“I am all seriousness, Countess. Politics in Sturatzberg are as dried wood stacked ready for burning, and a torch is already in the midst of it. Until now the torch has been moved hither and thither, giving the wood no time to catch; but now I fear the flame is held steadily. I seem to hear the first sounds of the crackling.”
“I seem to have heard the beginning often,” she answered, “but a swift hand has always saved the situation.”
“The danger has never been so imminent as it is now, Countess.”
“Are you not still in Sturatzberg to cope with the danger?” she asked, turning to him with a radiant smile. “I stand alone, Countess; what can one man do? I wonder whether you can credit me with disinterestedness, whether you can believe that I have the welfare of this country at heart while carrying out the policy of my own?”
“Is not that the position of every Ambassador?”
“Nominally, perhaps. I was asking you to believe something more definite in my case,” he returned. “Do I ask too much? In a measure, you and I are drawn together in this cris is. We should be allies.”
“Are my poor wits of service either way?”
“A woman is always a valuable ally, and the Countess Mavrodin knows her power. No, I am beyond turning pretty speeches to-day,” he went on quickly; “the times are too serious for them. You know, Countess, what occurred last night?”
“I left the palace somewhat early,” she said; “but there was an air of constraint about. What caused it, Lord Cloverton?” “I was referring to Baron Petrescu's affair. No one has talked of anything else to-day.”
“And you can tell me the truth of it,” she exclaimed. “I am glad. I have heard many stories since I entered the Bois.”
“I was expecting to hear the real truth from you,” said the Ambassador, fixing his eyes upon her.
“From me! Am I the wife of some bourgeois in the city to inflame the Baron's susceptibilities into indiscretion? It is some such tale I have heard.”
“But which you knew to be untrue, Countess.”
“I have thought more highly of Baron Petrescu than that, I admit.”
“Naturally, seeing that Captain Ellerey is not a bourgeois of the city, and has no wife as far as I know. My young countryman is no boaster beyond his worth, it would seem. The Baron has found his match.”
“Is that the truth of it?” she asked innocently.
“I congratulate you upon your champion,” returned the Ambassador. “You look surprised, Countess; but in the inner circle of such a Court as we have here in Sturatzberg such secrets will find a tongue.”
“You have changed your serious mood, my lord, it appears, and I am at a loss to understand the pleasantry.”
“Believe me, Countess, I was never more serious. Something of the Baron's political leanings are known to his Majesty, and the affair has assumed a political significance in his eyes. The law has lain dormant, it is true, but duelling is an offence against the crown, and the King has seen fit to set the law in motion. Captain Ellerey is sought for in Sturatzberg. I would do my countryman, and you, a service if I could.”
“How am I concerned? I may thank you for your courtesy if you will tell me that.”
“Is it not true that you were the cause of this quarrel?”
“It is absolutely false.”
“Stay, Countess, it may be that you are unaware of the fact, but I have the best reason for knowing that such is the case.”
“Captain Ellerey had no cause to draw sword on my behalf, Lord Cloverton; neither of his own wish, nor at my bidding, did he do it.”
“Strange,” mused the Ambassador. “It is evident that he thought of only one person last night. He left instructions with his second that you were to be immediately informed if any harm befell him. He left no other message or remembrance to anyone.”
She was not sufficient mistress of herself to prevent the Ambassador noting that the information was pleasant to her.
“It may have been presumption on his part,” he went on slowly; “still such thought can hardly be without some interest for you. No doubt you would render him a service if you could.”
“My friendship would prompt me to do so.”
“Then urge him, Countess, to withdraw from Sturatzberg. The torch now put to the dried wood is in his hand. What is he to me? Nothing; but I would save him if I could. What he is to you, I do not know. I am not skilled with women; but for your country's sake urge his departure. It must be done promptly, for I warn you the fire has already caught hold, and not all, even now, shall escape the burning.”
“Your appeal to my patriotism might stir me, Lord Cloverton, did I know where to find Captain Ellerey.”
“In that, Countess, I cannot help you. I had hoped you would know. Have I your permission to stop the carriage?” She inclined her head. They had returned close to the spot from which they had started. There were fewer carriages in the Bois, and hardly any pedestrians now. Lord Cloverton had, however, seen a man standing close to the roadway, and he beckoned him to the carriage.
“What news?” he asked sharply.
“Every gate is closely watched, my lord. By the King's orders Captain Ellerey is to be stopped if he attempts to leave the city.”
“I fear we are too late to render any service,” said the Ambassador, turning to the Countess. “It is a pity. The hand that holds the torch can hardly escape.”
“It is not thought that the Captain has already left, but all efforts to find him have failed,” said the man, and then at a sign from Lord Cloverton he withdrew.
“I believe we are allies at heart, Countess; it is a pity we have no power to act.”
“Perhaps you exaggerate the danger.”
“I fear not,” he answered, as he stepped from the carriage. “I foresee evil days for Sturatzberg. Good-day, Countess; if I can save the situation, it must be by the sacrifice of my countryman, I fear. It is a pity.”
He stood bareheaded until the carriage had driven away, and then went quickly toward the Embassy. If Frina Mavrodin knew where Captain Ellerey was, as Lord Cloverton was convinced she did, she would warn him. Whatever interests Ellerey had at heart, he would not chance disaster by attempting to leave the city until the watch upon the gates was relaxed to some extent. There must, therefore, be delay in whatever plot was in hand, and a few days now were of priceless value.
Politics had little place in Frina Mavrodin's thoughts as she drove homeward through the city. She had denied that Desmond Ellerey had drawn sword in her cause, and yet might he not have done so after all? What she had seen might only have been the end of a quarrel. Baron Petrescu may have spoken some light word concerning her which Ellerey had resented. If Lord Cloverton had spoken the truth, Ellerey's last thought had been of her. She was quite content that her fair fame should rest in his keeping. Now he was in danger. Whatever Lord Cloverton's aims might be, one thing was certain—the city gates were closed against Ellerey's departure. Without warning he would almost certainly be taken. How could she help him?
There was confusion at her door when the carriage stopped. Servants were in the hall expectantly awaiting her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“In your absence, Countess, we were powerless,” answered her major-domo, pale even now with indignation. “The order was imperative.”
“What order?”
“The order to search the house.”
The Countess started, but was self-possessed again in a moment. Not all her servants knew of the identity of the Princess.
“For whom were they looking?”
“For an English Captain named Ellerey,” was the answer. “I said that no such person visited here at any time, but they would not believe me, and searched the whole house.”
“And found—”
“No one, Countess.”
The man was wise; he said no more before the other servants.
“I will complain to his Majesty,” Frina answered, and then she went quickly to t
he apartments occupied by the Princess Maritza. Hannah met her on the threshold. “Has she not returned, my lady?”
“Where is she? How did she have warning?” asked Frina.
“She had gone long before. She went without a word to me. When they came asking for some Englishman, I had just wit enough to answer that I was your ladyship's servant, and knew no Englishman; but it was hard work not to ask them what had become of my Princess.”
“And Dumitru?”
“Gone, gone. I always took him for a cut-throat with that naked knife hidden in his shirt. I believe he has made away with her.”
“Peace, woman. Say nothing. A word may ruin her. You can go.”
“But, my lady—”
“You can go, I say.”
There was a tone in the command that brooked no disobedience. The woman left the room hastily, leaving the Countess alone.
Alone. A wild rush of thoughts overwhelmed her. The hope and joy that had budded in her heart were suddenly blighted. The world seemed to slip away from her, leaving her alone indeed.
CHAPTER XII. GRIGOSIE
The Toison d'Or was an ancient inn standing back from the Bergenstrasse and reached by a narrow court. It did not advertise itself, was not easily found, and its frequenters were few. Those who used it seemed to use it often, for the landlord welcomed them like old friends. They were of the poorer sort, and the want of comfort in the place did not disturb them; perhaps the quality of the liquor made amends.
It presented a narrow front to the court, the great walls on either side appeared to have squeezed it. The two little windows above, the signboard flat against the wall, and the single door rather suggested a face; and the door, out of the perpendicular, looked strangely like a mouth awry uttering a cry of pain. The building was deep, however, and there was a long, narrow, low-pitched room at the rear, of which all the frequenters of the place were not aware. This room, even in broad daylight, was dim, and it grew dark there early. It was still light in the wider streets of the city, but in this room a candle was burning on the corner of a table, beside which a man sat. He had pushed back the remains of a meal, and his fingers played reflectively with the tankard which the landlord had replenished a few moments before.
The landlord had asked no questions, had attempted no conversation. When Desmond Ellerey had entered and called for liquor, he had made a sign to the landlord as he had been instructed, and which was perfectly understood. Two men were drinking in the doorway at the time, and when they had gone the landlord led Ellerey to the long room.
“There will be inquiries for me, landlord. Whoever gives the sign bring him in at once, but no one else, mind.”
The landlord nodded.
“Let me have food and drink. I care not what so there is plenty of it. I have not broken fast since yesterday.”
Throwing aside one cloak which he carried over his arm, and loosening the one he wore, Ellerey disclosed the fact that he was well armed, and booted and spurred for a journey. Earlier in the day Stefan had met him at a tavern in the city, bringing these clothes with him as directed in the note which the boy had delivered. The remains of the Court uniform which he had worn last night had been hidden away, and there was nothing now in Ellerey's dress to mark him as a King's officer.
He had already waited three hours, or more, and began to grow impatient. The men who had been chosen for this desperate service were already on their way to the place of rendezvous, and men of this description were wont to fret at delay and inactivity. He wanted to be away himself, and until he had the Queen's token safely in his possession he could not put aside his fears that it would not come, that something had happened to prevent her sending it. The King's sudden interruption last night might have forced her to change her plans, might possibly have caused her to sacrifice him to save herself. At the best, delay must be dangerous, and he chafed at his enforced idleness, which made the minutes drag.
At last the door opened and a man entered. It was the same man who had come to summon him to the audience last night. “You are welcome,” Ellerey said. “I began to think some circumstance had intervened.”
“We have only just escaped such a calamity,” was the answer. “By some means Lord Cloverton had received information of our plans. In the presence of the King, immediately after your departure, he accused her Majesty of trafficking with the brigands in the hills, and challenged her to show the bracelet. It was fortunate that the Queen could do so, and indignantly demand apology. The first move is much in our favor, for the accusation made the King extremely angry, and the British Ambassador is in ill favor to-day. His hands are tied for a little while, at any rate.”
“That I would believe if I saw the knotted cords about his wrists, but not otherwise,” Ellerey answered. “My worthy countryman is not so easily beaten.”
“It is true her Majesty bid me warn you, but without the King what can he do?”
“He is capable of anything, and has the English vice, or virtue—it depends on the point of view—of never knowing when he has got the worst of it.”
“Her Majesty is fortunate in also having an Englishman for her messenger.”
“Thank you, monsieur. I think there is something of the same spirit in me.”
“There is the token, Captain Ellerey,” and the man handed him a small sealed box. “The streets are yet full, so it would be wise to delay your departure for a while. Her Majesty also bid me give you this, an earnest of what shall fall to the share of her successful messenger.”
In Ellerey's palm lay a ring, the jewel in it catching light even from the feeble ray of the candle. For one moment Ellerey was disposed to refuse the gift until he had earned it, the independence of the Englishman rising in him; but a brief hesitation gave the spirit of the adventurer opportunity to rise uppermost. He might fail, and for his life be compelled to leave Sturatzberg. It would be some consolation not to go altogether empty-handed.
“I thank her Majesty,” he said. “I shall keep it as a key to win her further favor should I deserve it.”
“Then I will leave you, Captain Ellerey. Fortune smile on you and on the cause.”
As the door closed upon his visitor, Ellerey secured the sealed box and the ring about his person in such a fashion that the treasure lay close to the skin. While life was in him no one should rob him of it. Then he sat down to possess his soul in patience until the streets should grow dark enough and empty enough for his departure.
It was market day, and he had elected to go by the Southern Gate at the hour when many would be leaving the city on their homeward journey. He had no desire to be recognized, and he hoped to pass unnoticed in the crowd. Stefan had arranged to have his horse waiting for him at a forester's cottage off the Breslen road, a mile from the city. By making the meeting-place in the forest toward Breslen, precaution was taken that should riders be seen going in this direction their real destination would never be suspected. The brigands lay in the mountains near the Drekner pass, in exactly the opposite direction to Breslen, and a wide detour round Sturatzberg would have to be accomplished when the united band set out in earnest upon its expedition. The token was at last in his possession, his comrades awaited him, and Ellerey was anxious to be gone. But he was not the man to fail by being too precipitate. None knew better the value of deliberate caution, and with Lord Cloverton fully alive to the danger, there might be many obstacles to face which had not entered into his calculations. So Ellerey sat there waiting, while the candle burnt lower, casting, as the room darkened, a sharper outline of his figure upon the wall.
“Time, surely, now!” he exclaimed at last, starting to his feet. “Landlord.”
The door opened so suddenly that the handle must have been turned even as Ellerey shouted. But it was not the landlord who entered. Two figures came in swiftly and closed the door.
“Pardon, Captain Ellerey.”
“Well, sirs, what would you with me? I have little time to waste. I have already called the landlord to pay my recko
ning,” and as he spoke Ellerey raised the candle above his head to see what manner of men his visitors were.
“Friends, Captain,” said the foremost of the two, making the same sign which had gained admittance for the bearer of the token.
He was a man of set features with a pair of keen eyes deeply sunken. His figure was lithe and sinewy, his movements quick and not ungraceful. His dress was of the better peasant class, a short knife was sheathed in his girdle, and one hand rested lightly on the hilt of it as he stood motionless under the Captain's scrutiny. He might have been a forester. His companion stood silently in the shadows behind him,
“By that sign you should know the business I have in hand, and that I have no time to waste in words.”
“True, Captain. We are from her Majesty, and know that the token has been delivered into your keeping here to-night. You have comrades waiting for you, but too few, such is the Queen's opinion, and she bid us join your company.”
“I do not like the arrangement,” Elkrey answered. “My comrades are picked men that I know the muscles of. I know nothing of you.”
“It's a poor welcome, Captain, but it must serve. I have other news for you which may increase our value.”
“You run on too fast, niy friend,” said Ellercy. “Your coming at this eleventh hour ill fits with my precaution.”
“We have horses without the city, Captain; we are not ill conditioned for the enterprise.”
“You may pass muster for a man. What is your name?”
“Anton.”
“You have muscle enough to strike a good blow on occasion, but I know naught of your courage. And your companion there, what of him? Step into the light and let me look at you. How are you called?”
“Grigosie, if it please you, Captain.”
He stepped out of the shadow as he spoke, and with his arms folded across his breast, threw back his head defiantly, as though such inspection were little to his taste. He was a lad in figure and in voice. His face was innocent of even the down of dawning manhood. His limbs were clean cut and supple, but they looked too young for stern endurance. His dress was similar to his companion's save that it was green in color, and he wore a cap of green drawn down to his brows.
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