The prisoner of Zenda
that the duke was slain with several of his gentlemen; and that the
King, wounded as he was, had seized and held the Castle of Zenda. All of
which talk made, as may be supposed, a mighty excitement: and the wires
were set in motion, and the tidings came to Strelsau only just after
orders had been sent thither to parade the troops and overawe the
dissatisfied quarters of the town with a display of force.
Thus the Princess Flavia came to Zenda. And as she drove up the hill,
with the Marshal riding by the wheel and still imploring her to return
in obedience to the King’s orders, Fritz von Tarlenheim, with the
prisoner of Zenda, came to the edge of the forest. I had revived from
my swoon, and walked, resting on Fritz’s arm; and looking out from the
cover of the trees, I saw the princess. Suddenly understanding from a
glance at my companion’s face that we must not meet her, I sank on my
knees behind a clump of bushes. But there was one whom we had forgotten,
but who followed us, and was not disposed to let slip the chance of
earning a smile and maybe a crown or two; and, while we lay hidden,
the little farm-girl came by us and ran to the princess, curtseying and
crying:
“Madame, the King is here--in the bushes! May I guide you to him,
madame?”
“Nonsense, child!” said old Strakencz; “the King lies wounded in the
Castle.”
“Yes, sir, he’s wounded, I know; but he’s there--with Count Fritz--and
not at the Castle,” she persisted.
“Is he in two places, or are there two Kings?” asked Flavia, bewildered.
“And how should he be there?”
“He pursued a gentleman, madame, and they fought till Count Fritz came;
and the other gentleman took my father’s horse from me and rode away;
but the King is here with Count Fritz. Why, madame, is there another man
in Ruritania like the King?”
“No, my child,” said Flavia softly (I was told it afterwards), and she
smiled and gave the girl money. “I will go and see this gentleman,” and
she rose to alight from the carriage.
But at this moment Sapt came riding from the Castle, and, seeing the
princess, made the best of a bad job, and cried to her that the King was
well tended and in no danger.
“In the Castle?” she asked.
“Where else, madame?” said he, bowing.
“But this girl says he is yonder--with Count Fritz.”
Sapt turned his eyes on the child with an incredulous smile.
“Every fine gentleman is a King to such,” said he.
“Why, he’s as like the King as one pea to another, madame!” cried the
girl, a little shaken but still obstinate.
Sapt started round. The old Marshal’s face asked unspoken questions.
Flavia’s glance was no less eloquent. Suspicion spread quick.
“I’ll ride myself and see this man,” said Sapt hastily.
“Nay, I’ll come myself,” said the princess.
“Then come alone,” he whispered.
And she, obedient to the strange hinting in his face, prayed the Marshal
and the rest to wait; and she and Sapt came on foot towards where we
lay, Sapt waving to the farm-girl to keep at a distance. And when I saw
them coming, I sat in a sad heap on the ground, and buried my face in my
hands. I could not look at her. Fritz knelt by me, laying his hand on my
shoulder.
“Speak low, whatever you say,” I heard Sapt whisper as they came up; and
the next thing I heard was a low cry--half of joy, half of fear--from
the princess:
“It is he! Are you hurt?”
And she fell on the ground by me, and gently pulled my hands away; but I
kept my eyes to the ground.
“It is the King!” she said. “Pray, Colonel Sapt, tell me where lay the
wit of the joke you played on me?”
We answered none of us; we three were silent before her. Regardless of
them, she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. Then Sapt spoke in
a low hoarse whisper:
“It is not the King. Don’t kiss him; he’s not the King.”
She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm still round my neck, she
asked, in superb indignation:
“Do I not know my love? Rudolf my love!”
“It is not the King,” said old Sapt again; and a sudden sob broke from
tender-hearted Fritz.
It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.
“He is the King!” she cried. “It is the King’s face--the King’s ring--my
ring! It is my love!”
“Your love, madame,” said old Sapt, “but not the King. The King is there
in the Castle. This gentleman--”
“Look at me, Rudolf! look at me!” she cried, taking my face between her
hands. “Why do you let them torment me? Tell me what it means!”
Then I spoke, gazing into her eyes.
“God forgive me, madame!” I said. “I am not the King!”
I felt her hands clutch my cheeks. She gazed at me as never man’s face
was scanned yet. And I, silent again, saw wonder born, and doubt grow,
and terror spring to life as she looked. And very gradually the grasp of
her hands slackened; she turned to Sapt, to Fritz, and back to me: then
suddenly she reeled forward and fell in my arms; and with a great cry of
pain I gathered her to me and kissed her lips. Sapt laid his hand on my
arm. I looked up in his face. And I laid her softly on the ground, and
stood up, looking on her, cursing heaven that young Rupert’s sword had
spared me for this sharper pang.
CHAPTER 21
If love were all!
It was night, and I was in the cell wherein the King had lain in the
Castle of Zenda. The great pipe that Rupert of Hentzau had nicknamed
“Jacob’s Ladder” was gone, and the lights in the room across the moat
twinkled in the darkness. All was still; the din and clash of strife
were gone. I had spent the day hidden in the forest, from the time when
Fritz had led me off, leaving Sapt with the princess. Under cover of
dusk, muffled up, I had been brought to the Castle and lodged where I
now lay. Though three men had died there--two of them by my hand--I was
not troubled by ghosts. I had thrown myself on a pallet by the window,
and was looking out on the black water; Johann, the keeper, still pale
from his wound, but not much hurt besides, had brought me supper. He
told me that the King was doing well, that he had seen the princess;
that she and he, Sapt and Fritz, had been long together. Marshal
Strakencz was gone to Strelsau; Black Michael lay in his coffin, and
Antoinette de Mauban watched by him; had I not heard, from the chapel,
priests singing mass for him?
Outside there were strange rumours afloat. Some said that the prisoner
of Zenda was dead; some, that he had vanished yet alive; some, that he
was a friend who had served the King well in some adventure in England;
others, that he had discovered the Duke’s plots, and had therefore been
kidnapped by him. One or two shrewd fellows shook their heads and said
only that they would say nothing, but they had suspicions that more was
to be known than was known, if Colonel Sapt would tell all he knew.
Thus Johann chattered till I sent him away and lay there alone,
thinking, not of the future, but--as a man is wont to do when stirring
things have happened to him--rehearsing the events of the past weeks,
and wondering how strangely they had fallen out. And above me, in the
stillness of the night, I heard the standards flapping against their
poles, for Black Michael’s banner hung there half-mast high, and above
it the royal flag of Ruritania, floating for one night more over my
head. Habit grows so quick, that only by an effort did I recollect that
it floated no longer for me.
Presently Fritz von Tarlenheim came into the room. I was standing then
by the window; the glass was opened, and I was idly fingering the cement
which clung to the masonry where “Jacob’s Ladder” had been. He told me
briefly that the King wanted me, and together we crossed the drawbridge
and entered the room that had been Black Michael’s.
The King was lying there in bed; our doctor from Tarlenheim was in
attendance on him, and whispered to me that my visit must be brief. The
King held out his hand and shook mine. Fritz and the doctor withdrew to
the window.
I took the King’s ring from my finger and placed it on his.
“I have tried not to dishonour it, sire,” said I.
“I can’t talk much to you,” he said, in a weak voice. “I have had a
great fight with Sapt and the Marshal--for we have told the Marshal
everything. I wanted to take you to Strelsau and keep you with me, and
tell everyone of what you had done; and you would have been my best and
nearest friend, Cousin Rudolf. But they tell me I must not, and that the
secret must be kept--if kept it can be.”
“They are right, sire. Let me go. My work here is done.”
“Yes, it is done, as no man but you could have done it. When they see me
again, I shall have my beard on; I shall--yes, faith, I shall be wasted
with sickness. They will not wonder that the King looks changed in face.
Cousin, I shall try to let them find him changed in nothing else. You
have shown me how to play the King.”
“Sire,” said I. “I can take no praise from you. It is by the narrowest
grace of God that I was not a worse traitor than your brother.”
He turned inquiring eyes on me; but a sick man shrinks from puzzles,
and he had no strength to question me. His glance fell on Flavia’s
ring, which I wore. I thought he would question me about it; but, after
fingering it idly, he let his head fall on his pillow.
“I don’t know when I shall see you again,” he said faintly, almost
listlessly.
“If I can ever serve you again, sire,” I answered.
His eyelids closed. Fritz came with the doctor. I kissed the King’s
hand, and let Fritz lead me away. I have never seen the King since.
Outside, Fritz turned, not to the right, back towards the drawbridge,
but to the left, and without speaking led me upstairs, through a
handsome corridor in the chateau.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Looking away from me, Fritz answered:
“She has sent for you. When it is over, come back to the bridge. I’ll
wait for you there.”
“What does she want?” said I, breathing quickly.
He shook his head.
“Does she know everything?”
“Yes, everything.”
He opened a door, and gently pushing me in, closed it behind me. I found
myself in a drawing-room, small and richly furnished. At first I thought
that I was alone, for the light that came from a pair of shaded candles
on the mantelpiece was very dim. But presently I discerned a woman’s
figure standing by the window. I knew it was the princess, and I walked
up to her, fell on one knee, and carried the hand that hung by her
side to my lips. She neither moved nor spoke. I rose to my feet, and,
piercing the gloom with my eager eyes, saw her pale face and the gleam
of her hair, and before I knew, I spoke softly:
“Flavia!”
She trembled a little, and looked round. Then she darted to me, taking
hold of me.
“Don’t stand, don’t stand! No, you mustn’t! You’re hurt! Sit down--here,
here!”
She made me sit on a sofa, and put her hand on my forehead.
“How hot your head is,” she said, sinking on her knees by me. Then she
laid her head against me, and I heard her murmur: “My darling, how hot
your head is!”
Somehow love gives even to a dull man the knowledge of his lover’s
heart. I had come to humble myself and pray pardon for my presumption;
but what I said now was:
“I love you with all my heart and soul!”
For what troubled and shamed her? Not her love for me, but the fear that
I had counterfeited the lover as I had acted the King, and taken her
kisses with a smothered smile.
“With all my life and heart,” said I, as she clung to me. “Always, from
the first moment I saw you in the Cathedral! There has been but one
woman in the world to me--and there will be no other. But God forgive me
the wrong I’ve done you!”
“They made you do it!” she said quickly; and she added, raising her head
and looking in my eyes: “It might have made no difference if I’d known
it. It was always you, never the King!”