“You're a slip of a lad for such work as we have on hand,” he said presently. “How came your mother to part with you so early?”
“Rest her soul, she's dead.”
“Your father, then?”
“Dead also,” answered Grigosie.
“Well, you knew them, and understand whether their loss was a big one or not,” said Stefan. “Parents haven't counted for much in my case, so I'm not qualified to speak of their usefulness. You've managed to grow into a likely sort of lad. Who's had the training of you?”
“I'm my own manufacture for the most part,” answered Grigosie, “but I'm not too proud to learn from an old campaigner like you, Stefan.”
The soldier drew himself up in his saddle, and looked knowingly at his young comrade.
“There's sense in you. Maybe I can teach you a few things. My experience has been wide and peculiar, and if you listen to my advice and model your fighting on mine, you'll make a soldier, not of my girth, perhaps, for that's a gift of nature and not to be had for the asking.”
“No; I shall always be of the lean sort, I fear,” said Grigosie.
“Don't you be discouraged, lad. There's often good stuff in the lean ones. It's deep potations that give a man breadth sometimes, and his habit of growling strange oaths that gets him credit for valor.”
Grigosie plied him with questions, and heard many a strange tale of fighting in which Stefan had done marvellous things.
“Is there no reward for bravery in Wallaria?” said Grigosie at last. “How is it that no great distinction has come to you?” Stefan turned toward him and shut one eye.
“Dodge the distinctions, lad, as you would the devil. They lead to Court and the society of women, two things to be avoided.”
“Why so, Stefan?”
“Court fetters a man as a chain does a dog, and is unnatural, while a woman is the keenest weapon in all the devil's armory.”
“I have heard some well spoken of,” said Grigosie.
“And they are the most dangerous,” said Stefan. “Why do you suppose women were made pretty and fashioned to wear pretty clothes?”
“Indeed I cannot tell.”
“To conceal their natural defects, lad. Whenever you see a pretty woman, look at the next harridan you meet, and remember that the difference between them is only on the surface.”
“You are too hard, Stefan,” said Grigosie, laughing heartily.
“Wisdom, youngster—the ripe wisdom of experience.”
“I wonder whether the Captain is of your way of thinking, Stefan.”
“I have seen him pause in the midst of his drink sometimes, which has made me anxious.”
“The fetters of the Court, perhaps,” said Grigosie.
“Seemed to me it was more like a woman,” was the answer.
That night they encamped between two spurs of the lower hills. Two hours before sunset they had begun to ascend from the plain. It was among the hills they would be looked for as soon as the object of their mission were known; and having chosen a camping-ground which could easily be defended against odds, Ellerey placed sentinels to prevent any surprise. The camp-fire was pleasant to draw close to, for the night was cold. Ellerey lay in a half-reclining position, his feet stretched toward the blaze; and at some little distance on the opposite side the men were sitting in a circle playing cards, Grigosie and Anton standing beside them, looking on.
“There, boy, what did I tell you?” he heard Stefan say as he turned to Grigosie. “A woman again plays me false, and it's the queen of hearts, too.”
The boy laughed. Evidently he and Stefan had become fast friends during their day's ride together. It was a merry laugh, pleasant, Ellerey thought, after the gruffer tones of the soldiers.
Presently the boy left Anton's side and threw himself down by the fire near Ellerey.
“Are you tired, Grigosie?”
“A little. Lately I have not been used to so many hours in the saddle. What point do we make for to-morrow?”
“The Drekner pass. Do you know it?”
“I was quite a youngster when I last crossed it,” was the answer. “There used to be a castle there, perched on the hill-side like an eagle's eyrie.”
“So many years cannot have passed since then that the castle should have crumbled away,” said Ellerey, with a smile. “I expect it is still there.”
“You do not know the pass, then?”
“No.”
Grigosie lapsed into silence, and then after a while he said suddenly: “Some day I hope to be an honored soldier like you are, Captain.”
“Wish better things for yourself, Grigosie.”
“Are you not honored, then?”
“Enough to be given a dangerous post.”
“And to receive good reward if you succeed. The Queen will load you with gifts—and, perhaps, greater happiness still, some other woman will smile on you.”
“You begin to think of such things over early,” Ellerey answered. “You'll have your troubles soon enough that way, no doubt.”
“Already, Captain.”
“So soon?”
“This is a southern country, and we begin early. Are you a woman-hater, as Stefan is? In the back of my mind there is a reverence for women.”
“Keep it, lad, if you can; it may bring you to much good. For my part, I hardly know my position in the matter.”
“Would telling the tale to me help your judgment?” inquired the lad.
“A man does not speak of such things often, Grigosie.”
“Ah, your love tale has advanced some way, then. It was not a glance and a passing word, and a thorn left in the heart to hurt terribly at times. That was my case.”
“There is a woman I deeply respect and honor,” said Ellerey. “To love her would be much to my advantage.”
“Why not, then?” asked the boy.
“Because of a memory, the memory of another woman. With her it was a passing word and a look; but they came to me when life was at its darkness, and I have never forgotten them. It was an early morning in England, a morning that has no equal in the whole world, full of sunshine and breeze and perfume; and she came into it suddenly and unexpectedly. She would not choose to remember me if she thought such a memory lingered in my heart. She was out of my reach even then, and in those days I was something more than a Captain of Horse.”
“But after this enterprise you will be something more.” “I cannot become a Prince, Grigosie, and my lady of the breezy morning was a Princess.”
“Really, or is that your fanciful name for her?”
“Really a Princess,” Ellerey answered. “I wonder why I should be telling this story to you?”
“Is there not sympathy between all who love?” Grigosie answered. “It is the one common bond there is in the world, knowing no difference of creed or nationality.”
For two days the little band journeyed in the mountains, keeping to the lower track on account of the horses. Progress was slow, for the going was rough, and the horses often had to be led. The track lay between the lower hills and the main mountain range, and they had lost sight of the open country, which lay below them. It was late in the afternoon of the second day that they crossed a spur which jutted out toward the plain, and from its vantage ground Grigosie was the first to point out the head of the pass, a precipitous opening in the mountains to their left. At the same time Stefan, looking across the open country, pointed out a cloud of dust on the horizon.
“That means a moving body of men,” he said.
“In the pass lies our greatest security until we are prepared to meet the enemy,” Ellerey answered. “If that castle of yours has not crumbled to dust, Grigosie, it will make excellent quarters for us.”
The Drekner pass had long ago ceased to be used. Once, doubtless, it was the highway into Wallaria from the north, but that was long ago, not within the memory of the oldest man. Nature herself had closed the way by casting a great spur of the mountain into the deepest and narrowest
part of the defile. It was still possible to climb this, but it had effectually closed the pass for all useful purposes; and the castle, which in old times had been used to guard the way, had fallen into decay. It stood gaunt against the hillside upon a natural plateau, the pathway to it, long and zig-zag, cut out in the hillside. Vegetation had taken root in the crevices of its broken walls, and some of the stonework, shivered by the lightning stroke perhaps, lay in the roadway at the foot of the hill. Silence reigned, and an eagle hovering on the heights above doubtless had his eyrie there. A thin stream of water trickled down the hillside, finding its way from the snow on the mountains, which reared white-hooded heads here and there above their humbler brethren.
“My castle in the hills!” cried Grigosie enthuisastically as a turn of the track brought it in view.
“Peace, Grigosie, and take that child's chatter of yours to the rear,” said Ellerey. Then turning to Stefan, he directed him and another of the men to climb up carefully to the plateau. “Some outpost of Vasilici's may hold it,” he remarked.
Leaving their horses, Stefan and his companion went up the zig-zag way and were lost to view. It seemed a long time before their figures stood on the edge of the plateau and waved to their comrades to ascend.
“My castle, Anton,” whispered Grigosie. “It was I who told them that it stood here.”
“They liked not your claiming it so.”
“They will forgive much to my youth, even if I am put to cooking and bedmaking to-night as punishment,” laughed the boy. “You shall be snug, Anton, and know that the gods are with us.”
The incline of the zig-zag way had been carefully graduated so that it was possible to lead horses up, and they all dismounted and went singly. At the top of the path a stone gateway, broken and of small service now, shut in the plateau. This was the only means of reaching the castle, and in old times formed the first point of defence. “Empty, but an airy perch to spend the night,” said Stefan, meeting them at the gateway. “Here's a trysting place for every wind that blows, and holes enough for them to whistle through.”
This was evident. The walls were broken in every direction, and heaps of stonework lay scattered on all sides.
“The tower yonder seems to have held together,” said Ellerey.
“Aye, there's fine sleeping room there, and you may see the stars through the roof.”
But the tower had much to commend it. The door that closed it still hung upon its hinges, and in the lower chamber, at least, there were no rents in the wall save the window holes, narrow slits in the outside, but widening inward through the thickness of the walls. On one side stone steps, unprotected in any way, led to the floor above, which was entered through a trap door still in place and capable of being bolted down. Here the walls were broken in places, and part of the roof had fallen. More steps, which mounted to the roof, ended abruptly and were open to the sky. A turret had been displaced at some time and had crashed through, breaking part of the stairs away.
“We can make shift to stable the horses between some of the walls outside, and ourselves in the tower,” said Ellerey. “It might be worse, Stefan, and with fortune our stay will be short.”
“It must be if we're to live. There is no food for a siege,” Stefan answered.
Meanwhile the men had unsaddled, and a fire was already crackling on the old hearth. There was promise of comfort for the night, and they were not disposed to grumble. While some looked to the horses, others made haste to prepare a meal. A kid caught earlier in the day suggested a feast. Others, finding a broken door, made shift to set it on four stones, improvising a table, on which they set out the wine flasks and the food they carried with them, while one man paced up and down the edge of the plateau watching the mountains opposite and the pass beneath.
Kid's flesh, even when roasted over a wood fire, may not be to the taste of all who can choose their viands, but it is honest food for all that, and no one round that improvised table uttered a word against it. More logs had been piled on the fire, and the blaze threw dancing shadows on the stone walls and lit up the rough faces of the men. They were silent for a while, their sharp set appetites fully occupying them, but a draught of wine set the tongues wagging again.
“A song, Stefan: I've heard you roar a good stave ere this.”
“Not a love song, surely?” said Grigosie.
“No, of wine.”
“In all the verse I ever heard love and wine strangely go together,” said the boy.
“Proving that the joys of both are transitory, perhaps,” said Ellerey, who sat beside him. He spoke only to Grigosie, but Stefan heard him.
“Love, Captain—a snap of the fingers for love; but wine's the very heart of life. There's wisdom and truth in wine, there's valor in it, and it's powerful enough to make even good sound men fall in love. There's a stave I've heard which you may have if you will.” And with much sound but little music Stefan broke into song.
It was a tavern ditty, and not too nice in its sentiments, as, indeed, why should it be, to please its hearers? There was a lilt in its chorus which even Stefan's unmusical voice could not hide, and it set the men's heads nodding in time as they roared it out together, waking the echoes with the declaration that—“The eye of a maid may sparkle, And the fools may for love repine, But the wise man knows As his road he goes That the best of life's gifts is wine.”
“That isn't true, is it, Captain?” whispered Grigosie. “We know better than that.”
Ellerey laughed, but he was not displeased to keep the lad in low conversation. The song had let loose a flood of jest and anecdote which lost none of their ribaldry in the telling. They were ill suited for a boy to hear and batten on.
“Yes, lad; we know better, you and I,” he said. “Let them talk, we need not listen.”
“I suppose it is natural in youth to shudder at some things they talk of, and much I do not understand.”
“Keeping such ignorance you will be the happier. And do not drink much wine to-night, Grigosie; you must take your turn at sentry duty. It is share and share alike in an enterprise like this.”
“Grant, then, there be stars to-night. I never feel lonely under the stars,” the lad answered. “It was good wine that was poured into my flask at starting; I have hardly tasted it until now. Is yours good?”
“It might be worse, and I was never a heavy drinker.”
“Taste mine.”
“No, lad; why should I rob you?”
“Indeed, it will be no robbery. If you do not take it I shall offer it to Stefan presently. It is too strong for me.”
“I'll taste it before I sleep, if you will. The air is close here. Let us go and fill our lungs with mountain breezes.”
The boy sprang to his feet at once, careful to take his wine flask with him, and followed Ellerey on to the plateau.
There were stars in the clear sky, and a crescent moon that seemed to be poised on a sharp edge of the higher mountains. The air was keen, tingling in throat and nostrils.
“...the wise man knows As his road he goes That the best of life's gifts is wine,” came again the lilting chorus from the tower. It was the only sound that disturbed the silence—the silence of a world.
“A night for regrets, Captain, yet one to speed ambition,” said Grigosie.
“Yours has been too short to accumulate regrets.”
“They get heaped together very rapidly sometimes,” was the reply. “How long shall we stay here?”
“Only until we have seen Vasilici and delivered our message.”
“And then back to Sturatzberg with our demands backed by an army of patriots,” said Grigosie. “And for the success of the scheme—how do you reckon the chances?”
“If I expected failure I should not be here.”
“Your own ambition supplies the motive, then? There is no love for a cause behind?”
“Hush, lad; those are dangerous questions to ask a soldier. If I know that reward awaits success, it is as certain that failure mea
ns death. Those who employ my sword would not hesitate to sacrifice me to save the situation; so you see, Grigosie, you set out on a venture some enterprise when you joined my company.”
“Yes, we may fail and die, and yet other nights will be just as full of stars as this is. I wonder how it is that such a beautiful world is cursed to go so awry.”
“Chiefly, my lad, because most of us care nothing about the beauty, but think only of using it as a plaything. Let us go in again. You should sleep before you go on duty.” Some of the men had already stretched themselves cut in sleep, and there was weariness in the slow speech of the others. Only Anton seemed really awake, and he did not speak as the two entered the tower.
“Here is the wine,” Grigosie whispered, handing the flask to Ellerey. “Drink to success in it, to success in war—and love.”
CHAPTER XIV. THE TOKEN IS DELIVERED
The logs burnt low upon the hearth, and only a feeble light was in the tower. Anton saw Ellerey drink the wine and then cast himself down not far from Grigosie; but it was too dim for him to see whether all his companions were asleep. Some certainly were, for they snored, and others were restless, for they shifted their positions at intervals and sighed heavily. Where Ellerey and Grigosie were there was deep shadow, growing deeper as the fire died down. One sleeper there was restless for a little while, and then his breathing proclaimed that his sleep was heavy. Once Anton thought there was a darker shadow within the shadow, which moved quite silently, but he did not speak; he only listened very eagerly and raised himself on his elbow a little. Presently Anton slept too.
Ellerey awoke with a start. Some shock in a dream seemed to wake him, and as he raised himself his hand went to his breast, as it constantly did on waking. The token lay there safely. Then he leaned over toward Grigosie and stretched out his arm. The lad's place was empty. He was startled for a moment, as men may be on awaking suddenly from a dream, but he quickly recovered himself, remembering that the lad was sentry part of the night.
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