A prince of lovers

AS Count Irromar went to fetch the Princess, he was concocting a scheme, daring as became his nature, but one which at a stroke should add immensely to his power and change his position from that of an outlaw, an almost brigand noble, to that of a recognized member of the aristocracy of the land. He would make a bold bid for the royal favour and countenance; once they were his, he could trust to his wealth, to his energy, his acquirements, and above all, his will, to give him social position and rehabilitation. It was a flattering plan, and the chance of the moment seemed to have brought to his hand the instrument by which this seemingly impossible metamorphosis could be effected. He had learnt from Rollmar, in no wise loath to tell him, that King Ludwig was waiting not far from his castle presumably to know the result of the Chancellor’s negotiation. That being so, and with a shrewd idea of the old intriguer’s acquiescence, the rest was, to a man of his resources, easy.

When he came into the room—having sent Ruperta urgent word that he must see her, even at that late hour—she wondered what new trick or persecution this was to be, but her apprehension was manifest only in her quick glance of enquiry at his face. Otherwise she looked as imperiously calm as ever.

“I have news for you,” he began, “two pieces of news, one good and the other doubtful, since I know not how you may receive it.”

“What are they, Count?” she asked, on the alert for a new mark of duplicity.

“You shall hear the least pleasant first,” he replied, with a courteous deference which contrasted with the half-veiled insolence of his late manner. “Baron von Rollmar is here.”

The announcement was indeed startling, and made her look up quickly with a flush of surprise.

“Baron von Rollmar here? The Chancellor?”

“None other than your father’s minister. You see, Princess, he has told me who you are, and so shamed my blindness and temerity. Dare I ask for pardon?”

She gave an inclination of her head, a limited acceptance of his apology. “What has Baron von Rollmar come for?” she asked.

“For you, Princess.”

Her look justified his calling the news of doubtful acceptability. And, as it jumped with his project, he noticed it with satisfaction.

“He is here to conduct you back to Waldenthor.”

It was true enough, yet the full, plain truth was scarcely apparent to her. Having no knowledge, save by vague guessing, of what had taken place outside the castle during her captivity, she could not be expected to comprehend the real urgency which had brought the old minister so far.

“To take me back to Waldenthor?” she repeated.

Irromar gave a confirmatory nod. “At least, he takes you with him and his party. I am here to have the honour of conducting you to his Excellency.”

Ruperta thought of the fortress of Krell, and showed no alacrity at the prospect of the meeting.

“You had another piece of news,” she said, suddenly remembering it.

“Good news. Lieutenant von Bertheim is here, unhurt and——”

“With the Baron?” she asked incredulously.

He smiled. “No. I may be bold to claim penetration enough to agree with your Highness as to the improbability of that. No. The Lieutenant is not, indeed, within the castle, but he is not far away.”

He watched the ray of joy on the girl’s face, and as he watched and welcomed he hated it.

“I have come,”—he proceeded—“the reason of my disturbing you, Princess, by bringing the news in person, was that I might venture to submit a proposal which might earn your pardon.”

Her look invited him to speak further, and as he drank it in, he inwardly cursed the contrary fate which gave to another man this coveted interest for which he would have bartered his soul—subject, indeed, to the Master whom he so zealously served having already a lien upon it.

“I understand the situation,” he said with a subtle smile. “And that the Chancellor’s plans are not exactly in accord with your own. He is inclined to interpose himself between you and your happiness, to think less of romance, of hearts, than of state policy. It is not for me to interfere, nor would I do so, since Lieutenant von Bertheim has treated me in a manner which is at least strange, were it not that I owe your Highness some reparation for the presumption into which my ignorance led me. I wish to atone by giving you an opportunity of meeting the Lieutenant before your departure with the Baron Rollmar.”

Her desire broke down the pride which prompted her not to be beholden to this man for an interview with her lover. She loathed the idea of taking him into her counsels, even for the moment. Still she felt that, once more in Rollmar’s power, the separation would be indefinite, might be life-long, for, surely, he would not be hoodwinked again. So she yielded to the temptation, not without hesitating at a suspicion of treachery. Still, something had to be risked, and she conceived a vague idea that her lover and she might again escape together. The Count seemed genuinely repentant; what could be his motive, but that which appeared on the surface? He would scarcely attempt a deed of violence while that grim old man was beneath his roof, and the idea of the two being partners in a plot did not seem probable. Rollmar was too shrewd to take a stranger, practically a foreigner, into his confidence and employ him in his schemes. At all events, she must take some risk; she was in a vortex of uncertainty, shaken by these untoward and startling adventures. So, with perhaps a lurking doubt in her heart, she accepted the Count’s suggestion.

He read her uncertainty. “You do not give me credit for an honest desire to serve you, Princess,” he observed. “It is, perhaps, after all, my own fault. But the event shall quickly prove my good faith. Give me but three words calling him to you, and I will engage that the Lieutenant shall be here within the hour.”

He put writing materials before her. “I fear he will not come without a written word from you,” he said quietly, as Ruperta hesitated.

The reasonableness of the suggestion was manifest. She took the pen and wrote a simple message. “Come, before I return with Rollmar. R.”

As she wrote the Chancellor’s name her hesitation vanished. She hated that pitiless old opponent of her happiness, and the idea of his taking her back in triumph was more humiliating than her pride cared to contemplate.

The Count took up the paper as her pen left it. “I will send this by a trusty fellow, and your friend shall soon be here,” he said significantly. “I, Princess, am not dead to the romantic side of this life of ours, as the Chancellor seems to be.”

The meeting between Ruperta and Rollmar was as brief as it was awkward. The old diplomatist was cynically polite, while Ruperta masked by her coolness and obvious dislike any expression of the mortification which was at her heart.

“I am sorry for any inconvenience it may cause you,” Rollmar said, as Ruperta was about to retire, “but it is necessary that we make an early start homewards in the morning. The Duke will be terribly anxious until he is assured of your safety.”

“Then would it not be well to send off a messenger at once?” was her not unnatural suggestion.

“That has already been done,” he replied authoritatively; “but it is necessary for affairs of State that my return be not delayed an hour longer than is absolutely unavoidable.”

Ruperta glanced sharply at the determined, inscrutable face, and told herself that this early start meant in all probability a longer journey than that suggested, doubtless one to the Fortress of Krell, and her whole spirit revolted at this man’s insolent assumption of power over her liberty. Still, she knew her father’s weakness and his servant’s strength, and saw no way out of the situation, but one.

The hour had not sped when the Count redeemed his word, and Ludovic stood before her. Then at last she broke down under the strain which danger, anxiety, and uncertainty had put upon her; the brave nature gave way, and she fell sobbing into his arms.

“Darling, darling, I thought, though I dared not confess it, never to have seen you again.” When she grew calmer she told him all that had happened. He looked grave, listening with a slight frown when she spoke of the Count.

“So, I owe this meeting to him,” he said, with a dubious shake of the head. “It is not natural. I doubt not there is a design beneath it. The man is as treacherous and pitiless as a leopard: I have had terrible proof of that. I do not trust him, even with the fear of Rollmar before him; he has gone too far ever to make his peace with me, even did his hate and lust for revenge allow him to seek it. Still, the present moment is ours, dearest. And that is infinitely more than, many times since we parted, I have dared to hope for.”

He held her in his arms, kissing her as though the delight of that moment might vanish in the next, and be gone forever. Then presently he told her in a few words of all that had befallen him since their separation. And, as he held her there, her heart beating on his, all her reserve and the lingering trammels of her coldness flung away as she listened, sometimes with a shudder, the sign of a fear which he knew was for him, he could find it in his heart to bless his dangers, with the vindictiveness and treachery, since they had worked for the stress which had opened this paradise to him.

“Oh, my love, if they had killed you I would have died, too,” she murmured, with her lips on his. “And I should have gone to my death contentedly in the thought that Heaven had given me, if only for one little hour, a lover so loyal, true and brave. Ludovic, my love, my poor starved heart thanks God for you.”

For an instant the word was at his lips which would have told her his secret, for, surely, the opportunity was apt. Perhaps it was a feeling that, in a higher sense, in that atmosphere so fully charged with tenderness and love, the cold shock of the announcement would be unfitting; perhaps, too, his sensitive, innate chivalry made him shrink from taking advantage of that supreme moment. The very certainty that the stroke must win held him back from making it. Anyhow it passed, and when rapture allowed him speech it was of a still more urgent matter, their escape. She told him it was for that she had risked the message.

“The Baron does not say so, but I know I am destined for Krell. And once there,” she shuddered, “I may say farewell to my hopes and to my liberty, except on terms which are now forever impossible.”

He understood, and signified it by a kiss.

“There is no reason, I hope,” he said, “why we should not push on again for Beroldstein. The longest and worst part of the way has been travelled, and the end of our journey is now not so far off. With a couple of hours’ start we could laugh at pursuit, and need not fear the high roads to-night.”

“Then let us go, dearest,” she urged.

He smiled at the eagerness he loved. “Everything is arranged,” he replied. “Ompertz is waiting with horses, and will ride with us. I fear, though, we must leave Countess Minna behind this time. But she is now safe from this fellow.”

A look of disappointment clouded Ruperta’s face. “Rollmar will visit my sins on poor Minna’s head.”

“Her penance shall be of short duration, I promise you that,” Ludovic assured her confidently. “She shall join you in a very few days. Rollmar is too sensible to take a foolish and futile revenge. Indeed, it is best; more, it is necessary. We have no horse for her.”

“And Minna hates riding, if you had. Well then, we must leave her. It is easier now,” she added, with a loving look of confidence.

In a very few minutes preparations for the escape and the journey were made. Ludovic extinguished the light, and, cautiously opening the door, crept out, leading the way along the narrow passage, and down the winding stairs, descending to the outer door by which his guide had admitted him to the castle. No one was to be seen; the door was unlocked; they passed out, and crossed an angular court-yard to a massive stone door set in the outer wall. This, as Ludovic’s conductor had shown him, was left merely bolted on the inside; at a strong pull it swung slowly open, and they found themselves in a passage cut through the rock and leading out into the wood.

Ludovic put his arm round Ruperta to help her along the rough path.

“Now for our faithful Ompertz and the horses,” he said encouragingly. “He is near at hand. Another hour, dearest, will see us miles away from this hateful place.”

They were now at the end of the cutting. It was with a delicious sense of freshness and liberty that Ruperta felt the wind through the trees blowing on her face. Her lover’s strong arm was round her—in a few minutes the enemies of her happiness were to be given the slip. There was just light enough to see the path; a stronger blast of wind came through the wood, deadening the sound of another rush. More quickly than they could realize it, they were surrounded by half a dozen men who had suddenly sprung from their ambush. Before Ludovic could put his hand to a weapon, he was seized by four strong fellows, who held his arms firmly, and began to drag him back to the castle. Ruperta, with all her spirit, was powerless to render him any help. She herself had been captured by two men who, with less violence, but equally insistent force, kept her from following.

But the dashing of her hopes, the sickening sense of the Count’s treachery, made her desperate and reckless. She struggled furiously with her captors, two tall, evil-looking ruffians who had, however, evidently had orders to treat her with as much respect as their object permitted. This was to take her back to the castle by another entrance; but they found it not so easy. Ruperta resisted vigorously, then, remembering that Ompertz might be near, she began calling for help. It was but a faint hope, but, to her joy, she heard an answering call which was followed by the welcome appearance of the great dashing swashbuckler, who came through the wood with a leap and uplifted sword, a very fury to the rescue.

Evidently the men thought so, for it was with no very confident air that one of them released his hold on Ruperta, and, drawing his sword, stood before her to keep Ompertz off. A dog might as well have tried the repel the spring of an attacking lion. With a mighty sweep his sword was sent flying among the trees, and it was only by a smart backward spring that he cheated the soldier’s blade of its second blow.

At the same moment Ruperta found herself free, her other captor thinking less of his charge than of his skin, which was, indeed, just then in jeopardy of damage. She quickly told her rescuer what had happened. He just checked an oath of angry disappointment.

“I told him what to expect,” he said, savagely rueful. “But we both hoped I might prove a false prophet. Oh,”—he set his teeth ominously—“oh, for five minutes alone with this precious Count! He should never tell another lie while I lived, or he.”

Ruperta entreated him to follow her lover and free him. He felt the urgency of the move, yet hesitated.

“I dare not leave you, Princess, and if we go together”—he gave a shrug—“I am only one to defend you against this gang of bandits. It were better to see you into safety first.”

But she would not hear of abandoning Ludovic while there was a chance of rescue. She too would go back; she had no fear.

Ompertz saw the true courage in her eyes, and no longer opposed her wish. The two men had skulked away; they were scarcely worth consideration now. The soldier gave his hand to Ruperta, and, sword in the other, led her quickly along the passage to the stone door. It was closed and fast bolted; the men had clearly taken their prisoner through, and now had him safely lodged. Ompertz gave a kick at the unyielding barrier.

“No hope of opening that fellow from outside,” he remarked, with a baffled shake of the head. “And, Highness, let me tell you the sooner for your sake we get out of this ugly trap the better. We should not have a chance if these rascals took it into their heads to drop a few lumps of rock down on ours.”

Although Ruperta had little fear of that awkward contingency, she recognized the futility of staying there. Her heart was full of indignation and a terrible anxiety for her lover. But hers was a nature which rage and fear simply stirred into action; she would never bow to the inevitable or confess herself beaten.

“Yes. Come back with me quickly,” she said, with sudden resolution.

Ompertz glanced at her and knew that the move was not prompted by fear, at least for herself. They hurried back along the passage of rock and into the wood.

“The horses are close by,” Ompertz said, in a tone of doubtful suggestion.

“That is well; we may want them,” Ruperta replied, and he saw that she had in her mind a plan of action.

“The Chancellor brought men—soldiers—with him? How many?”

“About eighty.”

“They are near?”

“Hard by, in the forest beyond the valley.”

“That is well,” she said. “I can trust myself to them. I am their Princess. It is only their leaders who are so vilely treacherous.”

Ompertz looked a little dubious. “If they were all like me, Princess, you might trust them to the death.”

“And you think I cannot rely upon them to protect me against the false hearts and lying tongues of the cowards who threaten us? At least I will try them.”

There was a rustling in the wood, and Count Irromar stood before them.