CHAPTER III. AGAIN TO ZENDA
By Heaven’s care, or—since a man may be over-apt to arrogate to himself great share of such attention—by good luck, I had not to trust for my life to the slender thread of an oath sworn by Rupert of Hentzau. The visions of my dazed brain were transmutations of reality; the scuffle, the rush, the retreat were not all dream.
There is an honest fellow now living in Wintenberg comfortably and at his ease by reason that his wagon chanced to come lumbering along with three or four stout lads in it at the moment when Rupert was meditating a second and murderous blow. Seeing the group of us, the good carrier and his lads leapt down and rushed on my assailants. One of the thieves, they said, was for fighting it out—I could guess who that was—and called on the rest to stand; but they, more prudent, laid hands on him, and, in spite of his oaths, hustled him off along the road towards the station. Open country lay there and the promise of safety. My new friends set off in pursuit; but a couple of revolver shots, heard by me, but not understood, awoke their caution. Good Samaritans, but not men of war, they returned to where I lay senseless on the ground, congratulating themselves and me that an enemy so well armed should run and not stand his ground. They forced a drink of rough wine down my throat, and in a minute or two I opened my eyes. They were for carrying me to a hospital; I would have none of it. As soon as things grew clear to me again and I knew where I was, I did nothing but repeat in urgent tones, “The Golden Lion, The Golden Lion! Twenty crowns to carry me to the Golden Lion.”
Perceiving that I knew my own business and where I wished to go, one picked up my hand-bag and the rest hoisted me into their wagon and set out for the hotel where Rudolf Rassendyll was. The one thought my broken head held was to get to him as soon as might be and tell him how I had been fool enough to let myself be robbed of the queen’s letter.
He was there. He stood on the threshold of the inn, waiting for me, as it seemed, although it was not yet the hour of my appointment. As they drew me up to the door, I saw his tall, straight figure and his red hair by the light of the hall lamps. By Heaven, I felt as a lost child must on sight of his mother! I stretched out my hand to him, over the side of the wagon, murmuring, “I’ve lost it.”
He started at the words, and sprang forward to me. Then he turned quickly to the carrier.
“This gentleman is my friend,” he said. “Give him to me. I’ll speak to you later.” He waited while I was lifted down from the wagon into the arms that he held ready for me, and himself carried me across the threshold. I was quite clear in the head by now and understood all that passed. There were one or two people in the hall, but Mr. Rassendyll took no heed of them. He bore me quickly upstairs and into his sitting-room. There he set me down in an arm-chair, and stood opposite to me. He was smiling, but anxiety was awake in his eyes.
“I’ve lost it,” I said again, looking up at him pitifully enough.
“That’s all right,” said he, nodding. “Will you wait, or can you tell me?”
“Yes, but give me some brandy,” said I.
Rudolf gave me a little brandy mixed in a great deal of water, and then I made shift to tell him. Though faint, I was not confused, and I gave my story in brief, hurried, yet sufficient words. He made no sign till I mentioned the letter. Then his face changed.
“A letter, too?” he exclaimed, in a strange mixture of increased apprehension and unlooked-for joy.
“Yes, a letter, too; she wrote a letter, and I carried that as well as the box. I’ve lost them both, Rudolf. God help me, I’ve lost them both! Rupert has the letter too!” I think I must have been weak and unmanned from the blow I had received, for my composure broke down here. Rudolf stepped up to me and wrung me by the hand. I mastered myself again and looked in his face as he stood in thought, his hand caressing the strong curve of his clean-shaven chin. Now that I was with him again it seemed as though I had never lost him; as though we were still together in Strelsau or at Tarlenheim, planning how to hoodwink Black Michael, send Rupert of Hentzau to his own place, and bring the king back to his throne. For Mr. Rassendyll, as he stood before me now, was changed in nothing since our last meeting, nor indeed since he reigned in Strelsau, save that a few flecks of gray spotted his hair.
My battered head ached most consumedly. Mr. Rassendyll rang the bell twice, and a short, thickset man of middle age appeared; he wore a suit of tweed, and had the air of smartness and respectability which marks English servants.
“James,” said Rudolf, “this gentleman has hurt his head. Look after it.”
James went out. In a few minutes he was back, with water, basin, towels, and bandages. Bending over me, he began to wash and tend my wound very deftly. Rudolf was walking up and down.
“Done the head, James?” he asked, after a few moments.
“Yes, sir,” answered the servant, gathering together his appliances.
“Telegraph forms, then.”
James went out, and was back with the forms in an instant.
“Be ready when I ring,” said Rudolf. And he added, turning to me, “Any easier, Fritz?”
“I can listen to you now,” I said.
“I see their game,” said he. “One or other of them, Rupert or this Rischenheim, will try to get to the king with the letter.”
I sprang to my feet.
“They mustn’t,” I cried, and I reeled back into my chair, with a feeling as if a red-hot poker were being run through my head.
“Much you can do to stop ‘em, old fellow,” smiled Rudolf, pausing to press my hand as he went by. “They won’t trust the post, you know. One will go. Now which?” He stood facing me with a thoughtful frown on his face.
I did not know, but I thought that Rischenheim would go. It was a great risk for Rupert to trust himself in the kingdom, and he knew that the king would not easily be persuaded to receive him, however startling might be the business he professed as his errand. On the other hand, nothing was known against Rischenheim, while his rank would secure, and indeed entitle, him to an early audience. Therefore I concluded that Rischenheim would go with the letter, or, if Rupert would not let that out of his possession, with the news of the letter.
“Or a copy,” suggested Rassendyll. “Well, Rischenheim or Rupert will be on his way by to-morrow morning, or is on his way to-night.”
Again I tried to rise, for I was on fire to prevent the fatal consequences of my stupidity. Rudolf thrust me back in my chair, saying, “No, no.” Then he sat down at the table and took up the telegraph forms.
“You and Sapt arranged a cipher, I suppose?” he asked.
“Yes. You write the message, and I’ll put it into the cipher.”
“This is what I’ve written: ‘Document lost. Let nobody see him if possible. Wire who asks.’ I don’t like to make it plainer: most ciphers can be read, you know.”
“Not ours,” said I.
“Well, but will that do?” asked Rudolf, with an unconvinced smile.
“Yes, I think he’ll understand it.” And I wrote it again in the cipher; it was as much as I could do to hold the pen.
The bell was rung again, and James appeared in an instant.
“Send this,” said Rudolf.
“The offices will be shut, sir.”
“James, James!”
“Very good, sir; but it may take an hour to get one open.”
“I’ll give you half an hour. Have you money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now,” added Rudolf, turning to me, “you’d better go to bed.”
I do not recollect what I answered, for my faintness came upon me again, and I remember only that Rudolf himself helped me into his own bed. I slept, but I do not think he so much as lay down on the sofa; chancing to awake once or twice, I heard him pacing about. But towards morning I slept heavily, and I did not know what he was doing then. At eight o’clock James entered and roused me. He said that a doctor was to be at the hotel in half an hour, but that Mr. Rassendyll would like to see me for a few minutes if I felt equal to business. I begged James to summon his master at once. Whether I were equal or unequal, the business had to be done.
Rudolf came, calm and serene. Danger and the need for exertion acted on him like a draught of good wine on a seasoned drinker. He was not only himself, but more than himself: his excellences enhanced, the indolence that marred him in quiet hours sloughed off. But to-day there was something more; I can only describe it as a kind of radiance. I have seen it on the faces of young sparks when the lady they love comes through the ball-room door, and I have seen it glow more softly in a girl’s eyes when some fellow who seemed to me nothing out of the ordinary asked her for a dance. That strange gleam was on Rudolf’s face as he stood by my bedside. I dare say it used to be on mine when I went courting.
“Fritz, old friend,” said he, “there’s an answer from Sapt. I’ll lay the telegraph offices were stirred in Zenda as well as James stirred them here in Wintenberg! And what do you think? Rischenheim asked for an audience before he left Strelsau.”
I raised myself on my elbow in the bed.
“You understand?” he went on. “He left on Monday. To-day’s Wednesday. The king has granted him an audience at four on Friday. Well, then—”
“They counted on success,” I cried, “and Rischenheim takes the letter!”
“A copy, if I know Rupert of Hentzau. Yes, it was well laid. I like the men taking all the cabs! How much ahead had they, now.”
I did not know that, though I had no more doubt than he that Rupert’s hand was in the business.
“Well,” he continued, “I am going to wire to Sapt to put Rischenheim off for twelve hours if he can; failing that, to get the king away from Zenda.”
“But Rischenheim must have his audience sooner or later,” I objected.
“Sooner or later—there’s the world’s difference between them!” cried Rudolf Rassendyll. He sat down on the bed by me, and went on in quick, decisive words: “You can’t move for a day or two. Send my message to Sapt. Tell him to keep you informed of what happens. As soon as you can travel, go to Strelsau, and let Sapt know directly you arrive. We shall want your help.”
“And what are you going to do?” I cried, staring at him.
He looked at me for a moment, and his face was crossed by conflicting feelings. I saw resolve there, obstinacy, and the scorn of danger; fun, too, and merriment; and, lastly, the same radiance I spoke of. He had been smoking a cigarette; now he threw the end of it into the grate and rose from the bed where he had been sitting.
“I’m going to Zenda,” said he.
“To Zenda!” I cried, amazed.
“Yes,” said Rudolf. “I’m going again to Zenda, Fritz, old fellow. By heaven, I knew it would come, and now it has come!”
“But to do what?”
“I shall overtake Rischenheim or be hot on his heels. If he gets there first, Sapt will keep him waiting till I come; and if I come, he shall never see the king. Yes, if I come in time—” He broke into a sudden laugh. “What!” he cried, “have I lost my likeness? Can’t I still play the king? Yes, if I come in time, Rischenheim shall have his audience of the king of Zenda, and the king will be very gracious to him, and the king will take his copy of the letter from him! Oh, Rischenheim shall have an audience of King Rudolf in the castle of Zenda, never fear!”
He stood, looking to see how I received his plan; but amazed at the boldness of it, I could only lie back and gasp.
Rudolf’s excitement left him as suddenly as it had come; he was again the cool, shrewd, nonchalant Englishman, as, lighting another cigarette, he proceeded:
“You see, there are two of them, Rupert and Rischenheim. Now you can’t move for a day or two, that’s certain. But there must be two of us there in Ruritania. Rischenheim is to try first; but if he fails, Rupert will risk everything and break through to the king’s presence. Give him five minutes with the king, and the mischief’s done! Very well, then; Sapt must keep Rupert at bay while I tackle Rischenheim. As soon as you can move, go to Strelsau, and let Sapt know where you are.”
“But if you’re seen, if you’re found out?”
“Better I than the queen’s letter,” said he. Then he laid his hand on my arm and said, quite quietly, “If the letter gets to the king, I and I only can do what must be done.”
I did not know what he meant; perhaps it was that he would carry off the queen sooner than leave her alone after her letter was known; but there was another possible meaning that I, a loyal subject, dared not inquire into. Yet I made no answer, for I was above all and first of all the queen’s servant. Still I cannot believe that he meant harm to the king.
“Come, Fritz,” he cried, “don’t look so glum. This is not so great an affair as the other, and we brought that through safe.” I suppose I still looked doubtful, for he added, with a sort of impatience, “Well, I’m going, anyhow. Heavens, man, am I to sit here while that letter is carried to the king?”
I understood his feeling, and knew that he held life a light thing compared with the recovery of Queen Flavia’s letter. I ceased to urge him. When I assented to his wishes, every shadow vanished from his face, and he began to discuss the details of the plan with business-like brevity.
“I shall leave James with you,” said Rudolf. “He’ll be very useful, and you can rely on him absolutely. Any message that you dare trust to no other conveyance, give to him; he’ll carry it. He can shoot, too.” He rose as he spoke. “I’ll look in before I start,” he added, “and hear what the doctor says about you.”
I lay there, thinking, as men sick and weary in body will, of the dangers and the desperate nature of the risk, rather than of the hope which its boldness would have inspired in a healthy, active brain. I distrusted the rapid inference that Rudolf had drawn from Sapt’s telegram, telling myself that it was based on too slender a foundation. Well, there I was wrong, and I am glad now to pay that tribute to his discernment. The first steps of Rupert’s scheme were laid as Rudolf had conjectured: Rischenheim had started, even while I lay there, for Zenda, carrying on his person a copy of the queen’s farewell letter and armed for his enterprise by his right of audience with the king. So far we were right, then; for the rest we were in darkness, not knowing or being able even to guess where Rupert would choose to await the result of the first cast, or what precautions he had taken against the failure of his envoy. But although in total obscurity as to his future plans, I traced his past actions, and subsequent knowledge has shown that I was right. Bauer was the tool; a couple of florins apiece had hired the fellows who, conceiving that they were playing a part in some practical joke, had taken all the cabs at the station. Rupert had reckoned that I should linger looking for my servant and luggage, and thus miss my last chance of a vehicle. If, however, I had obtained one, the attack would still have been made, although, of course, under much greater difficulties. Finally—and of this at the time I knew nothing—had I evaded them and got safe to port with my cargo, the plot would have been changed. Rupert’s attention would then have been diverted from me to Rudolf; counting on love overcoming prudence, he reckoned that Mr. Rassendyll would not at once destroy what the queen sent, and had arranged to track his steps from Wintenberg till an opportunity offered of robbing him of his treasure. The scheme, as I know it, was full of audacious cunning, and required large resources—the former Rupert himself supplied; for the second he was indebted to his cousin and slave, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim.
My meditations were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor. He hummed and ha’d over me, but to my surprise asked me no questions as to the cause of my misfortune, and did not, as I had feared, suggest that his efforts should be seconded by those of the police. On the contrary, he appeared, from an unobtrusive hint or two, to be anxious that I should know that his discretion could be trusted.
“You must not think of moving for a couple of days,” he said; “but then, I think we can get you away without danger and quite quietly.”
I thanked him; he promised to look in again; I murmured something about his fee.
“Oh, thank you, that is all settled,” he said. “Your friend Herr Schmidt has seen to it, and, my dear sir, most liberally.”
He was hardly gone when ‘my friend Herr Schmidt’—alias Rudolf Rassendyll—was back. He laughed a little when I told him how discreet the doctor had been.
“You see,” he explained, “he thinks you’ve been very indiscreet. I was obliged, my dear Fritz, to take some liberties with your character. However, it’s odds against the matter coming to your wife’s ears.”
“But couldn’t we have laid the others by the heels?”
“With the letter on Rupert? My dear fellow, you’re very ill.”
I laughed at myself, and forgave Rudolf his trick, though I think that he might have made my fictitious inamorata something more than a baker’s wife. It would have cost no more to make her a countess, and the doctor would have looked with more respect on me. However, Rudolf had said that the baker broke my head with his rolling-pin, and thus the story rests in the doctor’s mind to this day.
“Well, I’m off,” said Rudolf.
“But where?”
“Why, to that same little station where two good friends parted from me once before. Fritz, where’s Rupert gone?”
“I wish we knew.”
“I lay he won’t be far off.”
“Are you armed?”
“The six-shooter. Well, yes, since you press me, a knife, too; but only if he uses one. You’ll let Sapt know when you come?”
“Yes; and I come the moment I can stand?”
“As if you need tell me that, old fellow!”
“Where do you go from the station?”
“To Zenda, through the forest,” he answered. “I shall reach the station about nine to-morrow night, Thursday. Unless Rischenheim has got the audience sooner than was arranged, I shall be in time.”
“How will you get hold of Sapt?”
“We must leave something to the minute.”
“God bless you, Rudolf.”
“The king sha’n’t have the letter, Fritz.”
There was a moment’s silence as we shook hands. Then that soft yet bright look came in his eyes again. He looked down at me, and caught me regarding him with a smile that I know was not unkind.
“I never thought I should see her again,” he said. “I think I shall now, Fritz. To have a turn with that boy and to see her again—it’s worth something.”
“How will you see her?”
Rudolf laughed, and I laughed too. He caught my hand again. I think that he was anxious to infect me with his gayety and confidence. But I could not answer to the appeal of his eyes. There was a motive in him that found no place in me—a great longing, the prospect or hope of whose sudden fulfilment dwarfed danger and banished despair. He saw that I detected its presence in him and perceived how it filled his mind.
“But the letter comes before all,” said he. “I expected to die without seeing her; I will die without seeing her, if I must, to save the letter.”
“I know you will,” said I.
He pressed my hand again. As he turned away, James came with his noiseless, quick step into the room.
“The carriage is at the door, sir,” said he.
“Look after the count, James,” said Rudolf. “Don’t leave him till he sends you away.”
“Very well, sir.”
I raised myself in bed.
“Here’s luck,” I cried, catching up the lemonade James had brought me, and taking a gulp of it.
“Please God,” said Rudolf, with a shrug.
And he was gone to his work and his reward—to save the queen’s letter and to see the queen’s face. Thus he went a second time to Zenda.
CHAPTER IV. AN EDDY ON THE MOAT
On the evening of Thursday, the sixteenth of October, the Constable of Zenda was very much out of humor; he has since confessed as much. To risk the peace of a palace for the sake of a lover’s greeting had never been wisdom to his mind, and he had been sorely impatient with “that fool Fritz’s” yearly pilgrimage. The letter of farewell had been an added folly, pregnant with chances of disaster. Now disaster, or the danger of it, had come. The curt, mysterious telegram from Wintenberg, which told him so little, at least told him that. It ordered him—and he did not know even whose the order was—to delay Rischenheim’s audience, or, if he could not, to get the king away from Zenda: why he was to act thus was not disclosed to him. But he knew as well as I that Rischenheim was completely in Rupert’s hands, and he could not fail to guess that something had gone wrong at Wintenberg, and that Rischenheim came to tell the king some news that the king must not hear. His task sounded simple, but it was not easy; for he did not know where Rischenheim was, and so could not prevent his coming; besides, the king had been very pleased to learn of the count’s approaching visit, since he desired to talk with him on the subject of a certain breed of dogs, which the count bred with great, his Majesty with only indifferent success; therefore he had declared that nothing should interfere with his reception of Rischenheim. In vain Sapt told him that a large boar had been seen in the forest, and that a fine day’s sport might be expected if he would hunt next day. “I shouldn’t be back in time to see Rischenheim,” said the king.
“Your Majesty would be back by nightfall,” suggested Sapt.
“I should be too tired to talk to him, and I’ve a great deal to discuss.”
“You could sleep at the hunting-lodge, sire, and ride back to receive the count next morning.”
“I’m anxious to see him as soon as may be.” Then he looked up at Sapt with a sick man’s quick suspicion. “Why shouldn’t I see him?” he asked.
“It’s a pity to miss the boar, sire,” was all Sapt’s plea. The king made light of it.
“Curse the boar!” said he. “I want to know how he gets the dogs’ coats so fine.”
As the king spoke a servant entered, carrying a telegram for Sapt. The colonel took it and put it in his pocket.
“Read it,” said the king. He had dined and was about to go to bed, it being nearly ten o’clock.
“It will keep, sire,” answered Sapt, who did not know but that it might be from Wintenberg.
“Read it,” insisted the king testily. “It may be from Rischenheim. Perhaps he can get here sooner. I should like to know about those dogs. Read it, I beg.”
Sapt could do nothing but read it. He had taken to spectacles lately, and he spent a long while adjusting them and thinking what he should do if the message were not fit for the king’s ear. “Be quick, man, be quick!” urged the irritable king.
Sapt had got the envelope open at last, and relief, mingled with perplexity, showed in his face.
“Your Majesty guessed wonderfully well. Rischenheim can be here at eight to-morrow morning,” he said, looking up.
“Capital!” cried the king. “He shall breakfast with me at nine, and I’ll have a ride after the boar when we’ve done our business. Now are you satisfied?”
“Perfectly, sire,” said Sapt, biting his moustache.
The king rose with a yawn, and bade the colonel good-night. “He must have some trick I don’t know with those dogs,” he remarked, as he went out. And “Damn the dogs!” cried Colonel Sapt the moment that the door was shut behind his Majesty.
But the colonel was not a man to accept defeat easily. The audience that he had been instructed to postpone was advanced; the king, whom he had been told to get away from Zenda, would not go till he had seen Rischenheim. Still there are many ways of preventing a meeting. Some are by fraud; these it is no injustice to Sapt to say that he had tried; some are by force, and the colonel was being driven to the conclusion that one of these must be his resort.
“Though the king,” he mused, with a grin, “will be furious if anything happens to Rischenheim before he’s told him about the dogs.”
Yet he fell to racking his brains to find a means by which the count might be rendered incapable of performing the service so desired by the king and of carrying out his own purpose in seeking an audience. Nothing save assassination suggested itself to the constable; a quarrel and a duel offered no security; and Sapt was not Black Michael, and had no band of ruffians to join him in an apparently unprovoked kidnapping of a distinguished nobleman.
“I can think of nothing,” muttered Sapt, rising from his chair and moving across towards the window in search of the fresh air that a man so often thinks will give him a fresh idea. He was in his own quarters, that room of the new chateau which opens on to the moat immediately to the right of the drawbridge as you face the old castle; it was the room which Duke Michael had occupied, and almost opposite to the spot where the great pipe had connected the window of the king’s dungeon with the waters of the moat. The bridge was down now, for peaceful days had come to Zenda; the pipe was gone, and the dungeon’s window, though still barred, was uncovered. The night was clear and fine, and the still water gleamed fitfully as the moon, half-full, escaped from or was hidden by passing clouds. Sapt stood staring out gloomily, beating his knuckles on the stone sill. The fresh air was there, but the fresh idea tarried.
Suddenly the constable bent forward, craning his head out and down, far as he could stretch it, towards the water. What he had seen, or seemed dimly to see, is a sight common enough on the surface of water—large circular eddies, widening from a centre; a stone thrown in makes them, or a fish on the rise. But Sapt had thrown no stone, and the fish in the moat were few and not rising then. The light was behind Sapt, and threw his figure into bold relief. The royal apartments looked out the other way; there were no lights in the windows this side the bridge, although beyond it the guards’ lodgings and the servants’ offices still showed a light here and there. Sapt waited till the eddies ceased. Then he heard the faintest sound, as of a large body let very gently into the water; a moment later, from the moat right below him, a man’s head emerged.
“Sapt!” said a voice, low but distinct.
The old colonel started, and, resting both hands on the sill, bent further out, till he seemed in danger of overbalancing.
“Quick—to the ledge on the other side. You know,” said the voice, and the head turned; with quick, quiet strokes the man crossed the moat till he was hidden in the triangle of deep shade formed by the meeting of the drawbridge and the old castle wall. Sapt watched him go, almost stupefied by the sudden wonder of hearing that voice come to him out of the stillness of the night. For the king was abed; and who spoke in that voice save the king and one other?
Then, with a curse at himself for his delay, he turned and walked quickly across the room. Opening the door, he found himself in the passage. But here he ran right into the arms of young Bernenstein, the officer of the guard, who was going his rounds. Sapt knew and trusted him, for he had been with us all through the siege of Zenda, when Michael kept the king a prisoner, and he bore marks given him by Rupert of Hentzau’s ruffians. He now held a commission as lieutenant in the cuirassiers of the King’s Guard.
He noticed Sapt’s bearing, for he cried out in a low voice, “Anything wrong, sir?”
“Bernenstein, my boy, the castle’s all right about here. Go round to the front, and, hang you, stay there,” said Sapt.
The officer stared, as well he might. Sapt caught him by the arm.
“No, stay here. See, stand by the door there that leads to the royal apartments. Stand there, and let nobody pass. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And whatever you hear, don’t look round.”
Bernenstein’s bewilderment grew greater; but Sapt was constable, and on Sapt’s shoulders lay the responsibility for the safety of Zenda and all in it.
“Very well, sir,” he said, with a submissive shrug, and he drew his sword and stood by the door; he could obey, although he could not understand.
Sapt ran on. Opening the gate that led to the bridge, he sped across. Then, stepping on one side and turning his face to the wall, he descended the steps that gave foothold down to the ledge running six or eight inches above the water. He also was now in the triangle of deep darkness, yet he knew that a man was there, who stood straight and tall, rising above his own height. And he felt his hand caught in a sudden grip. Rudolf Rassendyll was there, in his wet drawers and socks.
“Is it you?” he whispered.
“Yes,” answered Rudolf; “I swam round from the other side and got here. Then I threw in a bit of mortar, but I wasn’t sure I’d roused you, and I didn’t dare shout, so I followed it myself. Lay hold of me a minute while I get on my breeches: I didn’t want to get wet, so I carried my clothes in a bundle. Hold me tight, it’s slippery.”
“In God’s name what brings you here?” whispered Sapt, catching Rudolf by the arm as he was directed.
“The queen’s service. When does Rischenheim come?”
“To-morrow at eight.”
“The deuce! That’s earlier than I thought. And the king?”
“Is here and determined to see him. It’s impossible to move him from it.”
There was a moment’s silence; Rudolf drew his shirt over his head and tucked it into his trousers. “Give me the jacket and waistcoat,” he said. “I feel deuced damp underneath, though.”
“You’ll soon get dry,” grinned Sapt. “You’ll be kept moving, you see.”
“I’ve lost my hat.”
“Seems to me you’ve lost your head too.”
“You’ll find me both, eh, Sapt?”
“As good as your own, anyhow,” growled the constable.
“Now the boots, and I’m ready.” Then he asked quickly, “Has the king seen or heard from Rischenheim?”
“Neither, except through me.”
“Then why is he so set on seeing him?”
“To find out what gives dogs smooth coats.”
“You’re serious? Hang you, I can’t see your face.”
“Absolutely.”
“All’s well, then. Has he got a beard now?”
“Yes.”
“Confound him! Can’t you take me anywhere to talk?”
“What the deuce are you here at all for?”
“To meet Rischenheim.”
“To meet—?”
“Yes. Sapt, he’s got a copy of the queen’s letter.”
Sapt twirled his moustache.
“I’ve always said as much,” he remarked in tones of satisfaction. He need not have said it; he would have been more than human not to think it.
“Where can you take me to?” asked Rudolf impatiently.
“Any room with a door and a lock to it,” answered old Sapt. “I command here, and when I say ‘Stay out’—well, they don’t come in.”
“Not the king?”
“The king is in bed. Come along,” and the constable set his toe on the lowest step.
“Is there nobody about?” asked Rudolf, catching his arm.
“Bernenstein; but he will keep his back toward us.”
“Your discipline is still good, then, Colonel?”
“Pretty well for these days, your Majesty,” grunted Sapt, as he reached the level of the bridge.
Having crossed, they entered the chateau. The passage was empty, save for Bernenstein, whose broad back barred the way from the royal apartments.
“In here,” whispered Sapt, laying his hand on the door of the room whence he had come.
“All right,” answered Rudolf. Bernenstein’s hand twitched, but he did not look round. There was discipline in the castle of Zenda.
But as Sapt was half-way through the door and Rudolf about to follow him, the other door, that which Bernenstein guarded, was softly yet swiftly opened. Bernenstein’s sword was in rest in an instant. A muttered oath from Sapt and Rudolf’s quick snatch at his breath greeted the interruption. Bernenstein did not look round, but his sword fell to his side. In the doorway stood Queen Flavia, all in white; and now her face turned white as her dress. For her eyes had fallen on Rudolf Rassendyll. For a moment the four stood thus; then Rudolf passed Sapt, thrust Bernenstein’s brawny shoulders (the young man had not looked round) out of the way, and, falling on his knee before the queen, seized her hand and kissed it. Bernenstein could see now without looking round, and if astonishment could kill, he would have been a dead man that instant. He fairly reeled and leant against the wall, his mouth hanging open. For the king was in bed, and had a beard; yet there was the king, fully dressed and clean shaven, and he was kissing the queen’s hand, while she gazed down on him in a struggle between amazement, fright, and joy. A soldier should be prepared for anything, but I cannot be hard on young Bernenstein’s bewilderment.
Yet there was in truth nothing strange in the queen seeking to see old Sapt that night, nor in her guessing where he would most probably be found. For she had asked him three times whether news had come from Wintenberg and each time he had put her off with excuses. Quick to forbode evil, and conscious of the pledge to fortune that she had given in her letter, she had determined to know from him whether there were really cause for alarm, and had stolen, undetected, from her apartments to seek him. What filled her at once with unbearable apprehension and incredulous joy was to find Rudolf present in actual flesh and blood, no longer in sad longing dreams or visions, and to feel his live lips on her hand.
Lovers count neither time nor danger; but Sapt counted both, and no more than a moment had passed before, with eager imperative gestures, he beckoned them to enter the room. The queen obeyed, and Rudolf followed her.
“Let nobody in, and don’t say a word to anybody,” whispered Sapt, as he entered, leaving Bernenstein outside. The young man was half-dazed still, but he had sense to read the expression in the constable’s eyes and to learn from it that he must give his life sooner than let the door be opened. So with drawn sword he stood on guard.
It was eleven o’clock when the queen came, and midnight had struck from the great clock of the castle before the door opened again and Sapt came out. His sword was not drawn, but he had his revolver in his hand. He shut the door silently after him and began at once to talk in low, earnest, quick tones to Bernenstein. Bernenstein listened intently and without interrupting. Sapt’s story ran on for eight or nine minutes. Then he paused, before asking:
“You understand now?”
“Yes, it is wonderful,” said the young man, drawing in his breath.
“Pooh!” said Sapt. “Nothing is wonderful: some things are unusual.”
Bernenstein was not convinced, and shrugged his shoulders in protest.
“Well?” said the constable, with a quick glance at him.
“I would die for the queen, sir,” he answered, clicking his heels together as though on parade.
“Good,” said Sapt. “Then listen,” and he began again to talk. Bernenstein nodded from time to time. “You’ll meet him at the gate,” said the constable, “and bring him straight here. He’s not to go anywhere else, you understand me?”
“Perfectly, Colonel,” smiled young Bernenstein.
“The king will be in this room—the king. You know who is the king?”
“Perfectly, Colonel.”
“And when the interview is ended, and we go to breakfast—”
“I know who will be the king then. Yes, Colonel.”
“Good. But we do him no harm unless—”
“It is necessary.”
“Precisely.”
Sapt turned away with a little sigh. Bernenstein was an apt pupil, but the colonel was exhausted by so much explanation. He knocked softly at the door of the room. The queen’s voice bade him enter, and he passed in. Bernenstein was left alone again in the passage, pondering over what he had heard and rehearsing the part that it now fell to him to play. As he thought he may well have raised his head proudly. The service seemed so great and the honor so high, that he almost wished he could die in the performing of his role. It would be a finer death than his soldier’s dreams had dared to picture.
At one o’clock Colonel Sapt came out. “Go to bed till six,” said he to Bernenstein.
“I’m not sleepy.”
“No, but you will be at eight if you don’t sleep now.”
“Is the queen coming out, Colonel?”
“In a minute, Lieutenant.”
“I should like to kiss her hand.”
“Well, if you think it worth waiting a quarter of an hour for!” said Sapt, with a slight smile.
“You said a minute, sir.”
“So did she,” answered the constable.
Nevertheless it was a quarter of an hour before Rudolf Rassendyll opened the door and the queen appeared on the threshold. She was very pale, and she had been crying, but her eyes were happy and her air firm. The moment he saw her, young Bernenstein fell on his knee and raised her hand to his lips.
“To the death, madame,” said he, in a trembling voice.
“I knew it, sir,” she answered graciously. Then she looked round on the three of them. “Gentlemen,” said she, “my servants and dear friends, with you, and with Fritz who lies wounded in Wintenberg, rest my honor and my life; for I will not live if the letter reaches the king.”
“The king shall not have it, madame,” said Colonel Sapt. He took her hand in his and patted it with a clumsy gentleness; smiling, she extended it again to young Bernenstein, in mark of her favor. They two then stood at the salute, while Rudolf walked with her to the end of the passage. There for a moment she and he stood together; the others turned their eyes away and thus did not see her suddenly stoop and cover his hand with her kisses. He tried to draw it away, not thinking it fit that she should kiss his hand, but she seemed as though she could not let it go. Yet at last, still with her eyes on his, she passed backwards through the door, and he shut it after her.
“Now to business,” said Colonel Sapt dryly; and Rudolf laughed a little.
Rudolf passed into the room. Sapt went to the king’s apartments, and asked the physician whether his Majesty were sleeping well. Receiving reassuring news of the royal slumbers, he proceeded to the quarters of the king’s body-servant, knocked up the sleepy wretch, and ordered breakfast for the king and the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim at nine o’clock precisely, in the morning-room that looked out over the avenue leading to the entrance to the new chateau. This done, he returned to the room where Rudolf was, carried a chair into the passage, bade Rudolf lock the door, sat down, revolver in hand, and himself went to sleep. Young Bernenstein was in bed just now, taken faint, and the constable himself was acting as his substitute; that was to be the story, if a story were needed. Thus the hours from two to six passed that morning in the castle of Zenda.
At six the constable awoke and knocked at the door; Rudolf Rassendyll opened it.
“Slept well?” asked Sapt.
“Not a wink,” answered Rudolf cheerfully.
“I thought you had more nerve.”
“It wasn’t want of nerve that kept me awake,” said Mr. Rassendyll.
Sapt, with a pitying shrug, looked round. The curtains of the window were half-drawn. The table was moved near to the wall, and the arm-chair by it was well in shadow, being quite close to the curtains.
“There’s plenty of room for you behind,” said Rudolf; “And when Rischenheim is seated in his chair opposite to mine, you can put your barrel against his head by just stretching out your hand. And of course I can do the same.”
“Yes, it looks well enough,” said Sapt, with an approving nod.
“What about the beard?”
“Bernenstein is to tell him you’ve shaved this morning.”
“Will he believe that?”
“Why not? For his own sake he’d better believe everything.”
“And if we have to kill him?”
“We must run for it. The king would be furious.”
“He’s fond of him?”
“You forget. He wants to know about the dogs.”
“True. You’ll be in your place in time?”
“Of course.”
Rudolf Rassendyll took a turn up and down the room. It was easy to see that the events of the night had disturbed him. Sapt’s thoughts were running in a different channel.
“When we’ve done with this fellow, we must find Rupert,” said he.
Rudolf started.
“Rupert? Rupert? True; I forgot. Of course we must,” said he confusedly.
Sapt looked scornful; he knew that his companion’s mind had been occupied with the queen. But his remarks—if he had meditated any—were interrupted by the clock striking seven.
“He’ll be here in an hour,” said he.
“We’re ready for him,” answered Rudolf Rassendyll. With the thought of action his eyes grew bright and his brow smooth again. He and old Sapt looked at one another, and they both smiled.
“Like old times, isn’t it, Sapt?”
“Aye, sire, like the reign of good King Rudolf.”
Thus they made ready for the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, while my cursed wound held me a prisoner at Wintenberg. It is still a sorrow to me that I know what passed that morning only by report, and had not the honor of bearing a part in it. Still, her Majesty did not forget me, but remembered that I would have taken my share, had fortune allowed. Indeed I would most eagerly.