The last of the Russian trio lay dead upon the ground, but Carter, in short nervous excursions, rode back and forth as he searched for new prey. The mood for killing—and killing—was upon him. He was a primitive savage.

His horse shied violently and stood still. Blinded with rage, the rider would have wreaked his unreasoning hatred on the animal who, even for a second, had stopped the ceaseless, prowling movements inseparable from the man's strange jungle mood. With a curse he drove his spurs deep. The poor brute quivered, but would not budge. Carter looked ahead of him to ascertain the cause, determined if it was a living obstacle, to batter, slash, and cut it into nothingness.

He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving to regain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes and sanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.

"I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his hand heavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sob choked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urged as a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterly against him.

Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does exist between men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of the dying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.

"But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved her life." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.

"Her Grace is safe, then?"

Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, nodded affirmatively.

"It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.

"Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the other shook his head in resignation to the inevitable.

"She's a lydey—you understand—but would it be too great a shock—to 'er—for me to speak to 'er—before—before—I croak?" he stammered wistfully.

"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to a dying man.



XXII

CARRICK IS KING

"Where is Carrick?" Her question came from the thick copse in which she was concealed. "You have had news, I know," she said, stepping into view and glancing searchingly into his troubled countenance. "Is he wounded?" He could have gathered her into his arms and kissed her as she stood before him, but that the very air seemed charged with impending disaster. As gently as brevity would permit, he told her of Carrick's fate. Together they rode swiftly back to where Carrick lay, fighting his last triumphant adversary, Death himself.

"No Lunnon sights to see," he muttered in his delirium; "no concert songs to'ear.... Ah, Meg, you was cruel 'ard on poor Tod, but damn you, I loves you still."

"A woman betrayed him," she said. Carter nodded a grim assent. Her lips quivered. Her eyes brimmed to the brink with priceless womanly sympathy. "Perhaps," she said rising and turning away, "perhaps he wouldn't care for us to know."

Carter drew her back gently. "I don't think he would mind—if you knew. Poor chap, his has certainly been a hard fate."

Responding to the appeal in their hearts, which penetrated the numbing faculties, Carrick, in one final effort, threw off the shackles of Death and stood free for a season. His eyes opened at first without recognition for the pair bending over him. Then a gradual joy warmed the cooling embers of his life.

"'Ighness," he cried; the neighborhood of Death stripped his speech to its native crudeness. "'Ighness, a man carries to 'is grave the face of one woman in 'is 'eart. Hi knows that much to me sorrow. Captain, 'ere, beggin' your pardon, loves you, but daren't sye so for fear of 'Is Majesty. You don't love the King, you love Captain Carter. God bless 'im, 'e's the best man ever breathed. For Gawd's sake, 'Ighness, don't let 'im carry your sweet face to the grave with 'im unless your love goes with hit. You two was made for each other."

As a blade loses its sharpness from continuous wear, so dulled the eyes of Carrick in his combat with Death. In the bitterness of his strife he struggled to his elbow. Who can tell of the range of one's soul or the might thereof? On the brink of Eternity, Life wrestled with Death. The body was to be bared of the soul. Was the soul to be stripped of the associations it had formed in this existence? Might it not also strive for a continuance of its entity even as the man struggled for further living? Does the soul return to a nebulous state without further initiate perceptions after a life—a span—of activity? Was it merely recollections, or did his desperate spirit revisit the route of its life in a fruitless flight from Death? His voice came from far away, and what he said showed that he was at least living over the older days.

"Yes, Meg, Hi loves you. There hisn't a king, girl, has Hi would change plyces with for you.... Posies for yer winder. Let 'em grow, till we've other posies in our 'ome. Yer blushin', Meg. Ha! Ha!... Oh, Gawd, me 'eart's broke.... Forget?... Hit's you, Doc Judson, as will look arter Captain Carter now. Good-bye, Doc.... Why, there's 'er face again. Damn you, Meg. Hi hates you, but Hi loves you.... Captain Carter.... Ah-h-h."

His struggle with Love, with Life, and with Death was over. With a long-drawn sigh of relief his spirit had passed. His head was turned to the man who had befriended him.

Hand in hand, Trusia and Carter arose and stood over the pulseless form. Trusia was the first to speak.



"We cannot leave him here, dear. Poor, poor Carrick," and she threatened to sob. Carter slipped his arm about her comfortingly. As though returning, birdlike, to its nest, her head cradled itself against his shoulder, her arm timidly sought his neck and for one brief second she was content.

"Come," he said almost brutally to dissipate the apathy which death had thrown upon them both. "I'll carry him." He assisted her to mount, then, Carrick in his arms, he scrambled into the saddle. As they swung at a gallop out of the woods, a shot whistled past his head.

"Are you hurt, dear?" she cried.

"No; these woods seem Russianized, though. Pray heaven the road is not," and with strained eyes to the front, with word and spur, they raced for the lane to the castle.

"Something is amiss, dear; I know; I feel it. Still no matter what it is," she said, turning and laying her hand with a trustful little movement upon his arm, "I have your love, my King." With one foot on the flat step of the castle entrance, as she said this Trusia turned to Carter, a world of capitulated love in her eyes. The wicket opened with a more ominous creak than was its wont, it seemed. The Sergeant thrust his shaggy pate through the narrow opening in answer to their knock. On seeing who it was he stepped out to where he would have ample space for the full salute he always gave Her Grace. Some perplexity on the simple face aroused her forebodings anew.

"What is it, Sergeant?" she inquired anxiously. "Who is here?"

"Can't make heads or tails of it, Your Grace; not that I have any right to, but one gets figuring on what is going on around him when he is idle. It must be very important, since Colonel Sutphen has been summoned from the frontier. Count Zulka has not arrived yet, but a courier was sent for him, too. His Majesty is also here, but it seems that Count Sobieska sent out all the orders. The courier from Paris arrived about an hour before the Privy Council was summoned. Then Josef was sent for. Then, though kept in the office, he was put under arrest. Search has been made everywhere for Your Grace. My commands were to invite you to enter as soon as you could be found. I will announce you."

"You must come, also," the girl insisted, turning to Carter.

"But Carrick?" he objected, as he looked down at the lifeless figure in his arms.

"Bring him in," she replied. "Though too late to do him further service, Krovitch shall not forget his devotion and his sacrifice."

They opened and entered the door of Sobieska's office. A faint commotion heralded the sight of Carrick which Carter attributed to natural surprise; he had no idea that it held a deeper significance. He placed the blood-stained form upon a leather lounge, folding the hands across the breast. The pallid features seemed to have taken on a strange nobility in death.

It needed but a scant glance to prove that something was wrong, an odd repression filled the air with a myriad silent surmises. Trusia's eyes were blazing. Then Carter, following their direction, noted that the Minister of Private Intelligence, against all etiquette, was seated calmly at his desk, while His Majesty was standing. Josef, at one corner of the room, was guarded by the pair of soldiers who had been placed to watch Carter and Carrick the day of their arrival. A strapping young fellow, pale and mud-splashed, a bandage about his head, his left arm in a sling, leaned heavily against the wainscoting.

As Trusia courtesied low to Stovik, Sobieska arose, a slight frown marking a thin line between his brows, to bow sadly in the direction of the body on the lounge. His back was deliberately turned upon the Parisian with such studied insolence of action that the Duchess could not permit it to pass unrebuked.

"The King!" she said.

There followed—silence. Stovik and the courier dropped to their knees with bowed heads. Sobieska, gloom encircled, stood with bent head and quivering lips. His sombre eyes were fixed upon the inanimate Cockney as though to this modern he would recall the miracle of Lazarus. Then out of the well of his woe, came his voice, deep, and grief-laden. In the simplicity of life's greatest emotion, he pointed toward the couch.

"The King?" he questioned, looking straight into Trusia's eyes now. "The King? Does not your blood—your common heritage—tell you that the King is dead? God rest His Majesty."

She turned from one to the other in total bewilderment; finally, as though trusting none other, she came to Carter for enlightenment. He had comprehended in a glance.

"What do they mean?" she begged plaintively. "My poor head is awhirl in all this gloom."

"Carrick is King," he answered. A single tear, a perfect pearl of pity, hung abashed upon her cheek.

"It is so," assented the Minister, as she awaited his confirmation. Gradually her grief dried in the realization of the awful deception which had been practiced by some one on her country. The flame of her burning rage shot suddenly into sight.

"What treason brought him here, then?" she asked haughtily, pointing indignantly at Stovik.

The latter smiled deprecatingly, as Sobieska answered, "Part of a Russian plot, Highness, of which, so far as we can ascertain, this gentleman has been the innocent victim. It was by such a plan they sought to lure all the patriots within the boundaries of our land, then to draw their net about us. I pray God that we still have time."

"Who was it?" she inquired with lips white and drawn, and brow contracted.

"Josef."

All eyes were turned upon the accused, whose inscrutable countenance underwent no shadow of a change, no fear of death was there, no regret for infamy. If the expression had altered at all, it was to display a shade more of triumphant insolence. The Duchess turned sternly to him.

"Is this true?" she asked, loathing the necessity of speaking to him. Yet there was no passion in her voice; the situation was too grave for that.

He smiled his hateful, unchanging smile, as he bowed a taunting assent.

"You shall die," she said, in the same level tones. She was not cruel, had not lost an iota of her womanliness. The crushing magnitude of his falsity to her country made her forget that she was aught else than the regent for these people and that here was a matter of primitive, vindictive justice which must be settled by her hand.

"When?" Josef's tone ridiculed the sentence imposed.

"At dawn," she answered, her scornful glance sweeping his colorless face.

For the first time, his aspect was nearly that of a man. He held his head erect, the cringe disappeared from his back, the obsequiousness from his manner. Then while an eye might wink, he took on the appearance of a snake with high-held head—about to strike.

"In about one hour," he boldly asserted, "the troops of His Imperial Majesty will have surrounded, yes, and entered this place. If harm comes to me, you all shall swing. Schallberg, Lore, Bagos are already ours. What," he continued with a comprehensive sneer, including all present, "did you think that you had conquered the Bear so handily?"

They felt it was the unwelcome truth he was speaking. All day the distant booming of guns had sounded in their ears as the "death bells" ring for the superstitious gude-wife.

"All last night as you laughed and danced," Josef continued, "a Russian army, unchallenged, passed your gates, and could have taken you all. Knowing that it had you safe when needed, it pushed on to the bigger game, the capture of your capital. At daybreak it began battering down those walls you thought you held so firmly."

The wrath, gathering in a purple cloud on Sutphen's brow, now broke into a storm. "He must have known," he said pointing at the pseudo-king. "He appointed you officer of the day," and the outraged Colonel wheeled about on Josef, who scarcely deigned a smile of commiseration for such ignorance.

"He knew nothing," he finally volunteered. "I brought him here so that if Russia won, I could save my dupe. If Krovitch won, a true revelation of his real status would make him my debtor for life."

"Why?" Sobieska asked amid a stillness freighted with the prophecy of a startling revelation. All held their breath as Josef, turning slowly from countenance to countenance, read the disdain which he inspired.

"He has kissed you," he said pointing a bony finger at Trusia, "and would have married you." Her face crimsoned at the memory of that betrothal salute, formal and public as it had been. Waiting until the scene had time to rise before her eyes, he continued that by no chance should the import of his words be missed, "He is my son." The pride of the parent snake was in the eyes that he turned upon the Parisian, who turned his head away, ashamed of such regard.

"May God forgive us both," he whispered, "but I disown you."

For the first time a hint of color appeared in the parchment hue of Josef's cheek and for the first time a human note sounded in his voice. "My son," he began with a slight outstretching of his hands, "my son, I wanted you to be wealthy, great, not the spawn of a hereditary servitor, not a struggling artist." Slowly, as he realized that the artist would have none of him, the wonted bitter look crept back into his face, leaving it wan as ever, while additional defiance increased the grim lines about his mouth.

There followed a breathless silence. Somewhere, to the actual pain of all but one present, a bird was singing in the outside world. The sound came faintly to their ears as from another existence—the shadow sound of dreams. In the room itself reigned the cold stillness of death. Then gradually a sigh of sounds crept in. Increasing in volume, it shaped itself into an approaching medley of shouts, hoof-beats, scattering rifle shots, a fierce sentry challenge, a reply,—then a steed halted on the stone flags of the courtyard. They waited breathlessly for the added disaster all felt was coming. Their senses, cloyed by grief, knew that whatever it was of ill-omen, it could not touch them now. Still they listened. The wicket in the entrance door was heard to open. An irregular, halting, desperate step came up the hall.

With a lunge, the door flung open. Zulka, bleeding, grimy, and gasping, tottered into the room.

"Schallberg! Schallberg!" he whispered faintly, "Lore! Bagos! all are taken!" And he fell heavily to the floor.

They pressed forward, excepting Josef, who, in the prevailing excitement slipped from the room. His escape was unnoticed for the time being, as Zulka, struggling to his feet, told them the story of the attack upon the capital and the death blow to their hopes.

"You left your post alive, Paul," said Her Highness reproachfully.

"Don't say that," he begged, raising his hopeless face to read her condemnation. "With the five survivors of the last assault, I escaped, Highness, to bring the news, so that you might be saved. My companions mark the road to Schallberg. The enemy followed me to your very gates. I wish," he said, with a gulping sob, "that I, too, lay dead with those brave fellows in the ruins of our ancient capital." He raised his face, all powder-stained, as he searched the room with eyes that glowed with a desire for righteous vengeance. No countenance present wore the insignia of guilt. "Where is the traitor?" he asked. For the first time Josef's absence was noted.

Sobieska ran to the door. "Stop Josef before he gets to the road," he cried to the sergeant, who seemed utterly amazed at such a command.

"Excellency," he replied, "Josef never passed me through this door." Trusia approached the excited Minister.

"It is no use to attempt to stop him," she said with a shake of the head. "He knows of the secret passage to the inn. Doubtless he has already joined his comrades."

Sobieska groaned. "He'll give the alarm. We will be cut off."

"If we want to save Her Grace," said Carter, "we will have no time to lose. We do not wish to be mewed up here. We'd better make a dash for the forest and trust to God to reach the frontier. Take this, Paul," he said, thrusting a flask into the hands of the nobleman, who was swaying upon uncertain legs. "Brace up." He caught his friend as the latter was about to topple over.

"It must be Trusia first," said the Krovitzer, grasping the American's hand with a pressure which was fervently returned.

"It will always be Trusia," he replied firmly.

Not yet enlightened, Zulka now approached Delmotte, before whom he knelt. "Your Majesty absolves me for leaving my post?" he besought.

"I am not your king, Count," said the Parisian, honestly chagrined at his false position. "He lies dead over there," and he indicated the temporary bier. "I have unhappily been the victim of an imposture." Then hurriedly Sobieska recited to Zulka the outline of the conspiracy and Delmotte's connection with it.

"If you will let me help," said the artist appealing to them all, "I'll show you that though a bourgeois Frenchman, I know how to die."

Trusia held out her hand impulsively. "I thank you, monsieur," she said simply. "Forgive me if I have been late in discovering that you are a brave man."

Divested of his fancied power, Delmotte was again the amiable boulevardier, as could be seen by the manner in which he received the plaudits of the men, with whom he now was rated as a comrade-in-arms.

Zulka, meanwhile, having learned how Sobieska had unearthed Carrick's claims to the crown, had approached and lifted the lifeless hand to his lips.

"May God rest Your Majesty," he murmured reverently. He arose and spoke quietly to his companions. "He must be interred before we leave. In a few days, no doubt, the castle will be razed to the ground. It is not fitting that a King of Krovitch should be the feast of wolves and ravens."

So Carrick, with a scanty following, was carried to the little chapel, behind the throne-room, where the sarcophagi of the ancient kings could be seen lining the walls.

Upon his head they placed the crown. His hands were crossed upon the sceptre he had never dreamed of wielding, while, dearer than all to him in life, upon his breast they placed the heirloom he had prized,—the grand medal of the Lion.

His body was placed in the mausoleum of the first Stovik, his ancestor. No royal name was cut, but the place of his burial was deeply graved in the hearts of all present. Had he lived he had been a farcical king, but dead he was as imposing as the grandest monarch of them all.

Sorrowfully they turned and left the mortuary. Returning to Sobieska's office, impelled by the necessities of the moment, they plunged into the plans for an immediate flight from the castle.

"The highways are already swarming with Cossacks," said Zulka. "Once gain the shelter of the woods, however, and we can hide by day and travel at night until we reach the frontier."

"How many have we in the garrison?" inquired Trusia, who had instinctively placed herself at Carter's side.

"Half a platoon of cavalry," replied Sobieska gravely, thinking of the meagreness of their force for the occasion.

"One more," said Muhlen-Sarkey entering the room. He bent above Trusia's extended hand as serenely as though they were both figuring in a court function and not a congress of death.

"Living nearer Schallberg," he explained, "I saw how matters stood, and immediately packed off the women folk to the boundaries. I then came here to offer my services, my sword, if necessary."

"Courageous heart," applauded Trusia, touched by the old fellow's loyalty. At her commendation his face, as round as a schoolboy's, lighted up with happiness.

"The roads?" Carter questioned eagerly.

The old nobleman shook his head, regretting that he could furnish no information concerning their state. "I do not know. Anticipating that they would be crowded, though," he coughed suggestively, and his eyes twinkled, "I came through the woods. Met one inquisitive young Russian. Convinced him it would be impossible for him to tell all he knew." The Treasurer touched his sword with a gesture which the men understood. "He contracted an impediment to his speech."

While the horses were being hastily saddled, Trusia had the garrison assembled in the courtyard and explained to the heart-broken soldiers that Krovitch's dream of independence was over, giving them free permission to leave their colors at once if any so desired. When she called for volunteers to aid in her escape every man sprang forward, loudly cheering Trusia, then Krovitch.



XXIII

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

"Marie, you are to go with the first detachment. You, Therese, with the second. Your mistress will ride with the gentlemen of her household."

Clad in the Duchess's clothes, as they had volunteered devotedly, the better to throw off pursuit from Her Grace, the maids with many tearful protestations of undying loyalty took their allotted places in the cavalcade which was forming in the courtyard of the castle.

"First section," rang out the preliminary command, "draw sabres. By fours, left. March. Trot," and the first of the forlorn hope was started. The troops swung by the little group which held Trusia in its centre. As the head of the scanty column came abreast of where she sat in her saddle, the lieutenant, Casimir, turned on his horse, his voice husky with emotion, to give a command. "Present sabres," he cried, and a score of blades were pointed heavenward, perhaps for the last time for the royal house of Schallberg. Something caught in Trusia's throat as the gallant band swept by to challenge Death that she might live.

After these had turned into the narrow incline, Marie in their midst, the second detachment followed, gravely saluting their loved liege lady.

Swords in hand, then, came the grave-faced men who had borne her hopes for Krovitch in their hearts. Courageous as any knights of old, their faces betrayed what an awful price they considered this flight to be. Alone, they would have preferred to have fought it out to the last drop of blood in their veins, but had yielded to the expedient because the girl's safety was dearer to them than their most cherished wish. At the foot of the declivity, the entire force reunited before finally debouching into the road.

"Should our party be attacked," suggested Sobieska, "it is imperative that Her Grace should be hurried right on to the frontier without awaiting the issue of the combat. Some one must accompany her. Will Your Highness choose?" he turned to her with a deep bow, a wistful light glowing in his cynical eyes.

"If Major Carter will accompany me," she said almost timidly, "I will select him." The others pressed forward to wring his hand in silence.

"We are ready, Lieutenant Casimir, advance your men," cried Sutphen.

"Columns of eights. First section to the right, second section to the left. March. Trot. Gallop," rang out the commands, as, with their last cheer for Krovitch, the troopers dashed into the highway to clear the space for Trusia. A wild confusion of sounds apprised those waiting that at least one party had engaged adversaries.

"Now," shouted Carter rising in his stirrups. With an involuntary cheer, they bolted for the cover of the woods across the road. They beheld Casimir's little band hotly engaged with an entire troop of cavalry, but it was stubbornly, unyieldingly, holding the Cossacks back. On the left the remaining squad merely awaited the passing of the Duchess to go to their comrades' assistance.

With such speed as the underbrush and rough ground would permit, the court party, headed by the white-haired Sutphen, plunged onward to the lane which led to the charcoal burner's hut. They were soon beyond even the sounds of the conflict. Carter, riding at Trusia's right, saw the tears gathering for the devoted heroes they had deserted of such cruel necessity.

They swept into the narrow lane and reached the crest of that little hill where sudden sorrow had made mock of sudden joy. Coming toward them, as if apprised of their neighborhood, they saw a squadron of Russian cavalry numerically overwhelming. Both parties stopped for the breathing space preliminary to the death grip.

"We cannot turn back. We'll have to fight, gentlemen," said the fleshy Treasurer. "Who knows," he said with a quaint smile, "it may reduce my flesh." He turned back his sleeve very deliberately and carefully until his arm was bare to the elbow. Drawing his sword, he securely fastened the thong on the hilt about his wrist that no matter how fierce the melee, he would not be disarmed. Delmotte imitated his example. Giving the blade a preparatory swing, the doughty Treasurer settled back in his saddle with a sigh of anticipation.

Zulka and Sobieska rode back to Trusia.

"Just for 'Auf wiedersehn,'" they said smilingly. Trusia held out her hands to them with sweet impulsiveness. In turn they took them and carried them to their lips. Sobieska turned to Carter for a parting word. "The charcoal burner is loyal. He can hide you by day and guide you by night. None knows better all the byways and secret paths in the forests. By to-morrow evening you should be safe in Austria. Good-bye, Highness," he said, turning to Her Grace. "God bring you safe through." His voice was hoarse with repression.

"Good luck, Carter," said Zulka, and turned away as he spoke.



Bustling good-naturedly in the very jaws of danger, Muhlen-Sarkey made his adieux with no ruffle disturbing his customary urbanity. "Sorry we can't have your help," he remarked to Carter; "you have the place of honor, though. No need to caution you. Go now. Go quickly."

"Wait," said Trusia, holding up a denying hand. "See, they are sending out a single rider around our flank." A courier detaching himself from the main body of their foes could be seen making his way past their line through the wilderness.

"To report that the quarry has been run to earth." Carter gathered up his reins grimly as he spoke. "Come, Highness," he said to the girl who was lost in some sad dream.

"I do not wish to leave them. It seems so heartless," she burst forth. Then she turned to him appealingly as to that one who must henceforth order all things for her guidance. "Let me stay," she begged, "I can die like a Krovitzer."

"For you to fall into their hands, sweetheart," he whispered, "might mean worse than death. Would you leave such a reproach to haunt the survivors? The enemy is already approaching; come." His insistent hand was at her bridle and compelled her compliance.

The Krovitzers, with high-bred courage, spurred forward to meet their opponents, scorning to await the attack of even such superior numbers.

"For Trusia!" they shouted, and then, "For Krovitch!" as they engaged with a crash which halted the fugitives by its vehemence.

"A short life and a merry one, a stout blade and a noble one," they heard Muhlen-Sarkey shout as he lunged forward with a laugh into the thickest of the fray. At the first onslaught they saw Delmotte fall apparently dead. Carter drew the girl away from the sight of further carnage.

"He has proven himself a gallant gentleman," said Carter for her comfort, as once more they entered the protection of the patriarchal trees.



XXIV

STOLEN SLEEP

Caution is slow-footed. It was already night when they drew in sight of the little blur of lamp-light in the charcoal burner's window. The girl at Carter's side straightened herself briskly in her saddle and gave an involuntary sigh of relief.

They had neither time to hail him nor a chance to dismount, before the bearded face of the occupant appeared in the doorway, which he cautiously closed behind him. He held up a warning finger. Approaching Trusia's side, he uncovered his head and humbly lifting her skirt's edge kissed its hem. He spoke in a tone too low for Carter's ear, but Trusia, turning, conveyed to her escort the substance of his remarks.

"He says that he already has guests—uninvited ones—in his home. A Cossack picket has been quartered upon him. At present they are asleep. He learned of our possible fate from them, and waited at the window, watching for such chance stragglers as might escape. He offers to guide us to a cave, which Krovitzers deserting from the Russian army have been accustomed to make their refuge against pursuit. We can lie safely hid there to-night and to-morrow he will guide us to the Vistula. Or, if we would rather, he will immediately lead us to a path which if we follow should bring us to the riverside by dawn. Which shall it be, Calvert?" He was stirred to the depths of his nature by her unreserved trust in him.

"Can you stand the longer journey?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, with you," she replied gently.

"Let us push on, then," he suggested. "We cannot put too many miles between us and pursuit. Tell him, though, to bring some food and at least one blanket for you."

Upon learning her decision the faithful fellow disappeared into the cabin, from which he presently emerged carrying two parcels which he handed to Carter. Cautioning them to follow as silently as might be, he plunged without further comment into the darkest shadows about them, which, upon their nearer approach, disclosed a tiny footpath in which they found it impossible for them to ride abreast. The peasant, with the lantern which he had lit when well out of sight of the hut, was plodding silently ahead, so Carter dropped back, keeping both eyes and ears open for any sight or sounds that might warn him of the neighborhood of strangers. The path grew each moment wilder and more impassable for equestrians. The low branches of the trees more than once whipped their faces. Three times did Trusia's horse stumble over some projecting root directly in their route. After the eternity it takes to cover five miles on an unknown road in chaotic darkness, the charcoal burner turned to his princess.

"From now on, Highness," he said with an apologetic gesture, "the road is too narrow for horses."

She turned to Carter, awaiting his decision. It was an odd picture they made. He could not but note it. The peasant held his lantern on a level with his shaggy head which alternated in deep shadows and high lights. About them, within the zone of its rays, the huge trunks of trees stood out on every side, their tops lost in the surrounding darkness. Before him, but partially revealed by the illumination, sat the girl upon her horse, her head turned to him with an expression emphasized by the encircling gloom.

"Well?" she asked, recalling him from his observations.

"We'll have to abandon them," he answered, dismounting and reluctantly helping her to the ground. When Trusia offered the horses to Hans, he refused, saying that their possession might lead to the pursuit of the fugitives.

Trusia fondly drew the satiny muzzle of her own steed down to her cheek.

"I hate to do it, Saladin," she murmured chokingly, "but I have to; you understand, dear horse." She kissed the soft nose that was resting affectionately on her shoulder. "You will have to drive him away, Calvert," she said turning to the man at her side, "I cannot." The steed seemed to comprehend, for with a whinny that was almost a sigh, he coaxingly nozzled her hand and rubbed his shapely head against her arm.

"Good-bye, Saladin," she cried wistfully, as in obedience to a sharp smack on their flanks, the horses trotted off into the thicket and were swallowed up in the gloom.

Hour after hour Carter and Trusia, led by Hans, trudged ahead, silently advancing upon the wall of darkness ever facing them. Their reflections were absorbing them and each respected the sanctity of the other's thoughts. After the second five miles had been accomplished, they suddenly came upon a clear space under the unveiled splendor of the stars. At their feet, reflecting the glory of the heavens, bubbled a forest spring. Hans dropped at Trusia's feet, and catching her hand, mumbled some grief-hampered words.

"He must go back now," she explained to Carter. "He says our way is plain from here on. We are to follow this path until daylight. By then we should reach a similar clearing, where his brother, Carl, has his ovens. There we can get shelter. When we have had sufficient rest, Carl will guide us to the frontier. That last part of the road Hans does not know. Once at the river, he says, there is a ferry, used by peasants, which will take us across to Austria."

"Why must he go?" Carter inquired, his every suspicion aroused for the woman he loved.

"Should he be missing in the morning from his hut, the soldiers would guess the reason for his absence. His wife and infant would probably pay for his loyalty with their lives."

"And this Carl, how can he vouch for his loyalty?" Carter persisted.

"I know Carl," said the girl sweetly. That was enough.

The peasant stood to one side as the pair passed him. One glance into the honest eyes was sufficient to convince Carter that the man had spoken the truth.

Soon nothing could be seen of the shadowy figure on the forest edge which stood watching until darkness swallowed the form of his beloved suzerain. Side by side again, the two persisted along the starlit way of their hopes, until they, too, entered another forest beyond. Here, though aided by the lantern Hans had left with them, they lost the narrow lane a score of times; disuse had made it almost invisible.

At last, gray with mourning, the tardy day awoke. With heavy limbs and straining eyes, they stumbled at last into view of the promised haven of thatch.

A premonition of something amiss caused Carter to pause as they hastened toward it. The door, unlatched, swung open desolately upon creaking hinges. No smoke beckoned from its chimneys, no sign of personality bade them draw near. Trusia choked back the sob as she clung heavily to Carter's arm.

"It is empty," she prophesied.

"The fellow is about some place, doubtless," Carter answered cheerfully, that she might not be panic-stricken by his acquiescence. "You stay here. I'll scout about a bit,—and find him," he added as an afterthought. Leaving both his pack and revolver with her, he approached the house with the same caution he would have displayed in routing out a grizzly bear.

In the tiny enclosure in front of the cabin, he found the disturbing evidence of the visitation of a number of horses in the marred and furrowed soil of the garden, torn by a score of hoofs. Cossacks had been here. He paused, with straining ears, by the door, listening for some portent from within. No sound gave him a clue as to the situation inside the single room which made up the peasant home. He entered boldly.

Trusia's heart pounded in lonely centuries, it seemed, as she prayed fervently for his reappearance. Presently, staggering beneath a burden of suggestive shape, Carter came out and took his way to the dense underbrush behind the cabin. He returned to the hut for a spade and pick and went back to the underbrush. His absence seemed interminable. Then, with blistered hands, he stepped out of the thicket at her side.

"What was it? What kept you so long?" she asked, startled by his sudden appearance and petulant with exhaustion.

"Don't ask me, sweet," he begged, "but come and rest for an hour or so. I'll be the sentry at your gate."

"But the Cossacks may come," she hesitated.

"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," he assured with a grim meaning for himself in the words. "Come, the coast is clear."

"But that you carried," she held back as the doubt arose, for she had seen.

"Without benefit of clergy, poor fellow," he replied seeing that it was too late to deceive her. "I hoped you wouldn't notice."

Gently he urged her to the hut. Freshening the pallet with twigs and leaves, he spread the double blanket they had brought upon the bed and then withdrew to mount guard while she might snatch some rest.

With his back against the wall, seated on a rude bench outside the cabin, he watched the heavy-eyed sun arise and yawn. Once from the cabin a sigh floated.

"Rest well, sweetheart," he called. "Our flight has just commenced."



XXV

THEY MEET JOSEF

He dared not sleep. Thousands of aching demons in his weary limbs promised him surcease if he would. Every stir in nature, each drowsy twitter of the birds, coaxed him to relax his watchfulness, but he resisted. Time seemed a paralytic as Carter waited the passing of the day. A score of times his head bent forward in weariness. He could feel pain pass from him like a sigh, only to be called back as in reaction he would jerk his head up to wakefulness.

Slumber reigned indoors. As the hours dragged on, it seemed to the watchful lover that something was surely wrong. He had heard no sound, no stir, no sigh, for an age of patience. Half ashamed of his own boldness, he tiptoed in to where she lay. Her face was pale with languor; no breath appeared to stir her breast. With a great leap his mind went back, fearing, to that scene by the roadside as she lay fainting in his arms. He reached out and touched her wrist. Again he gave thanks that, beneath his finger, life flowed serenely in its course.

He turned and went back to his seat on the bench. He counted time now by the throbbing of his nerves. The sun passed its zenith, began to droop; still Trusia slept and Carter kept a sleepless vigil. Great and red, in the west, the sun was setting as the girl came out and laid a soft, comforting hand upon his shoulder.

"I have been selfish, Calvert," she said in self-accusation. "I should have let you rest first. You have had the greater labor and worriment. We will eat something now, then I shall watch while you sleep."

"I am not tired," he protested, yawning as he spoke. "Even though I have not slept I have dreamed—of you." He marveled at the mystery which bade a rose pink creep into a girl's cheek and pass and come again.

The simple food provided by Hans was a delectable feast to the wayworn pair, who appreciated it down to the last allotted crumb.

After the final morsel had disappeared, they quietly conversed, but while they talked, Carter's head lurched forward and he was asleep. Sweetly, with the maternal impulse found even in maidens, she drew the heavy head to her and smiled happily at its weight upon her breast. She bent forward to listen, for sweetened in the dream he held, she heard her name whispered in adoration.

The shadows were creeping upon them. Evening had drawn the curtain across reluctant day. In the dusk, sinister figures appeared to crouch and creep by every bush and tree. Inevitable as darkness it seemed, they gathered from every side. Her fright numbered them as a myriad. They were three. Unwilling in her solicitude to disturb her sleeping lover until the last moment, she drew her revolver. Then with chilling misgivings she realized that these men had followed the path used by herself and Carter.

Some acute sympathy—maybe his dreams, maybe a prescience which never slumbers—awoke Carter with a full realization of the imminent danger which threatened.

"Come," he said, arising to his full height, "you must go in." He pushed her through the door and stood in the narrow entrance, awaiting the onslaught. "They outnumber me," he laughed, "but it is a dark night. That reduces the odds. You see, sweetheart, that while in the gloom they may hit friends, yet if it comes to sword play I can't possibly hit any one else but them." He actually chuckled as he rolled back the sleeve on his right arm. "They won't use pistols unless I do, for they don't know how near we are to reinforcements. Neither do we for that matter," and he smiled again. "Have you that revolver?" he inquired, quite serious this time. "No, I don't want it," he said as she held it out to him. "You know what to do with it if the time comes."

They had not long to wait. Their opponents, confident of success, came rapidly forward. One figure was familiar even in the gloom. It was Josef. With a leap the trio were upon Carter. He felt the impact of their blades like pulse beats in the darkness as they met his own steel. As weapon met weapon in clanging song his spirits arose. He wanted to chant to the dainty, cruel rhythm of the tempered strokes. He knew on the instant that he should vanquish these foes. Muscle after muscle, sinew after sinew, thickened and grew lean alternately as thrust followed guard. His body, moving with his arm, seemed following some primitive dance—the orgy of the Sword, the prince of battle weapons.

He heard a smothered gasp in the darkness, succeeded by a curse in a familiar voice.

"You, Josef?" he queried with a satisfied laugh.

"Not yet, m'sieu the American," came back the sneering answer. "You first," it taunted, just beyond Carter's reach in the gloom. The remark was followed by a slight touch in the shoulder from which the warm blood spouted as the keen point was withdrawn.

"Not quite low enough for me, Josef," answered Carter. "That was only a scratch. Try a ripost. I don't intend to wound you. I am going to kill you."

"You'll have no chance. We are three and we will carry off the Lady Trusia. She'll be a dainty bit for our feasting." A sob behind him apprised him that she had heard.

"Cur," Carter cried, and drove straight for the neck he knew held a smirking face. With the slipping of Carter's foot, Josef escaped death at the price of a companion's life, behind whom Josef had escaped Carter's vengeance. The American, hearing the suggestive thud in the darkness, pushed his advantage, with the result that soon an angry snarl told him that the second Russian was wounded. The fellow dropped his sword to clasp his right wrist, then fled, closely followed by the discreet servitor. When Calvert had recovered his balance, the Gray Man had disappeared.

"There is no time to lose," he called to Trusia, "we must start at once before that old rascal brings reinforcements." Though he jestingly belittled its importance, she insisted upon bandaging the wound in his shoulder and made much of him, womanlike.

"I do not care if they should send a dozen men," she said, dazzling the gloom with her eyes; "my king, my lover, could defeat them all!" He dared not kiss her, then, as they both would have wished. Her isolation made her holy.

"That," he said, pointing southwardly, "is our general direction. Fate must guide our steps."



XXVI

THE VISTULA!

It was a weary journey. Confused, discouraged, losing their paths a score of times each hour, they lurched forward through the gloom of night and the unfeeling dawn of the next day. They prayed a ceaseless prayer for succor and—the Vistula. They were hungry, for the last crumb of food had been lost in fording a boisterous stream in their road, and in the darkness they had been unable to recover it. Rough stones cut Trusia's feet, but she uttered no complaint. The brambles tore her clothes, and scarred her hands, while more than one low-hanging limb clutched at her hair. Nor did Carter fare any better.

The second morning found them helplessly lost in the forest. By sheer strength he broke down saplings and built a wigwam in which Trusia could rest. He caught a rabbit, off which they fared for one meal and still frugally saved a portion for the necessities of mid-day. When that time came around, the girl generously insisted that he should take it all, there not being enough for both, and he having been unable to snare any other unwary woodland denizen. Of course he refused. She looked at him, grief-stricken and imploring. Still he would not yield. Then came their nearest approach to a quarrel. Fatigued, depressed, bewildered, it is no wonder that the strained nerves gave way.

"See, Calvert," she said at last, looking at him through tear-dimmed eyes, "I give in. I'll feel like a cannibal, though; I know I shall—eating your strength." Unable to refrain under the yielding influences, he bent toward her for a kiss of reconciliation, but she gently held him off.

"Not yet," she said gravely, "not yet."

With mid-afternoon they resumed their weary advance and maintained their plodding way through the night. Along toward dawn of this, the third, day of their flight, a suggestive, recurrent, monotonous sigh in the air told their hopeful ears that they were drawing near a large body of water.

"Do you hear it, Calvert?" she asked ecstatically, a convulsive hand upon his elbow.

"Yes," he answered in a voice husky with thanksgiving, "it is right over the breast of that bank of firs. Oh, little girl," he said bending the depths of his eyes into her soul, "I am glad for you. You are safe."

"I have been safe all along with you, Calvert," she smiled up into his face.

He half turned away his head, her smile was as intoxicating as strong wine. "Don't say that," he said guiltily. "I am but a man and more than once—in the solitude—I was tempted."

She smiled an Eve-taught reproof. "Yet you did not yield, my lover. Come, let us race the last few steps for the first view of the river."

Their clothes in flags, disheveled, bruised, unkempt, like wild things of the woods, they rushed from the forest to the edge of the river. The Vistula!

"There lies Austria," he cried exultantly, pointing to the other shore.

"And here—and here," she cried with a little sob halting her words,—"and here lies—here lies poor, poor Krovitch." Tears came and saved her reason, for under the heavy strain her senses reeled. Then both together they searched for the ferry; but doubtless miles away from the end of the tiny path, it was a hopeless task to search further. As despondently they gave up the quest, Carter turned a grove-covered bend in the river.

"Look, Trusia," he called back to her; "a yacht—an American yacht! See," he cried in a frenzy of delight, "there is the flag. The flag—the stars and stripes! Oh, fate is kind." He seized the girl and whirled her around in a dervish dance of joy, hallooing at the top of his voice.

There came an answer presently to his cheers. "They have heard us, doubtless," he said, peering shipward. Then his eyes lit with a new discovery. "That's the New York Yacht Club pennant. Owner's aboard and I'm darned—I beg pardon—if it isn't Billy Saunderson's signal at the peak. Funny that they answered our hail when no one seems on deck."

"Hark, Calvert, what is that?" asked Trusia apprehensively. He bent his head fearfully toward the forest. Shouts, the crackling of fallen twigs, cheers and commands in Russian, greeted their ears.

"And we thought it was some one on the boat," was his only comment. "You are too late, Mr. Tsar," he called back as he waved his hand as if in farewell. "My countryman is a friend of mine," he said in explanation to the trembling girl. "He will give us a berth, never fear. We will have to swim for it, though."

"But I can't swim a stroke, Calvert. I will only hamper you. You save yourself, sweetheart. They will never take me. I promise you. Do go, dear."

"Nonsense. Will you trust yourself with me? I can handle two like you."

She looked at him with that look that a man need see but once in a woman's eyes and hold life cheap for its purchase.

"Calvert, I would trust you any place after this journey."

In the unlit gray of dawn, the waters were dark and chill. Carter was numbed; he realized for the first time how mercilessly their cruel journey had drawn on his strength. His stroke seemed laborious from the very start, and his clothes hampered him. The girl obediently clung to his shoulders.

About a quarter of the distance to the island in midstream was accomplished. That diminutive patch of soil was a mutually acknowledged boundary between Russia and Austria. A fierce yell of triumph caused the swimmer to pause in his efforts. He looked back over his shoulder to see the first pair of pursuers push their wiry mounts into the river. Then with a groan he realized that the stream was dotted with horsemen.

It seemed almost a hopeless task to strive to reach the boat. That haven of safety was anchored a good two hundred yards below and beyond the isle. Gritting his teeth, however, he redoubled his efforts.

"They are gaining on us, dear," Trusia prompted.

"If it comes to the worst we can go down together, but we are not caught yet. How close are they?"

"Not two hundred yards away," she replied after a careful backward look.

Carter caught sight of a man on deck of the vessel and hailed him with desperately good lungs. The seaman seemed to take one fleeting look at the struggle in the water and then disappeared hastily down a companionway.

"How near are they now, Trusia?" gasped Carter.

"They have gained only about ten yards."

Calvert's head seemed the bursting hive of a million stinging bees. His arms ached horribly. His legs were flung out like useless flags. He made superhuman efforts to keep up the unequal struggle.

"How near are they now, sweetheart?" he asked again, his voice rasping out sharply under his strain.

"They have gained only another ten yards, beloved," she responded solacing as a sweet woman does in the very teeth of despair.

His mouth and tongue were swollen and his throat was parched. His head throbbed wildly with an ugly drumming, while each breath seemed a solid thing racking his burning lungs with a novel pain.

"I'll make it—I'll make it—I'll make it," he repeated in semi-conscious determination. "How near now?" he gasped back to her.

"They have gained in all about fifty yards." She began to weep softly. It acted like a spur to his flagging strength. It was helpless womankind calling upon man for succor. His eyes felt like overripe fruit, ready to burst, and blue flashes of pain danced before them. Then all things looked black—a veil had fallen in front of him.

"I'll make it—I'll make it—I'll make it," his iteration sounded like a mocking echo flung back into his ears. "I must not sink," he asserted to himself. "Not until I have saved Trusia," his thoughts were becoming incapable of coherence.

"Aboard the Bronx. Aboard the Bronx." His voice sounded a long way off. His movements were becoming feebly automatic. He was sure a maliciously grinning horseman was reaching out for Trusia, though it was impossible to see him.

"Now?" he gasped.

"Only five yards away," she answered calmly.

It is easy to die, easier to drown, when there is no escape.



XXVII

YOU ARE STILL MY KING

It seemed that the shadows were being withdrawn from his eyes, just as a curtain is pulled back from a window. As consciousness became a more certain quantity he wondered vaguely why he did not feel drenched and uncomfortable, instead of cozy and warm. He was aware of a pinkish-gray blur hanging above his head; this slowly resolved itself into a human face. While he could not distinguish the features in the darkened light of the room, he was certain that it was that of a woman.

"Trusia," he cried ecstatically.

"Please be quiet," responded an unfamiliar voice in a tone of undemurrable authority. He pondered. He puzzled. Finally he gathered courage to speak.

"Who are you?" he queried dubiously.

"I am the nurse," came back indulgently through the dim haze of semi-consciousness still enveloping him.

"Nurse," he exclaimed, throwing off the gray mist, to notice for the first time that he was in his own bed and room, in New York City. Accepting conditions as they were for the time being, he settled back and sighed the long, indolent sigh of convalescence. He glanced expectantly toward the door, Carrick should be coming soon with the much needed shaving things. Carrick? It all came back to him now. He no longer was satisfied to lie back comfortably on the pillow and dream the hazy dreams of the convalescent. Carrick was dead and he himself had been drowned—but Trusia? He groaned in great distress. The nurse hastened to his side.

"Are you in pain?" she asked, a trifle surprised that such a symptom should appear in this case.

"No," he said abstractedly, his mind revisiting the banks of the Vistula; "no, I am not in pain. I was thinking."

The nurse held a draught to his lips. Carter resolutely put it to one side. "Wait," he commanded, "I must know how I came here, or I will not rest with a thousand soporifics."

"Mr. Saunderson picked you up just as you were drowning in the Vistula. You have been ill ever since—delirious."

"Good old Billy," he said in gratitude, then turned a silent inquiry on the nurse. She saw the awful heart-hunger in his eyes and, had she followed her impulse, would have thrown a sisterly arm about him in solace, so compelling was the look, so hopeless its message. "Was any—was any one saved with me?" he ventured. "Did any one come with me here? On the boat? For God's sake, nurse, tell me." His quivering life seemed hanging in the balance. The magnitude of his gravity filled the woman with sudden apprehension. She feared equally to tell him or refuse him.

"I was not there, Mr. Carter. I cannot tell," she compromised. "Mr. Saunderson will make his usual call this afternoon. You can ask him; he will doubtless tell you." Partially reassured by this, Carter fell asleep.

When he awoke he felt much stronger. The nurse was standing at the bedside smiling down at him.

"Mr. Saunderson is waiting in the library. If I let him come in to see you, will you be good?"

Carter readily promised, as he would have anything just then, at the opportunity of resolving his doubts. Saunderson was ushered in quietly; when he bent over the patient, the latter wrenched the proffered hand with hysterical strength.

"See here, Carter, this won't do," said his caller, making a wry face; "I believe that you have been shamming these two months."

"Two months?" Carter sat upright. "Have I been laid up that long?"

"To the very day," said Saunderson, smiling.

"Tell me, Billy, how you came to be out there. I want to thank you for saving my life, though I don't know yet whether you have done a wise or a foolish thing."

"So? How soon can you let me know? Dorothy says it's the only sensible, useful thing I've ever done. You always were a favorite of Mrs. Saunderson, you know."

"It's a serious matter, Billy, so I want the truth for what I'm going to ask you. Give it to me straight from the shoulder and don't mince matters. Promise?"

"I must confess, Cal, I don't see what you're driving at, but I suppose it's all right. Yes, I promise. Now, fire away. Wait a minute. Perhaps I'd better lead off with how I got there. You've been pretty loose up here, you know," he touched his forehead by way of illustration. "Perhaps I may save you the worry of framing up questions—my account may cover everything."

"Did I talk much—rot?" asked Carter.

"Yes, rather. Calling all the time for Trusia—said Carrick was a King—and lots more of the same kind. Who was Trusia?"

"The Duchess of Schallberg." Carter's reply was unnaturally grave and his face solemn and tense. "Tell me, Billy," he requested quietly, "when I sank—was there any one with me?"

"It might have been a bundle of rags—it might have been a man or a woman, I rather thought it was a woman. What did you do, Cal, run off with some Cossack's wife?"

"It was Her Grace."

"The deuce it was!" exclaimed Saunderson.

Carter bent forward until their faces were close. "Oh, Billy," he begged piteously, "don't tell me you let her drown! Don't tell me she is dead! Don't——"

"I didn't. She isn't," said Saunderson with more care for denial than lucidity. He laid a restraining, friendly hand on Carter's shoulder.

"You saved her too, then?" The thin talon-like hand clutched Billy's like a vise.

"No," answered Saunderson reluctantly, beginning to see how matters stood.

"Where is she then?" was the eager question.

"See here, Cal, you haven't given me a chance to tell you how I came to be there. I'm just aching for the opportunity too. You don't know it, but I had a bet with Jackson that you'd go over there when the matter became known to you. Naturally I took more than a casual interest in Krovitch after that. Reports got disturbing, so I ran the Bronx over to sort of hang around until needed. To be perfectly frank, I was looking for you. When the skipper called me that morning and said some one was swimming for the boat I took a long guess that it was you. The first time you sank the launch was almost on top of you. We pulled you out of the very claws of a Cossack."

"But the girl?—But Her Grace of Schallberg?" It was pitiable how abject a strong man could become.

"If that was the Duchess of Schallberg, Cal, a second Russian picked her up, apparently unconscious, and made off with her—toward the Austrian shore. Just why he went that way no one seemed to know. His comrades fired after them. No, don't start; no one hit. Bum shots, those Asiatics."

Seeing the terrible pressure under which Carter was laboring, the nurse came forward at this juncture and sent Saunderson away. For some unaccountable reason Carter could not force the conviction on himself that serious evil had befallen Trusia. Hope departs only with life. Paradoxical as it may seem, he worried not about her safety, but about the dangers which, without his aid, she could overcome only with great difficulty. Such is the egotism of love. He reverted anxiously to the story of her questionable rescue. Who could the Cossack have been—why hadn't he returned to his comrades? Why,—why,—why? Question followed question, like the alarm bells at a fire. At last he wearily fell asleep.

He opened his eyes the second time to find the day was gathering darkness from the corners and niches of the room.

"Nurse," he called. In an instant, silent as the gloaming, she approached the bed. "Might I have my mail? It must have been accumulating for months."

"You must not read," she said firmly.

"Then read for me," he urged.

Wise as any daughter of Eve, she selected intuitively that one letter which she knew would satisfy him so that he would forget there were others. It bore the post-mark "Wien."

"Here is one from Vienna," she explained, "shall I read that?"

"Yes, yes," he acceded, tingling with anticipation. She tore off the edge with feminine precision. "Who wrote it?" he queried, unable to await its perusal. He was partly up now, leaning forward on his elbow, his white face gleaming through the dusk. The green shade of the lamp accentuated his pallor.

"It is signed 'Sobieska,'" she replied, after turning to the subscription.

"Oh," he said in evident disappointment, and sank back on the pillow.

"Here's what he says:

"MY DEAR MAJOR CARTER:

"When Her Grace, under your escort, left us on the road to the charcoal burner's we had a desperate fight. Muhlen-Sarkey, after giving a good account of himself, fell like the noble gentleman he was and jested with death. Zulka was killed in a three-to-one fight. Delmotte fell badly wounded but not seriously. Casimir and the rest were killed. A cut over the head rendered me unconscious and I fell across Delmotte. Supposing that we were dead, anxious for repairs themselves, the Russians did not disturb us. About dusk I came to and aided Delmotte across the frontier. I returned, determined to reinforce you and Her Grace if I could catch up with you, for I had found out how things were at your first stopping-place.

"Carefully following the path to the ferry, imagine my surprise at espying a man running rapidly along the same path but toward me. The mutual discovery was simultaneous. It was Josef. He, quicker than I could, drew his revolver. By dodging behind trees, however, I got past him. Had I not had a more sacred duty to Her Grace just then, I should have risked all for the pleasure of killing that snake. After this rencounter, I proceeded more carefully until I reached the cabin in the clearing. Here I found the bodies of two Russian Cossacks, dead apparently from the night before. Both had been killed by the sword. Your work, as I surmised. One was a lieutenant. I appropriated his uniform as a safeguard in case I met other interruptions. His horse was luckily tethered in the woods. Thanking my good fortune, I mounted and pushed on.

"I soon was to be enlightened as to the dangers of your flight; though in sympathy with the quarry I was running with the hunters.

"Stimulated by a large reward, offered by their commandant at Schallberg, the country was overrun by Russians searching for the Lady Trusia. I constantly met them. Being very ignorant fellows, they took me for what I seemed to be. By working on their credulity I got each party that I met to believe that I had private information as to the whereabouts of the fugitives whom I had been despatched to capture by the commanding officer himself. Of course forbidding them to follow me, they all trailed after me. Supposing that you had followed the bypath, I plunged right through the most trackless part of the wilderness, to keep the pursuit as far from you as possible. What my fate would be when they discovered I had cheated them, I didn't stop to weigh; if I knew Her Grace was safe, I could but die.

"Imagine my despair when, on reaching the Vistula, I found I had actually led the pursuit right upon you. At first I considered the advisability of selling my life then and there, carrying down as many as possible in death with me, but I saw that my sword could not account for enough to scare off the pursuit. When you took to the water, I apparently joined the chase. By your side, in the water, I would have a better chance. I helped Her Grace to escape. Was sorry to leave you, but my first duty was to save her. You were not wholly neglected either. I saw you pulled aboard a yacht, which, not seeing my desperate signals, took its course at once toward the mouth of the river.

"Her Grace is safe. I have offered her the poor protection of my impoverished name, only to learn that she loves you. I assure you that since I learned this, no sister could receive tenderer treatment. I congratulate you. Come at once. Frankly, my scanty funds will be exhausted in three weeks' time. It is impossible to get employment here."

There followed some friendly phrases, their address in Vienna, and the subscription.

"What is the date of the letter?" Carter asked apprehensively.

"June second," came the quiet reply.

"And to-day is——"

"July seventeenth."

"What has become of them?" he groaned. "What can they think of me? A messenger boy, nurse, at once. Are you paralyzed?"



XXVIII

A RE-UNION

Four short months before, Carter and Carrick had set out for Krovitch. It did not seem possible that so many conclusive, completed events could have transpired in that limited time. It seemed more like some whirlwind dream to the man who, pale and wan, sat in the reading-room of the Racquet Club gazing indolently at the passing throng outside the club windows. It was Calvert Carter, of course, who so reasoned.

Carrick was dead, he continued in his reflections. Of a certainty this had been a grievous blow, but even this was overshadowed by the doubt as to the whereabouts of his beloved Trusia.

"Four months ago," he said aloud in his surprise, "the same man sat in this same club, before this same window, and"—he paused, while his hand ran along the arm of the chair as he glanced down at it,—"in this very chair. He fretted because life could not give him enough of excitement and contest—could not give him love. Well, to show him that her resources were boundless, Life gave him all he wanted—then took back her gifts." Relapsing into silence again with a heavy sigh, he contemplated the strange warp of destiny.

Trusia, his beloved Trusia,—where was she? Wealth had not been spared, nor time, in a hitherto fruitless effort to locate her. On this, his first excursion from the sick-room, he was already planning to take up the search himself—to scour Europe until he found her. Yet some instinct, stronger than he dared admit, warned him that she was closer to him where he now sat.

Puzzled, he gazed out the window, hoping that the panorama of the moving crowds would ease his worried mind. A man's face detached itself from the encircling throng, catching and holding Carter's attention. He leaned eagerly forward, why, he could not have explained. At this, the man, also turned and looked. An impartial observer of both would have said that these two were in doubt as to whether they recognized each other. The man on the sidewalk, while clean, was rather seedy-looking and apparently a foreigner. His face was drawn and hollow as though privation had sculptured there. His beard was full and streaked with gray. His eyes alternately burned with the fires of inward visions and dulled with disappointment at hopes destroyed. Carter arose and went closer to the window, with steps still unsteady in his convalescence.

The stranger had passed, but, noting Carter's action, repassed, evidently as much at loss as the man inside. To him, too, there was something strangely familiar about the thin, pale face, the languid, hopeless air, of the man in the club window,—but they were not the attributes of the man he remembered. Nor was this shade the vigorous friend he had known so short a while before.

Carter walked deliberately out to the street and extended his hand to the passer-by who had so strangely moved him. Recognition was complete.

"It is you, at last, Sobieska," he said as the thin hand of the Krovitzer closed over his own. A smile lighted up the half-veiled eyes, he read in the American's soul that word of their distress had come too late.

"Come into the club," Carter urged him. Sobieska smiled grimly as he glanced down at his shabby garments. Carter understood.

"Let's walk out to the Park," suggested the Krovitzer. "I have something to tell you that I know you are anxious to hear. Wait, though, until we get out of the crowd. You don't want Fifth Avenue as an audience, do you?" he asked as he noted the quick joy which lit Carter's face.

"Just one question," Calvert begged. "Is she well?"

"Yes," replied the Krovitzer, confining himself to the naked assent. Then, pitying the man who had been so wofully shaken since their parting in Krovitch, he opened the gate of Pity a bit and added, "She is in New York."

Carter stopped short in the street and turned to read in the other's eyes whether this promised miracle was true or false. He reached out and caught Sobieska's hand and wrung it with the fervor he would fain have loosed in a cheer.

"Thank God," he said vehemently. "Are we going to her, now?"

Sobieska nodded an affirmative.

"Is it far?"

"Not over two miles."

"And you intend to walk? Great Scott, man, do you think I have lead in my veins instead of blood?"

"No, Carter, but remember that I have no longer money at my command. Poverty has taught me strange tricks of economy. Pride would not let me think of asking you if you preferred riding."

"You might have known," said Carter reproachfully, "that every cent I have would be at your disposal for such an errand."

His companion nodded his head wearily. Was the fellow not satisfied, he thought? It meant that he was being led to the woman that he, Sobieska, loved with fervor equal to Carter's. Why should he hasten the minute that would place her in the American's arms? Ah, well, Trusia loved him. That must suffice. They entered a cab which had drawn up in answer to Carter's hail.

"I will not apologize for our lodgings," said Sobieska, as he gave a cheap East Side locality to the driver as their destination. "Thousands of my countrymen have no better."

As the cab rattled along, he gave the details of their varied vicissitudes and the determined faith of Trusia in Carter, culminating in her insistence that they come to New York to find him. "Some woman instinct told her that you had not received my letter and she feared that some calamity had befallen you that nothing but her coming would dispel." By the work of his hands and the sweat of his brow he had finally been able to secure their passage on an ocean steamship.

"We arrived two weeks ago to-morrow," said the Krovitzer. "Twice I called at your house, three times at your club. They supposed I was some beggar, no doubt, and never gave you my messages. Having no money over actual necessities for either telephones or postage stamps, I took the poor man's way of communicating with you while I sought work—waited till I could see you. In fact, Carter, to be perfectly frank, I did not know but that our altered circumstances might influence you as it has some other acquaintances I have appealed to."

"That is unjust, Sobieska," said Carter.

"I should have known better," answered Sobieska apologetically, "but, Carter, we have had some pretty hard knocks. You were silent to my letter—how could I guess you were ill? I was rebuffed at both your house and club. A sensitive man might well read your acquiescence in such treatment. Will you accept my apology? Here we are," he added, as the cab drew up to the curb.

"Don't apologize," said Carter, shaking him by the hand, while his eyes hungrily devoured the front of the tenement with avidity that sought for some sign of Trusia. "Is this the place?" The grimy pile was sanctified in his eyes as it sheltered the woman to whom he had given his whole heart.

Trembling like an eager child, after dismissing the cabby, he scrambled breathlessly after his guide up steep and dirty stairs to the third floor, past passages and open doors, which showed more than one family huddled together in single apartments.

"She does not live as these?" he asked with repugnance.

"No," said his companion, regarding a group with unconcealed compassion, "I was fortunate enough to secure a separate room for her, poor as it is." But the man nobly concealed the price he had had to pay, to be content to sleep upon a straw mattress in a sub-cellar—nor did Trusia know what sacrifices her former minister was making for her meagre comforts.

The door of an apartment stood open at the end of the next turn in the entry. Both men, hushed by conflicting emotions, stood regarding the scene before them.

At a window, her face a trifle thinner, more spirituelle, because of her heartaches, sat Trusia. The light, touching the edges of her hair, glinted into an iridescent halo about her face. Across her knees lay a little child. Its mother, with anxious, peasant face, was bending over its ailing form, while the large, whole-souled regard which Trusia bent upon the tiny form made a picture of a modern Madonna.

Then, the air whispered its tidings to her soul. She glanced up and saw Carter standing in the passageway. Gently placing the infant in the maternal arms held out for it, she arose and without a spoken word came to him; came so close that there was nothing for him to do but to take her tenderly in his arms. Assured of their right, her hands lay on his shoulders, while her eyes sought out his soul.

Then, careless whether the whole world looked on or not, their lips met gently, lingeringly.

"Though all thrones have fallen," she sighed blissfully, "you are still my King."

"Trusia, my Trusia," he said, while Sobieska fled silently from their view.

FINALE

THE END