The prisoner of Zenda
dropped the sword with an oath, wringing his fingers and clapped his
heels hard on his horse’s belly, and rode away at a gallop.
And I watched him go down the long avenue, riding as though he rode for
his pleasure and singing as he went, for all there was that gash in his
cheek.
Once again he turned to wave his hand, and then the gloom of thickets
swallowed him and he was lost from our sight. Thus he vanished--reckless
and wary, graceful and graceless, handsome, debonair, vile, and
unconquered. And I flung my sword passionately on the ground and cried
to Fritz to ride after him. But Fritz stopped his horse, and leapt down
and ran to me, and knelt, putting his arm about me. And indeed it was
time, for the wound that Detchard had given me was broken forth afresh,
and my blood was staining the ground.
“Then give me the horse!” I cried, staggering to my feet and throwing
his arms off me. And the strength of my rage carried me so far as where
the horse stood, and then I fell prone beside it. And Fritz knelt by me
again.
“Fritz!” I said.
“Ay, friend--dear friend!” he said, tender as a woman.
“Is the King alive?”
He took his handkerchief and wiped my lips, and bent and kissed me on
the forehead.
“Thanks to the most gallant gentleman that lives,” said he softly, “the
King is alive!”
The little farm-girl stood by us, weeping for fright and wide-eyed for
wonder; for she had seen me at Zenda; and was not I, pallid, dripping,
foul, and bloody as I was--yet was not I the King?
And when I heard that the King was alive, I strove to cry “Hurrah!” But
I could not speak, and I laid my head back in Fritz’s arms and closed
my eyes, and I groaned; and then, lest Fritz should do me wrong in his
thoughts, I opened my eyes and tried to say “Hurrah!” again. But I could
not. And being very tired, and now very cold, I huddled myself close up
to Fritz, to get the warmth of him, and shut my eyes again and went to
sleep.
CHAPTER 20
The Prisoner and the King
In order to a full understanding of what had occurred in the Castle of
Zenda, it is necessary to supplement my account of what I myself saw
and did on that night by relating briefly what I afterwards learnt
from Fritz and Madame de Mauban. The story told by the latter explained
clearly how it happened that the cry which I had arranged as a stratagem
and a sham had come, in dreadful reality, before its time, and had thus,
as it seemed at the moment, ruined our hopes, while in the end it
had favoured them. The unhappy woman, fired, I believe by a genuine
attachment to the Duke of Strelsau, no less than by the dazzling
prospects which a dominion over him opened before her eyes, had followed
him at his request from Paris to Ruritania. He was a man of strong
passions, but of stronger will, and his cool head ruled both. He was
content to take all and give nothing. When she arrived, she was not
long in finding that she had a rival in the Princess Flavia; rendered
desperate, she stood at nothing which might give, or keep for her, her
power over the duke. As I say, he took and gave not. Simultaneously,
Antoinette found herself entangled in his audacious schemes. Unwilling
to abandon him, bound to him by the chains of shame and hope, yet she
would not be a decoy, nor, at his bidding, lure me to death. Hence the
letters of warning she had written. Whether the lines she sent to Flavia
were inspired by good or bad feeling, by jealousy or by pity, I do not
know; but here also she served us well. When the duke went to Zenda, she
accompanied him; and here for the first time she learnt the full measure
of his cruelty, and was touched with compassion for the unfortunate
King. From this time she was with us; yet, from what she told me, I know
that she still (as women will) loved Michael, and trusted to gain
his life, if not his pardon, from the King, as the reward for her
assistance. His triumph she did not desire, for she loathed his crime,
and loathed yet more fiercely what would be the prize of it--his
marriage with his cousin, Princess Flavia.
At Zenda new forces came into play--the lust and daring of young Rupert.
He was caught by her beauty, perhaps; perhaps it was enough for him that
she belonged to another man, and that she hated him. For many days there
had been quarrels and ill will between him and the duke, and the scene
which I had witnessed in the duke’s room was but one of many. Rupert’s
proposals to me, of which she had, of course, been ignorant, in no
way surprised her when I related them; she had herself warned Michael
against Rupert, even when she was calling on me to deliver her from both
of them. On this night, then, Rupert had determined to have his will.
When she had gone to her room, he, having furnished himself with a key
to it, had made his entrance. Her cries had brought the duke, and there
in the dark room, while she screamed, the men had fought; and Rupert,
having wounded his master with a mortal blow, had, on the servants
rushing in, escaped through the window as I have described. The duke’s
blood, spurting out, had stained his opponent’s shirt; but Rupert, not
knowing that he had dealt Michael his death, was eager to finish the
encounter. How he meant to deal with the other three of the band, I know
not. I dare say he did not think, for the killing of Michael was not
premeditated. Antoinette, left alone with the duke, had tried to stanch
his wound, and thus was she busied till he died; and then, hearing
Rupert’s taunts, she had come forth to avenge him. Me she had not seen,
nor did she till I darted out of my ambush, and leapt after Rupert into
the moat.
The same moment found my friends on the scene. They had reached the
chateau in due time, and waited ready by the door. But Johann, swept
with the rest to the rescue of the duke, did not open it; nay, he took
a part against Rupert, putting himself forward more bravely than any
in his anxiety to avert suspicion; and he had received a wound, in the
embrasure of the window. Till nearly half-past two Sapt waited; then,
following my orders, he had sent Fritz to search the banks of the moat.
I was not there. Hastening back, Fritz told Sapt; and Sapt was for
following orders still, and riding at full speed back to Tarlenheim;
while Fritz would not hear of abandoning me, let me have ordered what I
would. On this they disputed some few minutes; then Sapt, persuaded by
Fritz, detached a party under Bernenstein to gallop back to Tarlenheim
and bring up the marshal, while the rest fell to on the great door
of the chateau. For several minutes it resisted them; then, just as
Antoinette de Mauban fired at Rupert of Hentzau on the bridge, they
broke in, eight of them in all: and the first door they came to was the
door of Michael’s room; and Michael lay dead across the threshold, with
a sword-thrust through his breast. Sapt cried out at his death, as I
had heard, and they rushed on the servants; but these, in fear, dropped
their weapons, and Antoinette flung herself weeping at Sapt’s feet. And
all she cried was that I had been at the end of the bridge and leapt
off. “What of the prisoner?” asked Sapt; but she shook her head. Then
Sapt and Fritz, with the gentlemen behind them, crossed the bridge,
slowly, warily, and without noise; and Fritz stumbled over the body of
De Gautet in the way of the door. They felt him and found him dead.
Then they consulted, listening eagerly for any sound from the cells
below; but there came none, and they were greatly afraid that the King’s
guards had killed him, and having pushed his body through the great
pipe, had escaped the same way themselves. Yet, because I had been seen
here, they had still some hope (thus indeed Fritz, in his friendship,
told me); and going back to Michael’s body, pushing aside Antoinette,
who prayed by it, they found a key to the door which I had locked, and
opened the door. The staircase was dark, and they would not use a torch
at first, lest they should be more exposed to fire. But soon Fritz
cried: “The door down there is open! See, there is light!” So they went
on boldly, and found none to oppose them. And when they came to the
outer room and saw the Belgian, Bersonin, lying dead, they thanked God,
Sapt saying: “Ay, he has been here.” Then rushing into the King’s cell,
they found Detchard lying dead across the dead physician, and the King
on his back with his chair by him. And Fritz cried: “He’s dead!” and
Sapt drove all out of the room except Fritz, and knelt down by the King;
and, having learnt more of wounds and the sign of death than I, he soon
knew that the King was not dead, nor, if properly attended, would die.
And they covered his face and carried him to Duke Michael’s room, and
laid him there; and Antoinette rose from praying by the body of the duke
and went to bathe the King’s head and dress his wounds, till a doctor
came. And Sapt, seeing I had been there, and having heard Antoinette’s
story, sent Fritz to search the moat and then the forest. He dared send
no one else. And Fritz found my horse, and feared the worst. Then, as I
have told, he found me, guided by the shout with which I had called on
Rupert to stop and face me. And I think a man has never been more glad
to find his own brother alive than was Fritz to come on me; so that, in
love and anxiety for me, he thought nothing of a thing so great as would
have been the death of Rupert Hentzau. Yet, had Fritz killed him, I
should have grudged it.
The enterprise of the King’s rescue being thus prosperously concluded,
it lay on Colonel Sapt to secure secrecy as to the King ever having
been in need of rescue. Antoinette de Mauban and Johann the keeper (who,
indeed, was too much hurt to be wagging his tongue just now) were sworn
to reveal nothing; and Fritz went forth to find--not the King, but the
unnamed friend of the King, who had lain in Zenda and flashed for
a moment before the dazed eyes of Duke Michael’s servants on the
drawbridge. The metamorphosis had happened; and the King, wounded almost
to death by the attacks of the gaolers who guarded his friend, had
at last overcome them, and rested now, wounded but alive, in Black
Michael’s own room in the Castle. There he had been carried, his face
covered with a cloak, from the cell; and thence orders issued, that if
his friend were found, he should be brought directly and privately to
the King, and that meanwhile messengers should ride at full speed to
Tarlenheim, to tell Marshall Strakencz to assure the princess of the
King’s safety and to come himself with all speed to greet the King.
The princess was enjoined to remain at Tarlenheim, and there await her
cousin’s coming or his further injunctions. Thus the King would come
to his own again, having wrought brave deeds, and escaped, almost by a
miracle, the treacherous assault of his unnatural brother.
This ingenious arrangement of my long-headed old friend prospered in
every way, save where it encountered a force that often defeats the most
cunning schemes. I mean nothing else than the pleasure of a woman. For,
let her cousin and sovereign send what command he chose (or Colonel
Sapt chose for him), and let Marshal Strakencz insist as he would, the
Princess Flavia was in no way minded to rest at Tarlenheim while her
lover lay wounded at Zenda; and when the Marshal, with a small suite,
rode forth from Tarlenheim on the way to Zenda, the princess’s carriage
followed immediately behind, and in this order they passed through the
town, where the report was already rife that the King, going the night
before to remonstrate with his brother, in all friendliness, for that
he held one of the King’s friends in confinement in the Castle, had been
most traitorously set upon; that there had been a desperate conflict;