Chapter XXII: Under Cover of Darkness

“I am so dreadfully worried about Maurice,” said Zoe, meeting Wylie in the courtyard of the Professor’s villa at Kallimeri, to which they had come immediately on reaching Therma by sea from Myriaki.

“Why, is the arm worse? I thought that Greek doctor was too complimentary to my surgery. Shall I ride in and find a European surgeon and bring him out?”

“No, I don’t think it’s that. I can’t help fancying Maurice must have got a touch of fever the night we lay off the harbour. He is worrying about Eirene, and says that he feels she’s in some great danger. That sort of thing is so unlike Maurice--thought-transference and things of that kind, I mean--and I think he must be ill. He talks of going into Therma himself and insisting on seeing her, and you know the doctor said he was to keep perfectly quiet. I suppose they may be carrying Eirene off to Scythia, but I don’t see how he knows about it. At any rate I’m sure he’s not fit to go and contend with all the obstacles they would put in his way at the Scythian Consulate.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a favoured visitor there myself, and it’s pretty clear that Armitage isn’t either, since they have sent back his pictures without even undoing them.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard that,” said Zoe.

“They arrived this morning, with a note from Mme. Ladoguin to say that the duplicity of Armitage’s behaviour since his audience of her had so shocked the Princess that she considered herself released from any obligation to him. They have found out what happened at Hadgi-Antoniou, you see. I suppose Papa Demetri’s messenger got through just too late for them to stop us.”

“I wonder if it would be any good my going?” mused Zoe. “I scarcely like leaving Maurice for a whole day, but----”

“You musn’t think of it. You don’t imagine that if they let you in it would be for any good? The next thing we should find out would be that you were smuggled away to Scythia, and we should have to begin the hunt all over again.”

Zoe laughed. “Perhaps if I wrote a note to Eirene, they would let her answer it,” she said. “I suppose Maurice would be satisfied if he knew she was well, and not utterly miserable. You don’t think she has started already, do you?”

“There was nothing of that kind in the note, and they could just as well have said that the pictures had arrived too late, if they wanted to snub Armitage. Well, shall I ride in with the note, and do my best to get it into the Princess’s hands? More I can’t promise, but it’s just possible that they won’t be looking out for me now, and I may manage to see her.”

“I don’t like giving you so much trouble----”

“It’s no trouble. In fact, I must have gone in to-day or to-morrow to report to Sir Frank Francis, who has done what he could for us all along, in a blundering, slow-coach, civilian sort of way. He’s a good old chap. The Professor has been talking of going in too, to see the Vali. He believes he’s on the track of a Thraco-Dardanian conspiracy to destroy all the Greek and Roumis in Emathia at one fell swoop, so he’s naturally excited, and thinks he’ll make the Vali so too.” Wylie spoke lightly, for his pride had imposed upon him the expediency of treating Zoe as she treated him. If she did not care to remember the days in which they had faced death and hardship together, he was quite willing to behave as a mere ordinary acquaintance. He would serve her in any possible way--that much his love for her demanded of him--but he would not court rebuff by exhibiting his feelings. The natural result of this course of conduct was that Zoe, missing something in his manner which she liked, while objecting to what it implied, began to make delicate experiments for the purpose of ascertaining how far she could go. She declined now to be drawn aside from the topic she had started.

“It doesn’t seem fair that you should always be running errands for us. We seem to have annexed you altogether. How is it you haven’t had to go back to India yet?”

“Got an extension of leave,” said Wylie, unmoved. “Always glad to make myself useful when I can, you know. Well, if you will write that note, I’ll find out whether the Professor is going into town, and go without him if he isn’t. I should think we shall spend the night at his house, and come out to-morrow, which will give me a little more time to besiege the Princess.”

“I don’t know how I shall keep Maurice quiet all day,” sighed Zoe.

“Oh, he’ll be all right when he knows some one is trying to see her. Are you going to ask her to come out?”

“Oh, not in the note. They would never let it reach her. But if you see her, you might suggest that she should spend a day here. The Professor knew her father, you know. Of course, Madame Ladoguin must come too, but I’ll manage her.”

“You will be the first person that ever did that,” said Wylie, as he went off to find his host.

Professor Panagiotis was quite willing to accept him as a companion, and they rode off early in the afternoon. At the Professor’s house in the town they separated, the Professor going to the Konak to seek an interview with the Roumi Governor, and Wylie to the British Consulate. Sir Frank was busy, but asked him to come to dinner that evening and tell his story afterwards, and he went on at once to the Scythian Consulate, where the comedy of which he had formerly grown so tired recommenced. Servant after servant poured forth floods of eloquence in the attempt to convince him that the Princess was indisposed, that she received no one, that she was out driving, that she was preparing for her journey to Scythia, that he might safely leave the note to be delivered to her. This Wylie declined, and asked for an interview with Madame Ladoguin, which was denied him, and he put the note back into his pocket, and took up his old position opposite the Consulate. Here he remained until it was very nearly dark, without seeing the ladies return, so that it became pretty clear that one of the excuses, at any rate, was false. He quitted his post reluctantly, and finding that he had barely left himself sufficient time to go back and dress for dinner, called a cab to take him to the Professor’s house.

He had scarcely departed when the great gates were thrown open, and Madame Ladoguin and Eirene drove out. They were going to dine at the Hercynian Consulate, one of the “safe” houses where there was no fear of meeting any meddling English people. Even in cases like this, however, Madame Ladoguin insisted on the list of guests being submitted to her beforehand, representing that the Princess was very strict on such points of etiquette, and refused to waive them even when paying visits, as at present, under a partial _incognito_. There was a cloud on Madame Ladoguin’s brow. Wylie’s unexpected reappearance had much perturbed her, and she scented a deep-laid scheme for carrying off Eirene before she could be safely removed to Scythia. She had sent anxious messages to her husband and brother to ask them to come to her before starting, but M. Ladoguin had been out all the afternoon, discussing with his fellow-Consuls the alarming rumours which were prevalent in the town of impending revolutionary movements, and Nicetas Mitsopoulo was still away on one of his mysterious errands. As a last resource, Madame Ladoguin ordered her coachman to stop at a club much frequented by the European representatives, in the hope of finding her husband there, intending to send him to complain to Sir Frank Francis that his troublesome fellow-countryman was renewing his intolerable persecution of the Princess.

M. Ladoguin was at the club, but his wife would not have him summoned to speak to her. Apologising to Eirene, she left the victoria and went into the hall, where her charge could not hear what was said. Eirene, left alone, looked out indifferently down the brightly lighted street. Here, in the European quarter, thanks to the efforts of the consular body, paving and lighting conformed to Western rather than Eastern standards. Next door to the club towered the dark bulk of a building, which she knew to be the Seignorial Bank, now closed for the night, but something moving on its steps attracted her attention. It was difficult to see what it was in the shadow, but she thought that a porter must be laying down his burden there while he rested. At this moment her thoughts were distracted by a cab, which drove up furiously, its wheels almost grazing those of the carriage, and by the bad language which ensued between the driver and the consular _cavass_. Then--it all happened in a moment--the houses seemed to reel, she was thrown violently forward, and the air was filled with the sound of a tremendous explosion. The frightened horses went off like the wind, further terrified by the crash of falling fragments of masonry which came hurtling through the air. Eirene crouched dazed at the bottom of the carriage, face and shoulders cut and bruised by the stony shower. The sound of fresh explosions showed her that she was not deafened, but she could not hear the coachman’s voice calling to his horses, and guessed that he had been thrown from the box. At the same moment she became aware that she was in pitch darkness. Her first horrified thought was that she had been struck blind, but as she looked up through the tattered hood of the carriage she saw a jet of flame soar into the sky, and realised that whoever had caused the explosions must also have cut off the gas supply of the town. The horses had now turned out of the foreign quarter into one of the native streets, as she could tell by the way the carriage swayed and bumped over the cobbles, and it was a marvel to her that it was not every moment upset, as the wheels now collided with a post and now grazed a projecting shop-front.

The air was full of shrieks and cries, still punctuated by an occasional explosion, and there was a distant sound which she thought must be firing. Sitting helpless, as the maddened horses tore along, she analysed probabilities with a calmness that surprised herself, and wondered whether the wild race would end in the waters of the harbour or in one comprehensive smash. Then there happened something that struck her with greater horror than all that had gone before. She had raised herself to the front seat, and kneeling, was trying to look out ahead to see where she was going, when a black figure gained the box with a mad spring, and seizing the whip, lashed the horses on. By the glare in the sky she could see that it wore the high cap and flowing robes of a monk, with unkempt hair and beard. They dashed on into another street, which Eirene had a vague idea belonged to the Moslem quarter, and peering out she saw a dark mass of people in front. She shrieked to them to stop the horses, but they did not understand, and scattered to let the carriage through. This brought it opposite a large building, and the man on the box, dropping the whip, stood upright and hurled something with all his strength. The explosion that followed was no surprise to Eirene; it seemed to her that she waited for the sound. The building appeared to crumple up, and the horses sprang forward again with a jerk, which threw the monk from the box; but a minaret at the side fell across the street, and they could not face the ruin which came crashing down. Driven on by the shouts from behind, they dashed at the obstacle formed by the heap, turned when they found themselves thwarted, and dragged the carriage violently round, with one wheel high on the stones. Eirene had just sufficient presence of mind to spring clear as it went over, and to crouch against the houses on one side while the horses kicked and struggled furiously to free themselves. One succeeded, and rushed wildly down the street, but the other, which had fallen and was entangled in the harness, tried in vain to raise itself from the ground.

Seeing that the danger was past, the people behind came running up, and Eirene found herself dragged from her shelter. The monk had disappeared, and, to her horror, she perceived that the mob evidently took her for the person who had destroyed their mosque. They were all Moslems, armed with knives and daggers, and they poured blood-curdling imprecations upon her as she stood surrounded by a ring of steel. In every language she knew she entreated them to take her back to the Consulate, or merely to let her go, but no one would listen, or seemed to understand. She tore off her rings and the diamond stars from her hair and threw them among them, then her pearl necklace--not the historic necklace which had been given up to the brigands, but a less valuable one which had been sent on into safety in the jewel-case after the railway accident. The string snapped as she pulled it off, and she caught the pearls in her hands and offered them to the mob if they would let her go, but in vain. They forced her hands open, and fought for the pearls, but never so eagerly as to leave a gap by which she could escape. She would have given even the girdle of Isidora as the price of her life if she had had it with her, but it was reposing safely at the Consulate.

After the first moment it gave her no comfort that she was not cut to pieces at once, for she guessed from the gestures of her assailants that while some of them advocated this course, others were proposing to take her into one of the houses and torture her in order to discover her accomplices. In another moment she must have fainted from sheer horror, when the prostrate horse, which every one had forgotten, created a diversion by struggling to its feet and lashing out furiously, clearing a space round it. Seeing her chance, she tore herself from the men who held her, leaving her cloak in their hands, and sprang up the heap of rubbish which blocked the road. She could never have crossed it in cold blood, for the foothold was insecure, and the projecting pieces of rough stone and jagged wood caught her clothes and tore her hands; but she descended like a thunderbolt into a second crowd which had collected on the farther side, and burst through them before they could understand the agonised shouts which reached them from her defrauded captors.

Gathering her long skirt over her arm that it might not impede her movements, she ran headlong down the street, slipping on the horrible cobbles. Very soon she heard the hue and cry after her, and knew she must quickly be overtaken, for her high-heeled shoes caught in the treacherous interstices between the stones and nearly threw her down. Passing the mouth of another street, a desperate expedient suggested itself. The door of the first house stood open, and she slipped inside, hearing her pursuers rage by. As soon as the last was past the door, she crept out, and ran down the side street, more slowly now, for one shoe had lost its heel, and she could only get on with difficulty. Before she reached the end of the street she heard the shouts of the mob growing nearer again, and knew that they must have discovered her evasion. Two narrow passages between overhanging houses were before her, and she darted down the nearest, which was unsavoury to a degree. It ended at last, and she came out on a wide open space, surrounded by squalid hovels, the outlines of which were just discernible by the dull glare in the sky. Panting, she paused for a moment, took off the shoe which still possessed a heel, and tried vainly to hammer it off with a stone. It was beyond her efforts, and she pushed back her hair, tied her handkerchief across her face below the eyes, so that it hung down like an Egyptian face-veil, and turned the skirt of her evening gown over her head, hoping that she might pass for a Roumi woman, whose veil would be a safeguard to her in the event of meeting any Moslem. Happily for her peace of mind, it did not occur to her that the frills of silk and lace at the edge of the lining would betray her at once, and she began to limp across the open space, which she recognised as the remains of a Roman amphitheatre which forms one of the sights of Therma.

She had scarcely emerged from the shadow of the houses when she heard footsteps behind her. She stopped, but they came on, and she broke into a feeble run, hearing the footsteps following and coming nearer. She thought she heard a voice, but she drew the skirt more closely over her head and tottered on, until the treacherous heel caught in something and she fell. The footsteps approached at a run, and she shut her eyes and waited for death.

“I’m awfully sorry I frightened you,” said a voice in English. “Can I help you in any way?”

The revulsion of feeling was so great that Eirene crouched helplessly where she had fallen, and looked up at her questioner. With a gasp of relief, such as she had never expected to feel in the circumstances, she recognised the blue eyes bent upon her.

“Oh, Captain Wylie!” she sobbed.

“Why, who is it?” he asked, helping her up. “Is it possible--not Miss Eirene?--I mean the Princess.”

“Oh, yes,” she cried, pulling off the handkerchief; “and there is a crowd trying to kill me, and I can’t get away. Oh, what shall I do?”

“Gently,” said Wylie, drawing her back into the shadow of the houses. “Are you hurt? You seemed to walk lame.”

“It’s my shoes. I have only one heel left.” She took off the shoe, and he amputated the offending heel with his knife.

“I can’t promise to get you back to the Consulate,” he said, steering her across the corner of the open space, “for most of the outrages have taken place in the foreign quarter, and the troops are out, and firing wild. I like the Roumis generally, but to-night I must confess I would as soon meet a mob as soldiers. It’s natural enough after what has happened.”

“But what has happened?” cried Eirene. “Did some one blow up the Seignorial Bank?”

“Yes, and a good many other places as well. I gave up trying to count the explosions at last. I am staying with Professor Panagiotis, and was driving back to his house when the first explosion came and the gas failed. My driver refused to take me any farther, saying the Professor’s house would certainly be one of those blown up. I tried to get there the nearest way on foot, but there were troops pursuing imaginary revolutionists in all the foreign streets, and too many bullets were flying about for the atmosphere to be healthy.”

“But are we going to the Professor’s house now? What is the good, if it’s blown up?”

“I have no reason to think that it is. As far as I can see, the outrages have been mostly directed against foreign buildings. I suppose the malcontents are displaying their disgust and contempt for the reforms forced on the Grand Seignior by the Powers. At any rate, as the Professor’s guest, I should be more likely to find shelter in the Greek quarter than elsewhere.”

“But why do you say the troops are shooting imaginary revolutionists? Who do you think threw the bombs? There was a monk who jumped up on the carriage--oh, it was terrible!”

“Agents of the Thraco-Dardanian Committees, certainly, but I don’t think they will wait to be shot. They will have provided for their escape, and it’s only poor wretched passers-by, who have nothing to do with the outrages, and are too terrified to get away, that will suffer in this moment of panic.”

“But how can I go to the Professor’s?” asked Eirene, her thoughts returning to her own situation, as, clinging to Wylie’s arm, she traversed the deserted streets.

“Well, I should think it was better than staying out of doors,” returned Wylie grimly. “I shall be thankful if we can get there.”

There was a significance in his tone which she did not at first understand, for his trained ear had caught sooner than she did the regular tramp of soldiers, disentangling it from the confusion of sounds which still filled the air--not close at hand, for the shuttered houses might have been the abodes of the dead, but coming from the quarter they were approaching. Reaching the corner of a street, Wylie peered round it cautiously, and drew Eirene back with an exclamation.

“There’s a detachment of the troops who are clearing the streets coming this way. There! they’ve got some poor devil,” as the sound of a volley and a piercing shriek rent the air. “Stand in this doorway. They may go straight on and not see us.”

Eirene shrank as far into the shelter of the doorway as she could, and Wylie stood in front of her, concealing her as much as possible.

“They’ve got the jumps badly, and are firing at everything they see. That’s the worst of it,” he said over his shoulder. “If I go down, you must try to make them understand what an enormity they’ve committed in firing on a European, and invoke Sir Frank Francis till all is blue.”