Chapter III: Part 3

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.”

“Two!” His voice was hoarse.

“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.

X

The Grand Duke Prepares to Celebrate

On the drive back to Zweitenbourg Aloyse’s spirits gradually rose. He ceased to see that group with such painful distinctness; Moltzahn and presently Dr. Kirschner flattered him on his marksmanship. Pshaw! it had been a mere coincidence that Grafton had shot him precisely as he said he would. He forced himself to remember more and more vividly Grafton’s impudence--and impudence to a Traubenheim! And impudence to a Traubenheim in an affair of the heart!--and that affair one in which the lady was also a Traubenheim. He had but meted out just punishment for an assault upon his own honor, the honor of his wife-to-be, the honor of his house.

In the last two or three miles he was hilarious, boasting boisterously--he had had something to drink and nothing to eat--of his prowess and of how all Traubenheims always thus served the impudent enemies of their house. And Moltzahn, concealing his contempt and disgust, and Dr. Kirschner, full of the loyalty of a devoted subject, urged him on. He set the doctor down at his house and Moltzahn at his club--Moltzahn did not dare show himself at The Castle. Then he drove on with a growing appetite. He reached The Castle at seven o’clock, just in time for his regular breakfast with his father.

The Grand Duke was invariably in a vile humor in the morning; he ate so much and exercised so little that he slept badly. He insisted on his son always breakfasting alone with him, and, under the pretence of training him for the throne, wreaked his ill-humor upon him. Aloyse hurriedly changed from the plain clothes in which he had fought to an undress uniform, and flew to the breakfast-room. He was in high spirits; at last he had done something which his father would applaud. As he entered, Casimir looked at him sourly. He brought his heels together and saluted. Then he advanced, as usual, bent his knee, but put his left hand, instead of his right, under his father’s right hand extended for him to kiss.

“What is the matter with your right hand?” screamed the Grand Duke.

Aloyse jumped and shivered like a guilty child and his wits scattered. He held out his right hand in its sling, stupidly staring at it.

“Speak--and no lies!”

“In a duel,” he stammered.

The Grand Duke pushed back his chair from the table. His look was so frightful that terror gave speed to Aloyse’s tongue. “I challenged the American, father--and killed him,” he said, the last phrase explosively. “I shot him through the heart.”

Casimir brought his chair close to the table again, lifted his cup of coffee, and drew in several draughts, each with a loud, sucking sound. “Eat your breakfast!” he said, in a sharp but not unkindly tone. “You must be hungry; have one of my peaches.”

Casimir’s peaches were his especial dish. They were grown at great expense under his own eye, and no one else was permitted to have them. In all his life Aloyse could remember only one occasion on which his father had offered to share his peaches; it was twenty years before, when Aloyse, seated in a high-chair at that table, had seen the Prime Minister take one at Casimir’s request; the reason, as Aloyse learned long afterwards, was that the Prime Minister had saved the Traubenheims their title of “Royal Highness,” which was gravely threatened. Though he detested peaches, Aloyse ate the peach greedily, swelling with pride and importance.

Prudence bade him say no more of his achievement; but vanity and a loose tongue impelled him to seek further flatteries from his father. He looked at the old man’s sardonic, yellow face several times before he ventured to speak.

“I ask to be permitted to tell Erica myself,” he said.

His father stopped eating and raised his head from his plate. He seemed to have concentrated all the acidity of his nature in his face. The color rose in Aloyse’s cheeks and mounted his brow until his features were all ablaze and a sweat was standing on his forehead.

“You propose to tell the woman you wish to marry, and whose consent you must get--you propose to tell her that you have murdered her lover.” Casimir said the words slowly, without accent, quietly. Then he put his face down until it was again hovering within a few inches of his plate.

There was a long pause, and Casimir spoke again. “Every day you remind me more and more of your grand-uncle.” Aloyse remembered his grand-uncle--the Grand Duke Wilhelm, a jibbering idiot, who sat all day on the floor in a corner gnawing his nails and his great whiskers.

Another long pause, and Casimir spoke again. “Go to your apartments, and don’t leave them until I summon you. And never permit a syllable about your duel to escape your lips. Deny it; if necessary, _swear_ you know nothing about it. If possible, she must never know how he died or that he’s dead. Be off!”

Later in the morning Casimir read the report of the chief of his secret police on Grafton’s last hours in Zweitenbourg. His secret agents said that Grafton had communicated with no one except an American tourist--an obviously casual acquaintance and talk; that Ernestine had not moved from her home over the bake-shop in Emperor Ferdinand Second Street. And when the chief came to him and in great confusion confessed that his men had lost Grafton between Zweitenbourg and Venice, the Grand Duke was sarcastic but not angry. “Drop the matter,” he said.

He sent Baron Zeppstein to inquire how Her Serene Highness did, and whether she would permit His Royal Highness to do himself the honor of waiting upon her. As the answer was favorable, Casimir put on his most paternal face and went to Erica’s apartments. She was all fire and indignation.

“First,” she said, “I demand that Your Royal Highness send away that woman and that soldier.”

“Certainly, my child.” And he went to the door and himself ordered them away. As the woman was leaving he called her back. He returned to Erica. “Shall I send for your own maid?” he said. “This woman can fetch her. Yes?” And he told the woman to bring Ernestine forthwith.

“The peril is past,” he said, standing beside Erica and laying his hand on her shoulder. “I know what youth and hot blood are; I, too, have dreamed of happiness. But our rank means duty; to you it means Aloyse and the future of our ancient house. You think I’m harsh, child, but it is the kindness of experience.”

Erica looked scorn at him. “The grand-ducal house of Traubenheim,” she said, “has the throne. The ducal house has the private wealth. Yes, my dear uncle, you are, indeed, kind--to yourself and Aloyse. You know--none better--that your son is an ignorant, brutish fool. You know that this life here is dull and repellent--a hell on earth, a mockery of a life, a torture-pen of yawning and meaningless routine. Don’t flatter my intelligence, my dear uncle, by talking of your kindness and my duty.” She started up. “And sooner or later I shall go where love and life call me,” she exclaimed, passionately.

A ghost of a sardonic smile flitted over the yellow old face at this reference to Grafton. Then he said, sternly, but without harshness: “We shall send the heralds into the town this afternoon to proclaim the marriage for Monday. We shall announce in the _Gazette_ that the Inheriting Grand Duke is ill, and that, because of your great love for him and his for you, the marriage has been hastened. And on Monday you will be married.”

The old man spoke with much dignity--the dignity of one all his life accustomed to being implicitly obeyed, of one descended from a long line of arbitrary rulers. And although Erica denounced and denied his command with all the strength of her soul, his words sounded to her like clods upon a coffin.

“As I said,” he went on, in a gentler voice, “the peril is past. That young adventurer, that young picture dealer from across the water”--he laughed--“his impudence was refreshing! I admire audacity; he almost deserved to win; I’m not surprised that you were almost swept off your feet. But he will not annoy you further. He’s gone, my child; he took himself away last night. So, feeling that you were no longer in danger of being annoyed and humiliated by his impertinences, I have removed the guards.”

“Then I am free?”

“It would be well,” said Casimir, with faint emphasis, “for you to keep within The Castle for the present; of course, you must have your walks under proper protection.”

He extended his hand for her to kiss it. For the first time in her life the act seemed not a ceremony but a degradation. “I begin anew here,” she said to herself. She pretended not to see his hand. He slipped away with his soft, sliding shuffle. When he walked in that fashion those who knew him feared him.

XI

An Overwhelming Defeat

There was no time to be lost, as it was now noon, Saturday, and the wedding was to be on Monday. As soon as Ernestine came Erica began to act.

“You must go back home at once,” she said to her. “You have forgotten your clothes; that will do as a pretext. Send your brother to Schaffhausen on the first train. He must see Mr. Brandt and tell him to meet me to-night at the first cross-road beyond the park gates. I shall try to be there at one. If I can come at all, it will not be later than three. If he cannot come, he will find me at the Hotel Rhein to-morrow, or next day, under the name of Madam von Briesen.”

As Ernestine left The Castle a soldier joined her, saying: “My orders are to go with you and let no one speak to you except in my presence.”

Ernestine took this news with a seeming of great cheerfulness, and jested with her guard all the way to town. Her family lived in three rooms, and with a little diplomacy she easily delivered her message to her brother in the rear room while the soldier sat in the front room drinking beer with her youngest sister. But she did not venture to call at Windmuller’s, in Duke Albrecht Street.

When she returned to The Castle the preparations for the wedding were going forward apace. The central part, where were the principal rooms of state, was open at every window and door; tradespeople were coming and going; there were sounds of hammering, clouds of dust from the windows, a press of wagons about the doors. The Grand Duke had decided to make the wedding a big, public affair, so that Erica would feel that it was impossible to retreat. And he had left it open whether the ceremony itself was to be public or private.

At eleven that night Ernestine crept softly down the corridor and reconnoitred both stairways leading from the apartments of Her Serene Highness to the lower floors. At the foot of each was a soldier with a huge white rosette on his left arm, in honor of the coming gayeties. Erica had expected this; she simply wished to discover where the enemy lay. She dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the Household Guards. When she and Ernestine had made it, two years before, she had been full of the idea of running away for several days to “see the world” from a man’s point of view. But her audacity failed her--that is, she permitted the obstacles to seem insurmountable, and she never got beyond parading her rooms in it, with Ernestine as a critic of her counterfeit of a man’s figure and walk. The feat she now proposed would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, in woman’s dress.

She was putting the finishing touches to her masculine toilet when Ernestine hurried into her dressing-room in a panic. Baron Zeppstein was waiting to see her. Erica drew off her top-boots and thrust her feet into a pair of slippers; she drew on a loose wrapper, tied a white shawl about her shoulders, and, letting down her hair, appeared before the Baron.

Zeppstein’s old head was almost knocking his swollen knee-joints. “By His Royal Highness’s command, Your Serene Highness,” he said, humbly, “I come to inquire of you in person whether you are entirely comfortable.”

Erica was gracious, bade him sit, asked about the preparations for the wedding in detail, made several adroit remarks which seemed to indicate that she was secretly preparing to yield but did not wish to gratify the Grand Duke and humiliate herself by relieving his suspense. Zeppstein went away convinced, and was able to make a convincing report which stood the test of Casimir’s exhaustive and searching cross-examination.

It was now midnight and Ernestine put out all lights. She was to go to bed, and if any one came and insisted upon seeing her mistress, she was to detain him as long as possible, and profess ignorance and alarm should the flight be discovered.

Erica advanced down the lofty stone passage-way. It was an alternation of bands of darkness and bands of moonlight. She took the second corridor to the left and stole along it until, in the darkness, her foot touched the first step of the ascending stairway. She went up, opened the door at the top, and entered. When she had bolted this door she breathed more freely.

She went up a second and narrower flight of stairs and slipped through a window to a small balcony. It was in the full moonlight, but it looked only upon the roofs and the deserted battlements of The Castle. Holding to the ridge of stone above her head she stepped to the next balcony. From this she was able to go out upon the ledge extending along the huge tower fifteen or twenty feet above the battlements. The ledge was narrow and there was no hold for her hands. She clung to the wall and sidled slowly along, feeling her way with her feet and her body. She did not dare open her eyes except when she paused.

At last she came to the place where the ledge passed immediately above and very close to the pointed roof of the throne-room. She stepped down softly and cautiously; the roof was steep, and, should she slip, she would slide to the edge, where, if she did not fall to the battlements, she would cling until rescued and returned to captivity. She worked herself along the ridge of the roof to the great circular skylight which divided it into two parts. She glanced down through one of the open sections. Scores of people were at work decorating the throne-room for the wedding.

“If I fail,” she thought, “I shall be forced there, perhaps, and it is set for to-morrow!”

The last qualm of nervousness left her. She walked the ledge round the skylight and crawled out upon the pointed roof beyond. She drew herself along it until she was above one of the windows projecting from the slope of the roof. She let herself down; she touched the cap of the window; she slid slowly along the outer edge of its frame until she was able to reach round into it.

It was fastened. Clinging to roof and window-frame she unbuckled her sword, and with it broke a pane of glass. She listened; not a sound after the echo of the crash had died away. Then she became conscious that some one else was on that roof.

With heart beating wildly and body trembling she peered round the window-frame. Far away along the ridge of the roof she saw a shape which was unmistakably a man’s. And as she watched, it moved; it was some one coming from the eastern end towards her. Had he seen her, or had he come after she had slid behind the window-frame? She feared he was on his way to intercept her, but she did not lose heart.

She reached through the broken pane and unfastened the window and opened it. Then, with as little noise and as little exposure of herself as the profound quiet and the brightness of the moon permitted, she crawled round the projecting frame and into the window. She ventured to glance out and upward again; the man was creeping along the ridge; he had passed the point where he would have begun to descend towards her if he had seen or heard her; he was moving in the direction from which she had come. With a long sigh she closed the window. “Two minutes later,” she said to herself, “and I should have been taken.”

She was in an empty room, in the attic of the extreme eastern end of the central part of The Castle. She brushed her uniform, straightened her belt and sword, set her helmet well forward on her head, and sallied forth. She went down the stairway, cobwebs clinging to her face and sounds of the movements of disturbed creatures--bats or birds--coming to her through the darkness. At the foot of a second and long flight of stairs she found herself on the landing from which two great corridors branched--the one to the right leading to liberty, the one to the left leading to her cousin Aloyse’s apartments.

Some one was coming towards her in the corridor to the right; she was compelled to take Aloyse’s corridor. The footsteps--they were cautious footsteps--followed her. She shrank into a niche and stood like a statue. As the man passed a window the moonlight revealed him to her--Prince von Moltzahn. He was disregarding her uncle’s prohibition and was coming to see Aloyse. He opened a door so nearly opposite where she stood that she could see into the room--could see Aloyse, in a dressing-gown, seated at a table on which was a tray containing bottles of whiskey and soda.

“Ah! von Moltzahn; you were never so welcome. No; leave the door open. It’s frightful in here. I can’t breathe. Help yourself to the whiskey.”

“I expected to find you ill,” said Moltzahn. “His Royal Highness has given out that you have a fever.”

“Yes; and he’s shut me up here until the wedding. He treats me like a dog. But wait until I’m married and get hold of some cash. He won’t be able to keep his feet on my neck then.”

“But why has he shut you in?”

“I wanted to tell Her Serene Highness that I’d killed that American pig.”

Erica heard; but not until the words had repeated themselves again and again in her brain did she understand them. Her cousin went on: “He was pleased when I told him; he gave me one of his peaches. But he doesn’t want her to know about it. He doesn’t understand women’s--”

“What was that?” exclaimed Moltzahn, and both leaped to their feet. Aloyse rushed to the doorway.

Erica had sunk straight down to the floor, and, as her collapsed body fell over, her sword and helmet clashed against the stone. Aloyse, looking into the dimness, could see the form of a soldier--suggestions of the uniform of the Household Guards. He muttered a curse.

“What is it?” called Moltzahn.

“The old brute has put a guard over me,” said Aloyse, turning back, “and the fellow’s in a drunken sleep. You’d better go.”

Moltzahn fled, with only a glance at Erica, and Aloyse closed his door and went sullenly to bed. Gradually the coolness of the stone revived her. She sat up--and remembered. She could not imagine, did not try to imagine, how long she had lain there or why she had not been discovered. A wave of desolation swept over her. She had thought she loved this man who had come into her life so suddenly, who had taken her heart by storm, who had opened for her a way of escape from a wearisome life which marriage to her cousin would have made hideous, unendurable. But she did not until now realize how much she loved him--not as her liberator but as her lover. “No; he is not dead!” her heart protested. “Aloyse is a liar, a braggart. There is some mistake.”

She dragged herself to her feet. “I will go back,” she moaned. “Dead--my love is dead!” She knew that it was the truth; she felt that it was a lie. “But I shall go back--”

To what? To be the wife of the man she had heard boasting of his murder. She became suddenly strong. “Never! Never!” And aching with grief, yet hoping beside the corpse of hope, she rushed on until she was almost in the arms of a sentinel. She turned back and dropped upon a bench round a corner a few feet from him. The big bell of the chapel boomed half-past one. She rose and went a few steps in the direction of Aloyse’s room. Hate, a passion for vengeance, was bounding through her veins; she would wrench the truth from him, then kill him.

But now there came the sound of several shots and confused shouts. The sentinel ran, and she turned and followed him across one of the huge entrance halls out into the open; the cool air from the mountains poured upon her, and her heart began to revive. She saw a man dart from the shadow of The Castle’s walls to the west, strike down a soldier who barred his path, and run zig-zag towards the forest. All were rushing in that direction, and she ran also, but as quickly as she could plunged into the deep shadows. She made a détour and took a course parallel to the road that led to the park gates, two miles and a half away. She must get to the cross-roads where Ernestine’s brother would be waiting--to tell her that her lover was dead! But instead of enfeebling her the thought carried only enough conviction of its truth to inflame her desire to get away--to fly where she would never again see the wretch who had desolated her.

There was some one in the shadow ahead; it must be the escaping robber. But how would he--how would she--pass the sentinel at the park gates? The alarm must have been signalled from The Castle. She was almost exhausted. She could see the robber--he was between her and the one dim gate-lamp over the small side gate. He heard her coming and whirled about.

“Come on!” she panted, hoarsely; were they not companions in flight? “I’ll get you through!”

He followed her as she ran straight for the sentry, who was standing with his gun at a challenge.

“Halt!” said the sentry, loudly.

“Quick! Quick! Open!” she panted. The robber, who had been standing aloof, suspicious of her now that he saw her uniform, came forward. The sentry also noted the uniform and saluted. “There’s been a robbery or something at The Castle--” he began.

“Yes--yes,” she gasped. “That’s it--open--don’t delay us!”

The sentry stupidly stood aside, and she and the robber dashed through the side gate and down the dark road abreast.

“Hi! Come back!” yelled the sentry, his slow wits at last collecting in a doubt. He sent a shot after them.

But they ran the faster, getting into the deepest shadow. At the second bend from the gates she stopped and sank into the grass. The robber stopped also.

“Go on,” she gasped, in a whisper; her voice was all but gone. “Don’t mind me.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” he said. At the sound of his voice she rose up, flung her arms about his neck, and fainted.

“Well!” ejaculated the man. “What’ll I do with him?” He held her in his arms, looking helplessly about. He tried to lift her to his shoulders, but he was too exhausted to bear the additional weight. He laid her in the grass and ran on down the road.

She came to in the dampness and cold of the long grass. As she sat up a troop of cavalry rushed by on its way to the town. She began to remember; she had got the robber through the gates, and then delirium had seized her and she had fancied he was Grafton--no, it was not delirium; he _was_ Grafton! She understood now; her message had not reached him, but he had come on his own plan; it was he who passed her on the roof of the throne-room; it was he who, seeking her, had been discovered, and, making a dash for liberty, had given her the chance to escape--no, it was not delirium. But where was he now? She could hear only the murmur of the woods. Why had he left her after she had flung her arms about his neck?

From far down the road in the direction of the town came a rush and roar as of a locomotive. She rose to her knees, to her feet. It was a racing-automobile. As it drew near its pace slackened and its noise grew louder. It came to a stop a few feet from her and stood shaking and panting.

“Somewhere along here,” she heard, in Grafton’s voice, and he leaped from the seat and came into the shadow. “Oh, there you are! Why didn’t you call out? Come, get in here!” And he caught her by the arm. “Don’t you hear the cavalry coming back?” He half lifted, half flung her into the seat and leaped in himself. “Turn about, Burroughs, and go straight for ’em!”

She tried to speak, but she was dumb, limp. The automobile sprang forward and was soon going at a tremendous pace; it would have been impossible for a voice to be heard. She looked ahead; the wind was shrieking in her ears; the cavalrymen had halted in a moonlit stretch of the road.

She could see their pistols lifting. “They are about to fire!” she thought.

She flung off her helmet, released her hair, and stood up. The moon was shining full upon her face and upon her long hair streaming and gleaming behind her. She saw the pistols instantly fall before the apparition of “Her Serene Highness,” and the horses reined back upon their haunches. The automobile rushed past them at the speed of an express train and fled, unpursued and unpursuable, along the military road towards the Swiss border.

She felt somebody’s arms close about her and then somebody’s kisses on her face.

XII

The Spaniard is Captured

At dinner at the Hôtel Krone, Schaffhausen, that same evening, Grafton told his wife and Burroughs the story of the Spaniard--how it had led him to her. She secretly resolved that the Spaniard must and should be theirs. In the morning she wrote her uncle an offer to give up the part of her estates that lay in the Grand Duchy in exchange for the picture. The acceptance came, prompt and polite; Casimir is not the man to bite his nails and chatter his teeth at fate. And so there was a surprise for Grafton when they went to Paris.

And this is the true story of how it happens that the spurious Velasquez again hangs in the Grafton house in Michigan Avenue. But it is not in its old place in the galleries. It is on the wall beyond the foot of Mrs. Grafton’s bed.

THE END

BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

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* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.