AS the road from Zweitenbourg to Zoltenau is almost level, except the last four miles, Aloyse, Moltzahn, and Dr. Kirschner did not set out until nearly one o’clock. Aloyse and Moltzahn had deceived the doctor; he thought he was going to a friend of theirs who had been desperately wounded in a duel. Aloyse was thus unable to boast of what he was about to do to the “American pig-dog.” As he could think of nothing else, the drive passed in silence, broken only by feeble attempts on the part of the doctor to improve his good fortune of being in such distinguished company. They reached the inn at a quarter before the hour. As they walked up the road the doctor was undeceived by Moltzahn.
He stopped and fell to weeping and wringing his hands with fright. “A duel—my Crown Prince a principal—my God, Highness, I shall be ruined! I refuse to go.”
Moltzahn caught him by the arm. “Come on, imbecile!” he said, roughly. “There is no turning back now. You will be protected. But if anything should happen, think of my fate.”
Aloyse was a few yards in advance. He was strutting along with his chest out. He was confident that the “American upstart” would give him little trouble. “A physical bully,” he said to himself. “Only a gentleman can be brave in a duel.” He turned. “How does the doctor take it?” he asked.
“My Crown Prince!” exclaimed the doctor. “I beg you—I implore you—” He fell on his knees before Aloyse.
“Get up! Get up!” Aloyse spoke in a kindly, condescending tone. It always delighted him to receive ocular proof of his superiority; some of his father’s remarks were most disquieting. “No harm shall come to you, my good man.”
The doctor, still weeping and in such mental turmoil that he forgot to dust the knees of his trousers and the tails of his long, black coat, kept pace with Moltzahn. Aloyse was whistling and brandishing a small cane. His round face, empty of all save appetites, was gay—it became a prince thus to go to the duel. And, in fact, he was not a coward, except before his father; and he longed to punish the low creature who had dared to lift his eyes to a princess of the house of Traubenheim, had dared to lay hands in anger upon a royal person.
“I can hardly wait to get at the dog, Moltzahn,” he said. “I’m afraid he won’t come.”
Moltzahn replied, “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” absently. The nearer he got to the field the gloomier he became. He had taken many risks, had done many degrading things in furthering the ambition of his life, to be the man next the throne in Zweitenbourg. But this risk was a senseless fly straight into the face of fate.
It was almost broad day when Grafton, Burroughs, and a doctor from Bâle arrived. They lifted their hats to the first-comers. Dr. Kirschner lifted his hat in return; Moltzahn gave a slight salute to Burroughs. Aloyse stared insolently at Grafton and made no salutation whatever.
Grafton turned to Burroughs. “You see, Burroughs, what kind of cattle they are. I apologize again for bringing you.”
Burroughs was white and nervous. “Which one do I deal with?” he asked, in an undertone.
Grafton pointed at Moltzahn. “And keep your eyes on him. He’s a blackguard through and through, capable of anything.”
Aloyse continued to stare at Grafton, a cruel smile on his lips, and the vindictive hate of the brainless in his eyes. Grafton did not like that smile. “I am taking long chances,” he muttered, “but—I must!” He turned his face towards the north, towards Zweitenbourg, and forgot Aloyse.
Moltzahn and Burroughs found a level well back from the road and private. To this the party went. The snow on the peaks was rosy red, and the birds were awakening to full song, and from the earth rose the fresh, living gladness of welcome to the new day. The lot decided that Aloyse should face the south and Grafton the north—“a good omen,” thought Grafton, and the look in his face showed how far murder was from his heart.
As they were about to take their places he said to Aloyse, “I wish a few words with you in private.”
“Absurd—impossible!” interrupted Moltzahn. “Such conduct is intolerable!”
Grafton looked at Aloyse as if Moltzahn had not spoken.
Aloyse hesitated. “Don’t!” pleaded Moltzahn, in a whisper. “He may say something that will unsettle your nerves.”
Aloyse drew himself up haughtily. “Stand aside,” he ordered, “all of you. The fellow may wish to apologize. If so, I may let him off with a sound caning.”
Grafton went close to him. “It may be,” he said, in an even voice, “that you will kill me, so I take the precaution of speaking beforehand. I could easily kill you, because I happen to be a dead shot with the pistol. But I shall spare your life. I shall only shatter your right hand. I do it that you may wear, as long as your body holds together, the badge of my mercy to you—for her sake.”
“How dare you speak of her!” fumed Aloyse. “Yes; I shall kill you for your insolence to our house.”
“It amuses me to see you rage,” said Grafton. “It makes me realize what I rescued her from.”
Aloyse was in a paroxysm of anger. “My cousin and I will marry the day after to-morrow. It is all arranged—”
“All—except her consent,” answered Grafton, with a mocking smile. “I love her. I know her. I trust her. However this may fall out, she will never marry you.”
He returned to his place. “I think I’ve put a shake into his hand,” he said to Burroughs, in an undertone. “I don’t mind admitting I tried to, as this is a farce so far as I am concerned. I’m not anxious to die if I can help it.”
Moltzahn, holding the pistols, was standing midway between Aloyse and Grafton, and a little to one side. He looked from Grafton to Aloyse. “Walk towards me,” he said, “and when you are face to face turn your backs each to the other. I will hand each of you a pistol. Walk towards your places again, and when you reach them stand without turning until Mr. Burroughs begins to count. At three turn and fire at your convenience. Are you ready, gentlemen?”
Aloyse and Grafton bowed.
“Advance!”
They walked slowly and steadily, each towards the other. Grafton seemed dreamy and abstracted, Aloyse’s little brown eyes were angry and his brows were drawn in an exaggerated frown. When they were about two feet apart, Moltzahn, standing as near to one as to the other, said: “Turn!”
They wheeled, and he handed each a cocked pistol. “To your places, gentlemen,” he said. They began the slow return. Burroughs, his hands trembling, was trying to moisten his lips for the giving of the signal. The two doctors, all in black and with long brown beards, stood apart, the Swiss doctor interested but calm, the Zweitenbourgian with his knees knocking together and his hands sliding nervously one over the other. The sun, clearing the crest of a ridge, sent an enormous billow of light to burst through the mists and flood the dense, dew-showered foliage of the western front of the valley.
“Now, Mr. Burroughs,” said Moltzahn, in a low tone.
“One!” said Burroughs, and his voice was thin and shrill; the sound of it made him shiver. “Oh, God!” he thought, “I may be giving the signal for a murder.”
“Three!” wrenched itself from his tightening throat in a gasp. He hid his face in his arms. “What have I done? What have I done?” he groaned. It seemed an eternity; why did they not shoot and have it over with? He dropped his arm and looked; they had had barely time to come round face to face.
Aloyse fired first by an instant; then Grafton. Grafton stood motionless. Aloyse gave an exclamation of pain; his pistol dropped to the ground and the blood spurted over his shattered hand until it was red and raining red from every finger.
Grafton, his feet together, began slowly to fall forward, his eyes closing. Burroughs cried out and rushed to him and caught him.
“Where is it?” he whispered.
“A mere trifle—a scratch on the arm,” whispered Grafton. “Sh! Be careful!” And he closed his eyes and lay motionless.
“Quick, Dr. Berners!” exclaimed Burroughs, starting up wildly from beside his friend. “I think he’s been killed.”
Berners was already there, was tearing open Grafton’s coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Dr. Kirschner, his face beaming and his hands rubbing, bustled up. “His Royal Highness has been graciously pleased to send me to render what aid I can. His Royal Highness’s own wound is slight—”
“Back to your master!” exclaimed Burroughs, apparently beside himself with rage and grief, and standing between Kirschner and Grafton. “My friend is dead—shot down by that assassin!”
Dr. Kirschner put on the death-bed look. “Let us hope not so bad as that.”
“Yes—dead,” said Berners, looking round at his colleague and shielding Grafton so that Kirschner could not see his chest. “He is shot through the heart.”
Kirschner rushed to Aloyse and Moltzahn. Aloyse was ruefully regarding the bandage Kirschner had hastily wrapped round his hand before going on Aloyse’s magnanimous mission. “I regret to inform Your Royal Highness that Mr. Grafton’s wound is most serious.”
“Is that all?” Aloyse scowled. “I aimed for his heart.”
Dr. Kirschner lowered his eyes; even his humble soul revolted. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, in a low voice, “Mr. Grafton is dead.”
“Dead!” Aloyse’s lips shrivelled and he staggered slightly.
“Your Royal Highness shot him through the heart,” said Moltzahn, in a congratulatory tone.
“Dead!” Aloyse’s voice was hoarse. “Let us go,” he said.
“But I must dress Your Royal Highness’s wound,” urged Kirschner.
“In the carriage,” Aloyse answered, impatiently. He cast a hasty glance towards the group on the grass—the prostrate man, the two kneeling beside him. “Let us go,” he said, and led the way.