to one of the cracks and peering in, could see nothing; but a current of warmer air which came through the slits, slightly aromatic in odor, warned him that the space beyond was surely connected with the habitable part of the castle—a wine cellar perhaps, or a storage room. He debated for a moment whether it was wise to use another light and then at last decided to take the risk, and as matches were scarce, found the ancient candle in the iron lamp, which after sputtering feebly for a moment, consented to burn. By its aid he examined the dust upon the floor of the crypt, which showed the imprint of no footsteps but his own; then the walls of the crypt, discovering immediately another door which his eyes had missed in the earlier glow of the match,—a narrow door open to the left, of thick wood, with heavy iron hinges, the flanges of which formed the braces of the door itself. He blew out the candle and put it into his pocket. Peering through the keyhole and seeing nothing, he lifted the latch and tried to open it.

His efforts proved that it had been unused for many years, for the hinges had sagged, and some of its weight rested upon the stone floor. But with an effort, he managed to move it an inch or so. Another effort swung it clear of its stone sill, and at last he managed to open it wide enough to admit the passage of his body. But with this last attempt the rusty hinges rasped horribly; and so he waited in silence, listening fearfully for any sounds in front or behind him which might indicate alertness above.

Another passage lay before him, a narrower one, which soon developed a straight flight of narrow stairs leading upwards. He stood for a moment staring, for the gloom above him seemed to lighten. He sat upon the lower step and took off his heavy boots, then crept up the stairs noiselessly, reaching a landing dimly lighted by a small slit of a window which looked out upon the night. Pausing here, he was enabled definitely to establish his position within the castle walls. Below him was the narrower gorge, opposite him the cliff upon which he had crouched this afternoon. He was beneath one end of the Hall, and from all indications, in an ancient secret passageway, the existence of which from its condition had for years been forgotten. At the landing there was a heavy wooden door upon his left. This he examined as minutely as possible by the dim light of the loophole, peering through the keyhole, from which exuded a faint odor of gasoline. It must be here that Goritz kept the car. The platform was near the level of the rampart, then. Renwick did not pause here long for he saw that the stairs turned and mounted again in the opposite direction.

Renwick felt for his automatic, and leaving his shoes on the landing by the window, again climbed into the darkness. Another landing—and before his eyes, now sensitive to the slightest lessening of the gloom, a thin thread of light crossed the narrow passage, terminating at his right in an illuminated spot upon the wall. It did not emanate as he had at first supposed, from a keyhole, but from a crevice between two stones, where the joints had turned to powder. He peered through eagerly, but his range of vision was small, covering merely a section of paneled woodwork, a mullioned window, and a chair or two. He held his breath and listened, for he fancied he heard the sound of footsteps. Yes, there they were again, the slowly moving footsteps of a man pacing to and fro—and then the footsteps halted suddenly and a voice spoke. It was that of Leo Goritz.

"Are you sure that you saw them?"

"There is no mistake. My eyes are good."

"Did they remain long?"

"For twenty minutes or so, but they saw that the thing was impossible and went away."

"The situation becomes interesting," said Goritz.

"Rather too risky, I should say," put in the other. "If the Herr Hauptmann had only taken my advice last week——"