
RUPERT OF HENTZAU by ANTHONY HOPE

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Publication notes:

Published 1898 in London by 
Henry Holt and Company

This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN, posted to Wiretap 8/94.



Transcription notes:

Italics thus _i_italics_i_
Bold thus _b_bold_b_
Underscore thus _u_underscore_u_
accent aigu thus Rene'
accent grave thus Se`vres
accent circonflex thus cha^teau
diaresis thus Ko"nigstrasse
cedilla thus Provencal

---


Rupert of Hentzau

From the Memoirs of Fritz von 
Tarlenheim

By

ANTHONY HOPE

CONTENTS

Chapter 

I. THE QUEEN'S GOOD-BY

II. A STATION WITHOUT A CAB 

III. AGAIN TO ZENDA 

IV. AN EDDY ON THE MOAT 

V. AN AUDIENCE OF THE KING 

VI. THE TASK OF THE QUEEN'S  SERVANTS 

VII. THE MESSAGE OF SIMON THE HUNTSMAN 

VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND 

IX. THE KING IN THE HUNTING-LODGE

X. THE KING IN STRELSAU 

XI. WHAT THE CHANCELLOR'S WIFE SAW 

XII. BEFORE THEM ALL!

XIII. A KING UP HIS SLEEVE 

XIV. THE NEWS COMES TO STRELSAU 

XV. A PASTIME FOR COLONEL SAPT 

XVI. A CROWD IN THE KO"NIGSTRASSE

XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR

XVIII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE KING

XIX. FOR OUR LOVE AND HER HONOR 

XX. THE DECISION OF HEAVEN

XXI. THE COMING OF THE DREAM

---

CHAPTER I--

THE QUEEN'S GOOD-BY

A man who has lived in the world, 
marking how every act, although in itself 
perhaps light and insignificant, may 
become the source of consequences that 
spread far and wide, and flow for years or 
centuries, could scarcely feel secure in 
reckoning that with the death of the Duke 
of Strelsau and the restoration of King 
Rudolf to liberty and his throne, there 
would end, for good and all, the troubles 
born of Black Michael's daring 
conspiracy. The stakes had been high, the 
struggle keen; the edge of passion had 
been sharpened, and the seeds of enmity 
sown. Yet Michael, having struck for the 
crown, had paid for the blow with his life: 
should there not then be an end? Michael 
was dead, the Princess her cousin's wife, 
the story in safe keeping, and Mr. 
Rassendyll's face seen no more in 
Ruritania. Should there not then be an 
end? So said I to my friend the Constable 
of Zenda, as we talked by the bedside of 
Marshal Strakencz. The old man, already 
nearing the death that soon after robbed 
us of his aid and counsel, bowed his head 
in assent: in the aged and ailing the love 
of peace breeds hope of it. But Colonel 
Sapt tugged at his gray moustache, and 
twisted his black cigar in his mouth, 
saying, "You're very sanguine, friend 
Fritz. But is Rupert of Hentzau dead? I 
had not heard it."

Well said, and like old Sapt! Yet the man 
is little without the opportunity, and 
Rupert by himself could hardly have 
troubled our repose. Hampered by his 
own guilt, he dared not set his foot in the 
kingdom from which by rare good luck he 
had escaped, but wandered to and fro over 
Europe, making a living by his wits, and, 
as some said, adding to his resources by 
gallantries for which he did not refuse 
substantial recompense. But he kept 
himself constantly before our eyes, and 
never ceased to contrive how he might 
gain permission to return and enjoy the 
estates to which his uncle's death had 
entitled him. The chief agent through 
whom he had the effrontery to approach 
the king was his relative, the Count of 
Luzau-Rischenheim, a young man of high 
rank and great wealth who was devoted to 
Rupert. The count fulfilled his mission 
well: acknowledging Rupert's heavy 
offences, he put forward in his behalf the 
pleas of youth and of the predominant 
influence which Duke Michael had 
exercised over his adherent, and 
promised, in words so significant as to 
betray Rupert's own dictation, a future 
fidelity no less discreet than hearty. "Give 
me my price and I'll hold my tongue," 
seemed to come in Rupert's off-hand 
accents through his cousin's deferential 
lips. As may be supposed, however, the 
king and those who advised him in the 
matter, knowing too well the manner of 
man the Count of Hentzau was, were not 
inclined to give ear to his ambassador's 
prayer. We kept firm hold on Master 
Rupert's revenues, and as good watch as 
we could on his movements; for we were 
most firmly determined that he should 
never return to Ruritania. Perhaps we 
might have obtained his extradition and 
hanged him on the score of his crimes; but 
in these days every rogue who deserves 
no better than to be strung up to the 
nearest tree must have what they call a 
fair trial; and we feared that, if Rupert 
were handed over to our police and 
arraigned before the courts at Strelsau, the 
secret which we guarded so sedulously 
would become the gossip of all the city, 
ay, and of all Europe. So Rupert went 
unpunished except by banishment and the 
impounding of his rents.

Yet Sapt was in the right about him. 
Helpless as he seemed, he did not for an 
instant abandon the contest. He lived in 
the faith that his chance would come, and 
from day to day was ready for its coming. 
He schemed against us as we schemed to 
protect ourselves from him; if we watched 
him, he kept his eye on us. His 
ascendency over Luzau-Rischenheim 
grew markedly greater after a visit which 
his cousin paid to him in Paris. From this 
time the young count began to supply him 
with resources. Thus armed, he gathered 
instruments round him and organized a 
system of espionage that carried to his 
ears all our actions and the whole position 
of affairs at court. He knew, far more 
accurately than anyone else outside the 
royal circle, the measures taken for the 
government of the kingdom and the 
considerations that dictated the royal 
policy. More than this, he possessed 
himself of every detail concerning the 
king's health, although the utmost 
reticence was observed on this subject. 
Had his discoveries stopped there, they 
would have been vexatious and 
disquieting, but perhaps of little serious 
harm. They went further. Set on the track 
by his acquaintance with what had passed 
during Mr. Rassendyll's tenure of the 
throne, he penetrated the secret which had 
been kept successfully from the king 
himself. In the knowledge of it he found 
the opportunity for which he had waited; 
in its bold use he discerned his chance. I 
cannot say whether he were influenced 
more strongly by his desire to reestablish 
his position in the kingdom or by the 
grudge he bore against Mr. Rassendyll. 
He loved power and money; dearly he 
loved revenge also. No doubt both 
motives worked together, and he was 
rejoiced to find that the weapon put into 
his hand had a double edge; with one he 
hoped to cut his own path clear; with the 
other, to wound the man he hated through 
the woman whom that man loved. In fine, 
the Count of Hentzau, shrewdly 
discerning the feeling that existed 
between the queen and Rudolf 
Rassendyll, set his spies to work, and was 
rewarded by discovering the object of my 
yearly meetings with Mr. Rassendyll. At 
least he conjectured the nature of my 
errand; this was enough for him. Head 
and hand were soon busy in turning the 
knowledge to account; scruples of the 
heart never stood in Rupert's way.

The marriage which had set all Ruritania 
on fire with joy and formed in the people's 
eyes the visible triumph over Black 
Michael and his fellow-conspirators was 
now three years old. For three years the 
Princess Flavia had been queen. I am 
come by now to the age when a man 
should look out on life with an eye 
undimmed by the mists of passion. My 
love-making days are over; yet there is 
nothing for which I am more thankful to 
Almighty God than the gift of my wife's 
love. In storm it has been my anchor, and 
in clear skies my star. But we common 
folk are free to follow our hearts; am I an 
old fool for saying that he is a fool who 
follows anything else? Our liberty is not 
for princes. We need wait for no future 
world to balance the luck of men; even 
here there is an equipoise. From the 
highly placed a price is exacted for their 
state, their wealth, and their honors, as 
heavy as these are great; to the poor, what 
is to us mean and of no sweetness may 
appear decked in the robes of pleasure 
and delight. Well, if it were not so, who 
could sleep at nights? The burden laid on 
Queen Flavia I knew, and know, so well 
as a man can know it. I think it needs a 
woman to know it fully; for even now my 
wife's eyes fill with tears when we speak 
of it. Yet she bore it, and if she failed in 
anything, I wonder that it was in so little. 
For it was not only that she had never 
loved the king and had loved another with 
all her heart. The king's health, shattered 
by the horror and rigors of his 
imprisonment in the castle of Zenda, soon 
broke utterly. He lived, indeed; nay, he 
shot and hunted, and kept in his hand 
some measure, at least, of government. 
But always from the day of his release he 
was a fretful invalid, different utterly 
from the gay and jovial prince whom 
Michael's villains had caught in the 
shooting lodge. There was worse than 
this. As time went on, the first impulse of 
gratitude and admiration that he had felt 
towards Mr. Rassendyll died away. He 
came to brood more and more on what 
had passed while he was a prisoner; he 
was possessed not only by a haunting 
dread of Rupert of Hentzau, at whose 
hands he had suffered so greatly, but also 
by a morbid, half mad jealousy of Mr. 
Rassendyll. Rudolf had played the hero 
while he lay helpless. Rudolf's were the 
exploits for which his own people cheered 
him in his own capital. Rudolf's were the 
laurels that crowned his impatient brow. 
He had enough nobility to resent his 
borrowed credit, without the fortitude to 
endure it manfully. And the hateful 
comparison struck him nearer home. Sapt 
would tell him bluntly that Rudolf did this 
or that, set this precedent or that, laid 
down this or the other policy, and that the 
king could do no better than follow in 
Rudolf's steps. Mr. Rassendyll's name 
seldom passed his wife's lips, but when 
she spoke of him it was as one speaks of a 
great man who is dead, belittling all the 
living by the shadow of his name. I do not 
believe that the king discerned that truth 
which his wife spent her days in hiding 
from him; yet he was uneasy if Rudolf's 
name were mentioned by Sapt or myself, 
and from the queen's mouth he could not 
bear it. I have seen him fall into fits of 
passion on the mere sound of it; for he 
lost control of himself on what seemed 
slight provocation.

Moved by this disquieting jealousy, he 
sought continually to exact from the 
queen proofs of love and care beyond 
what most husbands can boast of, or, in 
my humble judgment, make good their 
right to, always asking of her what in his 
heart he feared was not hers to give. 
Much she did in pity and in duty; but in 
some moments, being but human and 
herself a woman of high temper, she 
failed; then the slight rebuff or 
involuntary coldness was magnified by a 
sick man's fancy into great offence or 
studied insult, and nothing that she could 
do would atone for it. Thus they, who had 
never in truth come together, drifted yet 
further apart; he was alone in his sickness 
and suspicion, she in her sorrows and her 
memories. There was no child to bridge 
the gulf between them, and although she 
was his queen and his wife, she grew 
almost a stranger to him. So he seemed to 
will that it should be.

Thus, worse than widowed, she lived for 
three years; and once only in each year 
she sent three words to the man she loved, 
and received from him three words in 
answer. Then her strength failed her. A 
pitiful scene had occurred in which the 
king peevishly upbraided her in regard to 
some trivial matter--the occasion escapes 
my memory--speaking to her before 
others words that even alone she could 
not have listened to with dignity. I was 
there, and Sapt; the colonel's small eyes 
had gleamed in anger. "I should like to 
shut his mouth for him, " I heard him 
mutter, for the king's waywardness had 
well-nigh worn out even his devotion. 
The thing, of which I will say no more, 
happened a day or two before I was to set 
out to meet Mr. Rassendyll. I was to seek 
him this time at Wintenberg, for I had 
been recognized the year before at 
Dresden; and Wintenberg, being a smaller 
place and less in the way of chance 
visitors, was deemed safer. I remember 
well how she was when she called me into 
her own room, a few hours after she had 
left the king. She stood by the table; the 
box was on it, and I knew well that the 
red rose and the message were within. But 
there was more to-day. Without preface 
she broke into the subject of my errand.

"I must write to him," she said. "I can't 
bear it, I must write. My dear friend Fritz, 
you will carry it safely for me, won't you? 
And he must write to me. And you'll bring 
that safely, won't you? Ah, Fritz, I know 
I'm wrong, but I'm starved, starved, 
starved! And it's for the last time. For I 
know now that if I send anything, I must 
send more. So after this time I won't send 
at all. But I must say good-by to him; I 
must have his good-by to carry me 
through my life. This once, then, Fritz, do 
it for me."

The tears rolled down her cheeks, which 
to-day were flushed out of their paleness 
to a stormy red; her eyes defied me even 
while they pleaded. I bent my head and 
kissed her hand.

"With God's help I'll carry it safely and 
bring his safely, my queen," said I.

"And tell me how he looks. Look at him 
closely, Fritz. See if he is well and seems 
strong. Oh, and make him merry and 
happy! Bring that smile to his lips, Fritz, 
and the merry twinkle to his eyes. When 
you speak of me, see if he--if he looks as 
if he still loved me." But then she broke 
off, crying, "But don't tell him I said that. 
He'd be grieved if I doubted his love. I 
don't doubt it; I don't, indeed; but still tell 
me how he looks when you speak of me, 
won't you, Fritz? See, here's the letter."

Taking it from her bosom, she kissed it 
before she gave it to me. Then she added 
a thousand cautions, how I was to carry 
her letter, how I was to go and how 
return, and how I was to run no danger, 
because my wife Helga loved me as well 
as she would have loved her husband had 
Heaven been kinder. "At least, almost as I 
should, Fritz," she said, now between 
smiles and tears. She would not believe 
that any woman could love as she loved.

I left the queen and went to prepare for 
my journey. I used to take only one 
servant with me, and I had chosen a 
different man each year. None of them 
had known that I met Mr. Rassendyll, but 
supposed that I was engaged on the 
private business which I made my pretext 
for obtaining leave of absence from the 
king. This time I had determined to take 
with me a Swiss youth who had entered 
my service only a few weeks before. His 
name was Bauer; he seemed a stolid, 
somewhat stupid fellow, but as honest as 
the day and very obliging.

He had come to me well recommended, 
and I had not hesitated to engage him. I 
chose him for my companion now, chiefly 
because he was a foreigner and therefore 
less likely to gossip with the other 
servants when we returned. I do not 
pretend to much cleverness, but I confess 
that it vexes me to remember how that 
stout, guileless-looking youth made a fool 
of me. For Rupert knew that I had met 
Mr. Rassendyll the year before at 
Dresden; Rupert was keeping a watchful 
eye on all that passed in Strelsau; Rupert 
had procured the fellow his fine 
testimonials and sent him to me, in the 
hope that he would chance on something 
of advantage to his employer. My resolve 
to take him to Wintenberg may have been 
hoped for, but could scarcely have been 
counted on; it was the added luck that 
waits so often on the plans of a clever 
schemer.

Going to take leave of the king, I found 
him huddled over the fire. The day was 
not cold, but the damp chill of his 
dungeon seemed to have penetrated to the 
very core of his bones. He was annoyed at 
my going, and questioned me peevishly 
about the business that occasioned my 
journey. I parried his curiosity as I best 
could, but did not succeed in appeasing 
his ill-humor. Half ashamed of his recent 
outburst, half-anxious to justify it to 
himself, he cried fretfully:

"Business! Yes, any business is a good 
enough excuse for leaving me! By 
Heaven, I wonder if a king was ever 
served so badly as I am! Why did you 
trouble to get me out of Zenda? Nobody 
wants me, nobody cares whether I live or 
die."

To reason with such a mood was 
impossible. I could only assure him that I 
would hasten my return by all possible 
means.

"Yes, pray do," said he. "I want 
somebody to look after me. Who knows 
what that villain Rupert may attempt 
against me? And I can't defend myself can 
I? I'm not Rudolf Rassendyll, am I?"

Thus, with a mixture of plaintiveness and 
malice, he scolded me. At last I stood 
silent, waiting till he should be pleased to 
dismiss me. At any rate I was thankful 
that he entertained no suspicion as to my 
errand. Had I spoken a word of Mr. 
Rassendyll he would not have let me go. 
He had fallen foul of me before on 
learning that I was in communication with 
Rudolf; so completely had jealousy 
destroyed gratitude in his breast. If he had 
known what I carried, I do not think that 
he could have hated his preserver more. 
Very likely some such feeling was natural 
enough; it was none the less painful to 
perceive.

On leaving the king's presence, I sought 
out the Constable of Zenda. He knew my 
errand; and, sitting down beside him, I 
told him of the letter I carried, and 
arranged how to apprise him of my 
fortune surely and quickly. He was not in 
a good humor that day: the king had 
ruffled him also, and Colonel Sapt had no 
great reserve of patience.

"If we haven't cut one another's throats 
before then, we shall all be at Zenda by 
the time you arrive at Wintenberg," he 
said. "The court moves there to-morrow, 
and I shall be there as long as the king is."

He paused, and then added: "Destroy the 
letter if there's any danger."

I nodded my head.

"And destroy yourself with it, if there's 
the only way," he went on with a surly 
smile. "Heaven knows why she must send 
such a silly message at all; but since she 
must, she'd better have sent me with it."

I knew that Sapt was in the way of jeering 
at all sentiment, and I took no notice of 
the terms that he applied to the queen's 
farewell. I contented myself with 
answering the last part of what he said.

"No, it's better you should be here," I 
urged. "For if I should lose the letter--
though there's little chance of it--you 
could prevent it from coming to the king."

"I could try," he grinned. "But on my life, 
to run the chance for a letter's sake! A 
letter's a poor thing to risk the peace of a 
kingdom for

"Unhappily," said I, "it's the only thing 
that a messenger can well carry."

"Off with you, then," grumbled the 
colonel. "Tell Rassendyll from me that he 
did well. But tell him to do something 
more. Let 'em say good-by and have done 
with it. Good God, is he going to waste all 
his life thinking of a woman he never 
sees?" Sapt's air was full of indignation.

"What more is he to do?" I asked. "Isn't 
his work here done?"

"Ay, it's done. Perhaps it's done," he 
answered. "At least he has given us back 
our good king."

To lay on the king the full blame for what 
he was would have been rank injustice. 
Sapt was not guilty of it, but his 
disappointment was bitter that all our 
efforts had secured no better ruler for 
Ruritania. Sapt could serve, but he liked 
his master to be a man.

"Ay, I'm afraid the lad's work here is 
done," he said, as I shook him by the 
hand. Then a sudden light came in his 
eyes. "Perhaps not," he muttered. "Who 
knows?"

A man need not, I hope, be deemed 
uxorious for liking a quiet dinner alone 
with his wife before he starts on a long 
journey. Such, at least, was my fancy; and 
I was annoyed to find that Helga's cousin, 
Anton von Strofzin, had invited himself to 
share our meal and our farewell. He 
conversed with his usual airy emptiness 
on all the topics that were supplying 
Strelsau with gossip. There were rumors 
that the king was ill; that the queen was 
angry at being carried off to Zenda; that 
the archbishop meant to preach against 
low dresses; that the chancellor was to be 
dismissed; that his daughter was to be 
married; and so forth. I heard without 
listening. But the last bit of his budget 
caught my wandering attention.

"They were betting at the club," said 
Anton, "that Rupert of Hentzau would be 
recalled. Have you heard anything about 
it, Fritz?"

If I had known anything, it is needless to 
say that I should not have confided it to 
Anton. But the suggested step was so 
utterly at variance with the king's 
intentions that I made no difficulty about 
contradicting the report with an 
authoritative air. Anton heard me with a 
judicial wrinkle on his smooth brow.

"That's all very well," said he, "and I dare 
say you're bound to say so. All I know is 
that Rischenheim dropped a hint to 
Colonel Markel a day or two ago."

"Rischenheim believes what he hopes," 
said I.

"And where's he gone?" cried Anton, 
exultantly. "Why has he suddenly left 
Strelsau? I tell you he's gone to meet 
Rupert, and I'll bet you what you like he 
carries some proposal. Ah, you don't 
know everything, Fritz, my boy?"

It was indeed true that I did not know 
everything. I made haste to admit as 
much. "I didn't even know that the count 
was gone, much less why he's gone," said 
I.

"You see?" exclaimed Anton. And he 
added, patronizingly, "You should keep 
your ears open, my boy; then you might 
be worth what the king pays you."

"No less, I trust," said I, "for he pays me 
nothing." Indeed, at this time I held no 
office save the honorary position of 
chamberlain to Her Majesty. Any advice 
the king needed from me was asked and 
given unofficially.

Anton went off, persuaded that he had 
scored a point against me. I could not see 
where. It was possible that the Count of 
Luzau-Rischenheim had gone to meet his 
cousin, equally possible that no such 
business claimed his care. At any rate, the 
matter was not for me. I had a more 
pressing affair in hand. Dismissing the 
whole thing from my mind, I bade the 
butler tell Bauer to go forward with my 
luggage and to let my carriage be at the 
door in good time. Helga had busied 
herself, since our guest's departure, in 
preparing small comforts for my journey; 
now she came to me to say good-by. 
Although she tried to hide all signs of it, I 
detected an uneasiness in her manner. She 
did not like these errands of mine, 
imagining dangers and risks of which I 
saw no likelihood. I would not give in to 
her mood, and, as I kissed her, I bade her 
expect me back in a few days' time. Not 
even to her did I speak of the new and 
more dangerous burden that I carried, 
although I was aware that she enjoyed a 
full measure of the queen's confidence.

"My love to King Rudolf, the real King 
Rudolf," said she. "Though you carry 
what will make him think little of my 
love."

"I have no desire he should think too 
much of it, sweet," said I. She caught me 
by the hands, and looked up in my face.

"What a friend you are, aren't you, Fritz?" 
said she. "You worship Mr. Rassendyll. I 
know you think I should worship him too, 
if he asked me. Well, I shouldn't. I am 
foolish enough to have my own idol." All 
my modesty did not let me doubt who her 
idol might be. Suddenly she drew near to 
me and whispered in my ear. I think that 
our own happiness brought to her a 
sudden keen sympathy with her mistress.

"Make him send her a loving message, 
Fritz," she whispered. "Something that 
will comfort her. Her idol can't be with 
her as mine is with me."

"Yes, he'll send something to comfort 
her," I answered. "And God keep you, my 
dear."

For he would surely send an answer to the 
letter that I carried, and that answer I was 
sworn to bring safely to her. So I set out 
in good heart, bearing in the pocket of my 
coat the little box and the queen's good-
by. And, as Colonel Sapt said to me, both 
I would destroy, if need were--ay, and 
myself with them. A man did not serve 
Queen Flavia with divided mind.

---

CHAPTER II--

A STATION WITHOUT A CAB

The arrangements for my meeting with 
Mr. Rassendyll had been carefully made 
by correspondence before he left England. 
He was to be at the Golden Lion Hotel at 
eleven o'clock on the night of the 15th of 
October. I reckoned to arrive in the town 
between eight and nine on the same 
evening, to proceed to another hotel, and, 
on pretence of taking a stroll, slip out and 
call on him at the appointed hour. I should 
then fulfil my commission, take his 
answer, and enjoy the rare pleasure of a 
long talk with him. Early the next 
morning he would have left Wintenberg, 
and I should be on my way back to 
Strelsau. I knew that he would not fail to 
keep his appointment, and I was perfectly 
confident of being able to carry out the 
programme punctually; I had, however, 
taken the precaution of obtaining a week's 
leave of absence, in case any unforeseen 
accident should delay my return. 
Conscious of having done all I could to 
guard against misunderstanding or 
mishap, I got into the train in a tolerably 
peaceful frame of mind. The box was in 
my inner pocket, the letter in a 
portemonnaie. I could feel them both with 
my hand. I was not in uniform, but I took 
my revolver. Although I had no reason to 
anticipate any difficulties, I did not forget 
that what I carried must be protected at all 
hazards and all costs.

The weary night journey wore itself away. 
Bauer came to me in the morning, 
performed his small services, repacked 
my hand-bag, procured me some coffee, 
and left me. It was then about eight 
o'clock; we had arrived at a station of 
some importance and were not to stop 
again till mid-day. I saw Bauer enter the 
second-class compartment in which he 
was traveling, and settled down in my 
own coupe'. I think it was at this moment 
that the thought of Rischenheim came 
again into my head, and I found myself 
wondering why he clung to the hopeless 
idea of compassing Rupert's return and 
what business had taken him from 
Strelsau. But I made little of the matter, 
and, drowsy from a broken night's rest, 
soon fell into a doze. I was alone in the 
carriage and could sleep without fear or 
danger. I was awakened by our noontide 
halt. Here I saw Bauer again. After taking 
a basin of soup, I went to the telegraph 
bureau to send a message to my wife; the 
receipt of it would not merely set her 
mind at case, but would also ensure word 
of my safe progress reaching the queen. 
As I entered the bureau I met Bauer 
coming out of it. He seemed rather 
startled at our encounter, but told me 
readily enough that he had been 
telegraphing for rooms at Wintenberg, a 
very needless precaution, since there was 
no danger of the hotel being full. In fact I 
was annoyed, as I especially wished to 
avoid calling attention to my arrival. 
However, the mischief was done, and to 
rebuke my servant might have aggravated 
it by setting his wits at work to find out 
my motive for secrecy. So I said nothing, 
but passed by him with a nod. When the 
whole circumstances came to light, I had 
reason to suppose that besides his 
message to the inn-keeper, Bauer sent one 
of a character and to a quarter 
unsuspected by me.

We stopped once again before reaching 
Wintenberg. I put my head out of the 
window to look about me, and saw Bauer 
standing near the luggage van. He ran to 
me eagerly, asking whether I required 
anything. I told him "nothing"; but instead 
of going away, he began to talk to me. 
Growing weary of him, I returned to my 
seat and waited impatiently for the train to 
go on. There was a further delay of five 
minutes, and then we started.

"Thank goodness!" I exclaimed, leaning 
back comfortably in my seat and taking a 
cigar from my case.

But in a moment the cigar rolled 
unheeded on to the floor, as I sprang 
eagerly to my feet and darted to the 
window. For just as we were clearing the 
station, I saw being carried past the 
carriage, on the shoulders of a porter, a 
bag which looked very much like mine. 
Bauer had been in charge of my bag, and 
it had been put in the van under his 
directions. It seemed unlikely that it 
should be taken out now by any mistake. 
Yet the bag I saw was very like the bag I 
owned. But I was not sure, and could have 
done nothing had I been sure. We were 
not to stop again before Wintenberg, and, 
with my luggage or without it, I myself 
must be in the town that evening.

We arrived punctual to our appointed 
time. I sat in the carriage a moment or 
two, expecting Bauer to open the door and 
relieve me of my small baggage. He did 
not come, so I got out. It seemed that I 
had few fellow-passengers, and these 
were quickly disappearing on foot or in 
carriages and carts that waited outside the 
station. I stood looking for my servant and 
my luggage. The evening was mild; I was 
encumbered with my hand-bag and a 
heavy fur coat. There were no signs either 
of Bauer or of baggage. I stayed where I 
was for five or six minutes. The guard of 
the train had disappeared, but presently I 
observed the station-master; he seemed to 
be taking a last glance round the premises. 
Going up to him I asked whether he had 
seen my servant; he could give me no 
news of him. I had no luggage ticket, for 
mine had been in Bauer's hands; but I 
prevailed on him to allow me to look at 
the baggage which had arrived; my 
property was not among it. The station-
master was inclined, I think, to be a little 
skeptical as to the existence both of bag 
and of servant. His only suggestion was 
that the man must have been left behind 
accidentally. I pointed out that in this case 
he would not have had the bag with him, 
but that it would have come on in the 
train. The station-master admitted the 
force of my argument; he shrugged his 
shoulders and spread his hands out; he 
was evidently at the end of his resources.

Now, for the first time and with sudden 
force, a doubt of Bauer's fidelity thrust 
itself into my mind. I remembered how 
little I knew of the fellow and how great 
my charge was. Three rapid movements 
of my hand assured me that letter, box, 
and revolver were in their respective 
places. If Bauer had gone hunting in the 
bag, he had drawn a blank. The station-
master noticed nothing; he was stating at 
the dim gas lamp that hung from the roof. 
I turned to him.

"Well, tell him when he comes--" I began.

"He won't come to-night, now," 
interrupted the stationmaster, none too 
politely. "No other train arrives to-night."

"Tell him when he does come to follow 
me at once to the Wintenbergerhof. I'm 
going there immediately." For time was 
short, and I did not wish to keep Mr. 
Rassendyll waiting. Besides, in my new-
born nervousness, I was anxious to 
accomplish my errand as soon as might 
be. What had become of Bauer? The 
thought returned, and now with it another, 
that seemed to connect itself in some 
subtle way with my present position: why 
and whither had the Count of Luzau-
Rischenheim set out from Strelsau a day 
before I started on my journey to 
Wintenberg?

"If he comes I'll tell him," said the station-
master, and as he spoke he looked round 
the yard.

There was not a cab to be seen! I knew 
that the station lay on the extreme 
outskirts of the town, for I had passed 
through Wintenberg on my wedding 
journey, nearly three years before. The 
trouble involved in walking, and the 
further waste of time, put the cap on my 
irritation.

"Why don't you have enough cabs?" I 
asked angrily.

"There are plenty generally, sir," he 
answered more civilly, with an apologetic 
air. "There would be to-night but for an 
accident."

Another accident! This expedition of 
mine seemed doomed to be the sport of 
chance.

"Just before your train arrived," he 
continued, "a local came in. As a rule, 
hardly anybody comes by it, but to-night a 
number of men--oh, twenty or five-and-
twenty, I should think--got out. I collected 
their tickets myself, and they all came 
from the first station on the line. Well, 
that's not so strange, for there's a good 
beer-garden there. But, curiously enough, 
every one of them hired a separate cab 
and drove off, laughing and shouting to 
one another as they went. That's how it 
happens that there were only one or two 
cabs left when your train came in, and 
they were snapped up at once."

Taken alone, this occurrence was nothing; 
but I asked myself whether the conspiracy 
that had robbed me of my servant had 
deprived me of a vehicle also.

"What sort of men were they?" I asked.

"All sorts of men, sir," answered the 
station-master, "but most of them were 
shabby-looking fellows. I wondered 
where some of them had got the money 
for their ride."

The vague feeling of uneasiness which 
had already attacked me grew stronger. 
Although I fought against it, calling 
myself an old woman and a coward, I 
must confess to an impulse which almost 
made me beg the station-master's 
company on my walk; but, besides being 
ashamed to exhibit a timidity apparently 
groundless, I was reluctant to draw 
attention to myself in any way. I would 
not for the world have it supposed that I 
carried anything of value.

"Well, there's no help for it," said I, and, 
buttoning my heavy coat about me, I took 
my hand-bag and stick in one hand, and 
asked my way to the hotel. My 
misfortunes had broken down the station-
master's indifference, and he directed me 
in a sympathetic tone.

"Straight along the road, sir," said he, 
"between the poplars, for hard on half a 
mile; then the houses begin, and your 
hotel is in the first square you come to, on 
the right."

I thanked him curtly (for I had not quite 
forgiven him his earlier incivility), and 
started on my walk, weighed down by my 
big coat and the handbag. When I left the 
lighted station yard I realized that the 
evening had fallen very dark, and the 
shade of the tall lank trees intensified the 
gloom. I could hardly see my way, and 
went timidly, with frequent stumbles over 
the uneven stones of the road. The lamps 
were dim, few, and widely separated; so 
far as company was concerned, I might 
have been a thousand miles from an 
inhabited house. In spite of myself, the 
thought of danger persistently assailed my 
mind. I began to review every 
circumstance of my journey, twisting the 
trivial into some ominous shape, 
magnifying the significance of everything 
which might justly seem suspicious, 
studying in the light of my new 
apprehensions every expression of Bauer's 
face and every word that had fallen from 
his lips. I could not persuade myself into 
security. I carried the queen's letter, and--
well, I would have given much to have 
old Sapt or Rudolf Rassendyll by my side.

Now, when a man suspects danger, let 
him not spend his time in asking whether 
there be really danger or in upbraiding 
himself for timidity, but let him face his 
cowardice, and act as though the danger 
were real. If I had followed that rule and 
kept my eyes about me, scanning the sides 
of the road and the ground in front of my 
feet, instead of losing myself in a maze of 
reflection, I might have had time to avoid 
the trap, or at least to get my hand to my 
revolver and make a fight for it; or, 
indeed, in the last resort, to destroy what I 
carried before harm came to it. But my 
mind was preoccupied, and the whole 
thing seemed to happen in a minute. At 
the very moment that I had declared to 
myself the vanity of my fears and 
determined to be resolute in banishing 
them, I heard voices--a low, strained 
whispering; I saw two or three figures in 
the shadow of the poplars by the wayside. 
An instant later, a dart was made at me. 
While I could fly I would not fight; with a 
sudden forward plunge I eluded the men 
who rushed at me, and started at a run 
towards the lights of the town and the 
shapes of the houses, now distant about a 
quarter of a mile. Perhaps I ran twenty 
yards, perhaps fifty; I do not know. I 
heard the steps behind me, quick as my 
own. Then I fell headlong on the road--
tripped up! I understood. They had 
stretched a rope across my path; as I fell a 
man bounded up from either side, and I 
found the rope slack under my body. 
There I lay on my face; a man knelt on 
me, others held either hand; my face was 
pressed into the mud of the road, and I 
was like to have been stifled; my hand-
bag had whizzed away from me. Then a 
voice said:

"Turn him over."

I knew the voice; it was a confirmation of 
the fears which I had lately been at such 
pains to banish. It justified. the forecast of 
Anton von Strofzin, and explained the 
wager of the Count of Luzau-
Rischenheim--for it was Rischenheim's 
voice.

They caught hold of me and began to turn 
me on my back. Here I saw a chance, and 
with a great heave of my body I flung 
them from me. For a short instant I was 
free; my impetuous attack seemed to have 
startled the enemy; I gathered myself up 
on my knees. But my advantage was not 
to last long. Another man, whom I had not 
seen, sprang suddenly on me like a bullet 
from a catapult. His fierce onset 
overthrew me; I was stretched on the 
ground again, on my back now, and my 
throat was clutched viciously in strong 
fingers. At the same moment my arms 
were again seized and pinned. The face of 
the man on my chest bent down towards 
mine, and through the darkness I 
discerned the features of Rupert of 
Hentzau. He was panting with the sudden 
exertion and the intense force with which 
he held me, but he was smiling also; and 
when he saw by my eyes that I knew him, 
he laughed softly in triumph. Then came 
Rischenheim's voice again.

"Where's the bag he carried? It may be in 
the bag."

"You fool, he'll have it about him," said 
Rupert, scornfully. "Hold him fast while I 
search."

On either side my hands were still pinned 
fast. Rupert's left hand did not leave my 
throat, but his free right hand began to 
dart about me, feeling, probing, and 
rummaging. I lay quite helpless and in the 
bitterness of great consternation. Rupert 
found my revolver, drew it out with a 
gibe, and handed it to Rischenheim, who 
was now standing beside him. Then he 
felt the box, he drew it out, his eyes 
sparkled. He set his knee hard on my 
chest, so that I could scarcely breathe; 
then he ventured to loose my throat, and 
tore the box open eagerly.

"Bring a light here," he cried. Another 
ruffian came with a dark-lantern, whose 
glow he turned on the box. Rupert opened 
it, and when he saw what was inside, he 
laughed again, and stowed it away in his 
pocket.

"Quick, quick!" urged Rischenheim. 
"We've got what we wanted, and 
somebody may come at any moment."

A brief hope comforted me. The loss of 
the box was a calamity, but I would 
pardon fortune if only the letter escaped 
capture. Rupert might have suspected that 
I carried some such token as the box, but 
he could not know of the letter. Would he 
listen to Rischenheim? No. The Count of 
Hentzau did things thoroughly.

"We may as well overhaul him a bit 
more," said he, and resumed his search. 
My hope vanished, for now he was bound 
to come upon the letter.

Another instant brought him to it. He 
snatched the pocketbook, and, motioning 
impatiently to the man to hold the lantern 
nearer, he began to examine the contents. 
I remember well the look of his face as 
the fierce white light threw it up against 
the darkness in its clear pallor and high-
bred comeliness, with its curling lips and 
scornful eyes. He had the letter now, and 
a gleam of joy danced in his eyes as he 
tore it open. A hasty glance showed him 
what his prize was; then, coolly and 
deliberately he settled himself to read, 
regarding neither Rischenheim's nervous 
hurry nor my desperate, angry glance that 
glared up at him. He read leisurely, as 
though he had been in an armchair in his 
own house; the lips smiled and curled as 
he read the last words that the queen had 
written to her lover. He had indeed come 
on more than he thought.

Rischenheim laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Quick, Rupert, quick," he urged again, in 
a voice full of agitation.

"Let me alone, man. I haven't read 
anything so amusing for a long while," 
answered Rupert. Then he burst into a 
laugh, crying, "Look, look!" and pointing 
to the foot of the last page of the letter. I 
was mad with anger; my fury gave me 
new strength. In his enjoyment of what he 
read Rupert had grown careless; his knee 
pressed more lightly on me, and as he 
showed Rischenheim the passage in the 
letter that caused him so much amusement 
he turned his head away for an instant. 
My chance had come. With a sudden 
movement I displaced him, and with a 
desperate wrench I freed my right hand. 
Darting it out, I snatched at the letter. 
Rupert, alarmed for his treasure, sprang 
back and off me. I also sprang up on my 
feet, hurling away the fellow who had 
gripped my other hand. For a moment I 
stood facing Rupert; then I darted on him. 
He was too quick for me; he dodged 
behind the man with the lantern and. 
hurled the fellow forward against me. The 
lantern fell on the ground.

"Give me your stick!" I heard Rupert say. 
"Where is it? That's right!"

Then came Rischenheim's voice again, 
imploring and timid:

"Rupert, you promised not to kill him."

The only answer was a short, fierce laugh. 
I hurled away the man who had been 
thrust into my arms and sprang forward. I 
saw Rupert of Hentzau; his hand was 
raised above his head and held a stout 
club. I do not know what followed; there 
came--all in a confused blur of instant 
sequence--an oath from Rupert, a rush 
from me, a scuffle, as though some one 
sought to hold him back; then he was on 
me; I felt a great thud on my forehead, 
and I felt nothing more. Again I was on 
my back, with a terrible pain in my head, 
and a dull, dreamy consciousness of a 
knot of men standing over me, talking 
eagerly to one another.

I could not hear what they were saying; I 
had no great desire to hear. I fancied, 
somehow, that they were talking about 
me; they looked at me and moved their 
hands towards me now and again. I heard 
Rupert's laugh, and saw his club poised 
over me; then Rischenheim caught him by 
the wrist. I know now that Rischenheim 
was reminding his cousin that he had 
promised not to kill me, that Rupert's oath 
did not weigh a straw in the scales, but 
that he was held back only by a doubt 
whether I alive or my dead body would be 
more inconvenient to dispose of. Yet then 
I did not understand, but lay there listless. 
And presently the talking forms seemed to 
cease their talking; they grew blurred and 
dim, running into one another, and all 
mingling together to form one great 
shapeless creature that seemed to murmur 
and gibber over me, some such monster as 
a man sees in his dreams. I hated to see it, 
and closed my eyes; its murmurings and 
gibberings haunted my ears for awhile, 
making me restless and unhappy; then 
they died away. Their going made me 
happy; I sighed in contentment; and 
everything became as though it were not.

Yet I had one more vision, breaking 
suddenly across my unconsciousness. A 
bold, rich voice rang out, "By God, I 
will!"

"No, no," cried another. Then, "What's 
that?" There was a rush of feet, the cries 
of men who met in anger or excitement, 
the crack of a shot and of another quickly 
following, oaths, and scuffling. Then 
came the sound of feet flying. I could not 
make it out; I grew weary with the puzzle 
of it. Would they not be quiet? Quiet was 
what I wanted. At last they grew quiet; I 
closed my eyes again. The pain was less 
now; they were quiet; I could sleep.

When a man looks back on the past, 
reviewing in his mind the chances Fortune 
has given and the calls she has made, he 
always torments himself by thinking that 
he could have done other and better than 
in fact he did. Even now I lie awake at 
night sometimes, making clever plans by 
which I could have thwarted Rupert's 
schemes. In these musings I am very 
acute; Anton von Strofzin's idle talk 
furnishes me with many a clue, and I 
draw inferences sure and swift as a 
detective in the story books. Bauer is my 
tool, I am not his. I lay Rischenheim by 
the heels, send Rupert howling off with a 
ball in his arm, and carry my precious 
burden in triumph to Mr. Rassendyll. By 
the time I have played the whole game I 
am indeed proud of myself. Yet in truth--
in daylight truth--I fear that, unless 
Heaven sent me a fresh set of brains, I 
should be caught in much the same way 
again. Though not by that fellow Bauer, I 
swear! Well, there it was. They had made 
a fool of me. I lay on the road with a 
bloody head, and Rupert of Hentzau had 
the queen's letter.

---

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--l 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 
__cha^teau__ 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 __cha^teau__. 
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.

---

CHAPTER V--

AN AUDIENCE OF THE KING

Having come thus far in the story that I 
set out to tell, I have half a mind to lay 
down my pen, and leave untold how from 
the moment that Mr. Rassendyll came 
again to Zenda a fury of chance seemed to 
catch us all in a whirlwind, carrying us 
whither we would not, and ever driving us 
onwards to fresh enterprises, breathing 
into us a recklessness that stood at no 
obstacle, and a devotion to the queen and 
to the man she loved that swept away all 
other feeling. The ancients held there to 
be a fate which would have its fill, though 
women wept and men died, and none 
could tell whose was the guilt nor who 
fell innocent. Thus did they blindly wrong 
God's providence. Yet, save that we are 
taught to believe that all is ruled, we are 
as blind as they, and are still left 
wondering why all that is true and 
generous and love's own fruit must turn so 
often to woe and shame, exacting tears 
and blood. For myself I would leave the 
thing untold, lest a word of it should seem 
to stain her whom I serve; it is by her own 
command I write, that all may one day, in 
time's fullness, be truly known, and those 
condemn who are without sin, while they 
pity whose own hearts have fought the 
equal fight. So much for her and him; for 
us less needs be said. It was not ours to 
weigh her actions; we served her; him we 
had served. She was our queen; we bore 
Heaven a grudge that he was not our king. 
The worst of what befell was not of our 
own planning, no, nor of our hoping. It 
came a thunderbolt from the hand of 
Rupert, flung carelessly between a curse 
and a laugh;its coming entangled us more 
tightly in the net of circumstances. Then 
there arose in us that strange and 
overpowering desire of which I must tell 
later, filling us with a zeal to accomplish 
our purpose, and to force Mr. Rassendyll 
himself into the way we chose. Led by 
this star, we pressed on through the 
darkness, until at length the deeper 
darkness fell that stayed our steps. We 
also stand for judgment, even as she and 
he. So I will write; but I will write plainly 
and briefly, setting down what I must, and 
no more, yet seeking to give truly the 
picture of that time, and to preserve as 
long as may be the portrait of the man 
whose like I have not known. Yet the fear 
is always upon me that, failing to show 
him as he was, I may fail also in gaining 
an understanding of how he wrought on 
us, one and all, till his cause became in all 
things the right, and to seat him where he 
should be our highest duty and our nearest 
wish. For he said little, and that straight to 
the purpose; no high-flown words of his 
live in my memory. And he asked nothing 
for himself. Yet his speech and his eyes 
went straight to men's hearts and 
women's, so that they held their lives in 
an eager attendance on his bidding. Do I 
rave? Then Sapt was a raver too, for Sapt 
was foremost in the business.

At ten minutes to eight o'clock, young 
Bernenstein, very admirably and smartly 
accoutred, took his stand outside the main 
entrance of the castle. He wore a 
confident air that became almost a 
swagger as he strolled to and fro past the 
motionless sentries. He had not long to 
wait. On the stroke of eight a gentleman, 
well-horsed but entirely unattended, rode 
up the carriage drive. Bernenstein, crying 
"Ah, it is the count!" ran to meet him. 
Rischenheim dismounted, holding out his 
hand to the young officer.

"My dear Bernenstein!" said he, for they 
were acquainted with one another.

"You're punctual, my dear Rischenheim, 
and it's lucky, for the king awaits you 
most impatiently."

"I didn't expect to find him up so soon," 
remarked Rischenheim.

"Up! He's been up these two hours. 
Indeed we've had the devil of a time of it. 
Treat him carefully, my dear Count; he's 
in one of his troublesome humors. For 
example--but I mustn't keep you waiting. 
Pray follow me."

"No, but pray tell me. Otherwise I might 
say something unfortunate."

"Well, he woke at six; and when the 
barber came to trim his beard there were--
imagine it, Count!--no less than seven 
gray hairs." The king fell into a passion. 
"Take it off!" he said. "Take it off. I won't 
have a gray beard! Take it off!' Well what 
would you? A man is free to be shaved if 
he chooses, so much more a king. So it's 
taken off."

"His beard!"

"His beard, my dear Count. Then, after 
thanking Heaven it was gone, and 
declaring he looked ten years younger, he 
cried, "The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim 
breakfasts with me to-day: what is there 
for breakfast?" And he had the __chef__  
out his of bed and--But, by heavens, I 
shall get into trouble if I stop here 
chattering. He's waiting most eagerly for 
you. Come along." And Bernenstein, 
passing his arm through the count's, 
walked him rapidly into the castle.

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was a 
young man; he was no more versed in 
affairs of this kind than Bernenstein, and 
it cannot be said that he showed so much 
aptitude for them. He was decidedly pale 
this morning; his manner was uneasy, and 
his hands trembled. He did not lack 
courage, but that rarer virtue, coolness; 
and the importance--or perhaps the 
shame--of his mission upset the balance 
of his nerves. Hardly noting where he 
went, he allowed Bernenstein to lead him 
quickly and directly towards the room 
where Rudolf Rassendyll was, not 
doubting that he was being conducted to 
the king's presence.

"Breakfast is ordered for nine," said 
Bernenstein, "but he wants to see you 
before. He has something important to 
say; and you perhaps have the same?"

"I? Oh, no. A small matter; but--er--of a 
private nature."

"Quite so, quite so. Oh, I don't ask any 
questions, my dear Count."

"Shall I find the king alone?" asked 
Rischenheim nervously.

"I don't think you'll find anybody with 
him; no, nobody, I think," answered 
Bernenstein, with a grave and reassuring 
air.

They arrived now at the door. Here 
Bernenstein paused.

"I am ordered to wait outside till his 
Majesty summons me," he said in a low 
voice, as though he feared that the 
irritable king would hear him. "I'll open 
the door and announce you. Pray keep 
him in a good temper, for all our sakes." 
And he flung the door open, saying, "Sire, 
the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim has the 
honor to wait on your Majesty." With this 
he shut the door promptly, and stood 
against it. Nor did he move, save once, 
and then only to take out his revolver and 
carefully inspect it.

The count advanced, bowing low, and 
striving to conceal a visible agitation. He 
saw the king in his arm-chair; the king 
wore a suit of brown tweeds (none the 
better for being crushed into a bundle the 
night before); his face was in deep 
shadow, but Rischenheim perceived that 
the beard was indeed gone. The king held 
out his hand to Rischenheim, and 
motioned him to sit in a chair just 
opposite to him and within a foot of the 
window-curtains.

"I'm delighted to see you, my lord," said 
the king.

Rischenheim looked up. Rudolf's voice 
had once been so like the king's that no 
man could tell the difference, but in the 
last year or two the king's had grown 
weaker, and Rischenheim seemed to be 
struck by the vigor of the tones in which 
he was addressed. As he looked up, there 
was a slight movement in the curtains by 
him; it died away when the count gave no 
further signs of suspicion, but Rudolf had 
noticed his surprise: the voice, when it 
next spoke, was subdued.

"Most delighted," pursued Mr. 
Rassendyll. "For I am pestered beyond 
endurance about those dogs. I can't get the 
coats right, I've tried everything, but they 
won't come as I wish. Now, yours are 
magnificent."

"You are very good, sire. But I ventured 
to ask an audience in order to--"

"Positively you must tell me about the 
dogs. And before Sapt comes, for I want 
nobody to hear but myself."

"Your Majesty expects Colonel Sapt?"

"In about twenty minutes," said the king, 
with a glance at the clock on the 
mantelpiece.

At this Rischenheim became all on fire to 
get his errand done before Sapt appeared.

"The coats of your dogs," pursued the 
king, "grow so beautifully--"

"A thousand pardons, sire, but--"

"Long and silky, that I despair of--"

"I have a most urgent and important 
matter," persisted Rischenheim in agony.

Rudolf threw himself back in his chair 
with a peevish air. "Well, if you must, you 
must. What is this great affair, Count? Let 
us have it over, and then you can tell me 
about the dogs."

Rischenheim looked round the room. 
There was nobody; the curtains were still; 
the king's left hand caressed his beardless 
chin; the right was hidden from his visitor 
by the small table that stood between 
them.

"Sire, my cousin, the Count of Hentzau, 
has entrusted me with a message."

Rudolf suddenly assumed a stern air.

"I can hold no communication, directly or 
indirectly, with the Count of Hentzau," 
said he.

"Pardon me, sire, pardon me. A document 
has come into the count's hands which is 
of vital importance to your Majesty."

"The Count of Hentzau, my lord, has 
incurred my heaviest displeasure."

"Sire, it is in the hopes of atoning for his 
offences that he has sent me here to-day. 
There is a conspiracy against your 
Majesty's honor."

"By whom, my lord?" asked Rudolf, in 
cold and doubting tones.

"By those who are very near your 
Majesty's person and very high in your 
Majesty's love."

"Name them."

"Sire, I dare not. You would not believe 
me. But your Majesty will believe written 
evidence."

"Show it me, and quickly. We may be 
interrupted."

"Sire, I have a copy--"

"Oh, a copy, my lord?" sneered Rudolf.

"My cousin has the original, and will 
forward it at your Majesty's command. A 
copy. of a letter of her Majesty's--"

"Of the queen's?"

"Yes, sire. It is addressed to--" 
Rischenheim paused.

"Well, my lord, to whom?"

"To a Mr. Rudolf Rassendyll."

Now Rudolf played his part well. He did 
not feign indifference, but allowed his 
voice to tremble with emotion as he 
stretched out his hand and said in a hoarse 
whisper, "Give it me, give it me."

Rischenheim's eyes sparkled. His shot had 
told: the king's attention was his; the coats 
of the dogs were forgotten. Plainly he had 
stirred the suspicions and jealousy of the 
king.

"My cousin," he continued, "conceives it 
his duty to lay the letter before your 
Majesty. He obtained it--"

"A curse on how he got it! Give it me!"

Rischenheim unbuttoned his coat, then his 
waistcoat. The head of a revolver showed 
in a belt round his waist. He undid the 
flap of a pocket in the lining of his 
waistcoat, and he began to draw out a 
sheet of paper.

But Rudolf, great as his powers of self-
control were, was but human. When he 
saw the paper, he leant forward, half 
rising from his chair. As a result, his face 
came beyond the shadow of the curtain, 
and the full morning light beat on it. As 
Rischenheim took the paper out, he 
looked up. He saw the face that glared so 
eagerly at him; his eyes met Rassendyll's: 
a sudden suspicion seized him, for the 
face, though the king's face in every 
feature, bore a stern resolution and 
witnessed a vigor that were not the king's. 
In that instant the truth, or a hint of it, 
flashed across his mind. He gave a half-
articulate cry; in one hand he crumpled up 
the paper, the other flew to his revolver. 
But he was too late. Rudolf's left hand 
encircled his hand and the paper in an iron 
grip; Rudolf's revolver was on his temple; 
and an arm was stretched out from behind 
the curtain, holding another barrel full 
before his eyes, while a dry voice said, 
"You'd best take it quietly." Then Sapt 
stepped out.

Rischenheim had no words to meet the 
sudden transformation of the interview. 
He seemed to be able to do nothing but 
stare at Rudolf Rassendyll. Sapt wasted 
no time. He snatched the count's revolver 
and stowed it in his own pocket.

"Now take the paper," said he to Rudolf, 
and his barrel held Rischenheim 
motionless while Rudolf wrenched the 
precious document from his fingers. 
"Look if it's the right one. No, don't read it 
through; just look. Is it right? That's good. 
Now put your revolver to his head again. 
I'm going to search him. Stand up, sir."

They compelled the count to stand up, and 
Sapt subjected him to a search that made 
the concealment of another copy, or of 
any other document, impossible. Then 
they let him sit down again. His eyes 
seemed fascinated by Rudolf Rassendyll.

"Yet you've seen me before, I think," 
smiled Rudolf. "I seem to remember you 
as a boy in Strelsau when I was there. 
Now tell us, sir, where did you leave this 
cousin of yours?" For the plan was to find 
out from Rischenheim where Rupert was, 
and to set off in pursuit of Rupert as soon 
as they had disposed of Rischenheim.

But even as Rudolf spoke there was a 
violent knock at the door. Rudolf sprang 
to open it. Sapt and his revolver kept their 
places. Bernenstein was on the threshold, 
open-mouthed.

"The king's servant has just gone by. He's 
looking for Colonel Sapt. The King has 
been walking in the drive, and learnt from 
a sentry of Rischenheim's arrival. I told 
the man that you had taken the count for a 
stroll round the castle, and I did not know 
where you were. He says that the king 
may come himself at any moment."

Sapt considered for one short instant; then 
he was back by the prisoner's side.

"We must talk again later on," he said, in 
low quick tones. "Now you're going to 
breakfast with the king. I shall be there, 
and Bernenstein. Remember, not a word 
of your errand, not a word of this 
gentleman! At a word, a sign, a hint, a 
gesture, a motion, as God lives, I'll put a 
bullet through your head, and a thousand 
kings sha'n't stop me. Rudolf, get behind 
the curtain. If there's an alarm you must 
jump through the window into the moat 
and swim for it."

"All right," said Rudolf Rassendyll. "I can 
read my letter there."

"Burn it, you fool."

"When I've read it I'll eat it, if you like, 
but not before."

Bernenstein looked in again. "Quick, 
quick! The man will be back," he 
whispered.

"Bernenstein, did you hear what I said to 
the count?"

"Yes, I heard."

"Then you know your part. Now, 
gentlemen, to the king."

"Well," said an angry voice outside, "I 
wondered how long I was to be kept 
waiting."

Rudolf Rassendyll skipped behind the 
curtain. Sapt's revolver slipped into a 
handy pocket. Rischenheim stood with 
arms dangling by his side and his 
waistcoat half unbuttoned. Young 
Bernenstein was bowing low on the 
threshold, and protesting that the king's 
servant had but just gone, and that they 
were on the point of waiting on his 
Majesty. Then the king walked in, pale 
and full-bearded.

"Ah, Count," said he, "I'm glad to see 
you. If they had told me you were here, 
you shouldn't have waited a minute. 
You're very dark in here, Sapt. Why don't 
you draw back the curtains?" and the king 
moved towards the curtain behind which 
Rudolf was.

"Allow me, sire," cried Sapt, darting past 
him and laying a hand on the curtain.

A malicious gleam of pleasure shot into 
Rischenheim's eyes. "In truth, sire," 
continued the constable, his hand on the 
curtain, "we were so interested in what 
the count was saying about his dogs--"

"By heaven, I forgot!" cried the king. 
"Yes, yes, the dogs Now tell me, Count--"

"Your pardon, sire," put in young 
Bernenstein, "but breakfast waits."

"Yes, yes. Well, then, we'll have them 
together--breakfast and the dogs. Come 
along, Count." The king passed his arm 
through Rischenheim's, adding to 
Bernenstein, "Lead the way, Lieutenant; 
and you, Colonel, come with us."

They went out. Sapt stopped and locked 
the door behind him. "Why do you lock 
the door, Colonel?" asked the king.

"There are some papers in my drawer 
there, sire."

"But why not lock the drawer?,

"I have lost the key, sire, like the fool I 
am," said the colonel.

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim did not 
make a very good breakfast. He sat 
opposite to the king. Colonel Sapt placed 
himself at the back of the king's chair, and 
Rischenheim saw the muzzle of a revolver 
resting on the top of the chair just behind 
his Majesty's right ear. Bernenstein stood 
in soldierly rigidity by the door; 
Rischenheim looked round at him once 
and met a most significant gaze.

"You're eating nothing," said the king. "I 
hope you're not indisposed?"

"I am a little upset, sire," stammered 
Rischenheim, and truly enough.

"Well, tell me about the dogs--while I eat, 
for I'm hungry."

Rischenheim began to disclose his secret. 
His statement was decidedly wanting in 
clearness. The king grew impatient.

"I don't understand," said he testily, and 
he pushed his chair back so quickly that 
Sapt skipped away, and hid the revolver 
behind his back.

"Sire--" cried Rischenheim, half rising. A 
cough from Lieutenant von Bernenstein 
interrupted him.

"Tell it me all over again," said the king. 
Rischenheim did as he was bid.

"Ah, I understand a little better now. Do 
you see, Sapt?" and he turned his head 
round towards the constable. Sapt had just 
time to whisk the revolver away. The 
count lent forward towards the king. 
Lieutenant von Bernenstein coughed. The 
count sank back again.

"Perfectly, sire," said Colonel Sapt. "I 
understand all the count wishes to convey 
to your Majesty."

"Well, I understand about half," said the 
king with a laugh. "But perhaps that'll be 
enough."

"I think quite enough, sire," answered 
Sapt with a smile. The important matter of 
the dogs being thus disposed of, the king 
recollected that the count had asked for an 
audience on a matter of business.

"Now, what did you wish to say to me?" 
he asked, with a weary air. The dogs had 
been more interesting.

Rischenheim looked at Sapt. The revolver 
was in its place; Bernenstein coughed 
again. Yet he saw a chance.

"Your pardon, sire," said he, "but we are 
not alone."

The king lifted his eyebrows.

"Is the business so private?" he asked.

"I should prefer to tell it to your Majesty 
alone," pleaded the count.

Now Sapt was resolved not to leave 
Rischenheim alone with the king, for, 
although the count, being robbed of his 
evidence could do little harm concerning 
the letter, he would doubtless tell the king 
that Rudolf Rassendyll was in the castle. 
He leant now over the king's shoulder, 
and said with a sneer:

"Messages from Rupert of Hentzau are 
too exalted matters for my poor ears, it 
seems."

The king flushed red.

"Is that your business, my lord?" he asked 
Rischenheim sternly.

"Your Majesty does not know what my 
cousin--"

"It is the old plea?" interrupted the king. 
"He wants to come back? Is that all, or is 
there anything else?"

A moment's silence followed the king's 
words. Sapt looked full at Rischenheim, 
and smiled as he slightly raised his right 
hand and showed the revolver. 
Bernenstein coughed twice. Rischenheim 
sat twisting his fingers. He understood 
that, cost what it might, they would not let 
him declare his errand to the king or 
betray Mr. Rassendyll's presence. He 
cleared his throat and opened his mouth 
as if to speak, but still he remained silent.

"Well, my lord, is it the old story or 
something new" asked the king 
impatiently.

Again Rischenheim sat silent.

"Are you dumb, my lord?" cried the king 
most impatiently.

"It--it is only what you call the old story, 
sire."

"Then let me say that you have treated me 
very badly in obtaining an audience of me 
for any such purpose," said the king. 
"You knew my decision, and your cousin 
knows it." Thus speaking, the king rose; 
Sapt's revolver slid into his pocket; but 
Lieutenant von Bernenstein drew his 
sword and stood at the salute; he also 
coughed.

"My dear Rischenheim," pursued the king 
more kindly, "I can allow for your natural 
affection. But, believe me, in this case it 
misleads you. Do me the favor not to 
open this subject again to me."

Rischenheim, humiliated and angry, could 
do nothing but bow in acknowledgment of 
the king's rebuke.

"Colonel Sapt, see that the count is well 
entertained. My horse should be at the 
door by now. Farewell, Count. 
Bernenstein, give me your arm."

Bernenstein shot a rapid glance at the 
constable. Sapt nodded reassuringly. 
Bernenstein sheathed his sword and gave 
his arm to the king. They passed through 
the door, and Bernenstein closed it with a 
backward push of his hand. But at this 
moment Rischenheim, goaded to fury and 
desperate at the trick played on him--
seeing, moreover, that he had now only 
one man to deal with--made a sudden rush 
at the door. He reached it, and his hand 
was on the door-knob. But Sapt was upon 
him, and Sapt's revolver was at his ear.

In the passage the king stopped.

"What are they doing in there?" he asked, 
hearing the noise of the quick movements.

"I don't know, sire," said Bernenstein, and 
he took a step forward.

"No, stop a minute, Lieutenant; you're 
pulling me along!"

"A thousand pardons, sire."

"I hear nothing more now." And there was 
nothing to hear, for the two now stood 
dead silent inside the door.

"Nor I, sire. Will your Majesty go on?" 
And Bernenstein took another step.

"You're determined I shall," said the king 
with a laugh, and he let the young officer 
lead him away.

Inside the room, Rischenheim stood with 
his back against the door. He was panting 
for breath, and his face was flushed and 
working with excitement. Opposite to him 
stood Sapt, revolver in hand.

"Till you get to heaven, my lord," said the 
constable, "you'll never be nearer to it 
than you were in that moment. If you had 
opened the door, I'd have shot you 
through the head."

As he spoke there came a knock at the 
door.

"Open it," he said brusquely to 
Rischenheim. With a muttered curse the 
count obeyed him. A servant stood 
outside with a telegram on a salver.

"Take it," whispered Sapt, and 
Rischenheim put out his hand.

"Your pardon, my lord, but this has 
arrived for you," said the man 
respectfully.

"Take it," whispered Sapt again.

"Give it me," muttered Rischenheim 
confusedly; and he took the envelope.

The servant bowed and shut the door.

"Open it," commanded Sapt.

"God's curse on you!" cried Rischenheim 
in a voice that choked with passion.

"Eh? Oh, you can have no secrets from so 
good a friend as I am, my lord. Be quick 
and open it."

The count began to open it.

"If you tear it up, or crumple it, I'll shoot 
you," said Sapt quietly. "You know you 
can trust my word. Now read it."

"By God, I won't read it."

"Read it, I tell you, or say your prayers."

The muzzle was within a foot of his head. 
He unfolded the telegram. Then he looked 
at Sapt. "Read," said the constable.

"I don't understand what it means," 
grumbled Rischenheim.

"Possibly I may be able to help you."

"It's nothing but--"

"Read, my lord, read!"

Then he read, and this was the telegram: 
"Holf, 19 Ko"nigstrasse."

"A thousand thanks, my lord. And--the 
place it's despatched from?"

"Strelsau."

"Just turn it so that I can see. Oh, I don't 
doubt you, but seeing is believing. Ah, 
thanks. It's as you say. You're puzzled 
what it means, Count?"

"I don't know at all what it means!"

"How strange! Because I can guess so 
well."

"You are very acute, sir."

"It seems to me a simple thing to guess, 
my lord."

"And pray," said Rischenheim, 
endeavoring to assume an easy and 
sarcastic air, "what does your wisdom tell 
you that the message means?"

"I think, my lord, that the message is an 
address."

"An address! I never thought of that. But I 
know no Holf."

"I don't think it's Holf's address."

"Whose, then?" asked Rischenheim, 
biting his nail, and looking furtively at the 
constable.

"Why," said Sapt, "the present address of 
Count Rupert of Hentzau."

As he spoke, he fixed his eyes on the eyes 
of Rischenheim. He gave a short, sharp 
laugh, then put his revolver in his pocket 
and bowed to the count.

"In truth, you are very convenient, my 
dear Count," said he.

---

CHAPTER VI--

THE TASK OF THE QUEEN'S 
SERVANTS

THE doctor who attended me at 
Wintenberg was not only discreet, but 
also indulgent; perhaps he had the sense 
to see that little benefit would come to a 
sick man from fretting in helplessness on 
his back, when he was on fire to be afoot. 
I fear he thought the baker's rolling-pin 
was in my mind, but at any rate I extorted 
a consent from him, and was on my way 
home from Wintenberg not much more 
than twelve hours after Rudolf Rassendyll 
left me. Thus I arrived at my own house 
in Strelsau on the same Friday morning 
that witnessed the Count of Luzau-
Rischenheim's two-fold interview with the 
king at the Castle of Zenda. The moment I 
had arrived, I sent James, whose 
assistance had been, and continued to be, 
in all respects most valuable, to despatch 
a message to the constable, acquainting 
him with my whereabouts, and putting 
myself entirely at his disposal. Sapt 
received this message while a council of 
war was being held, and the information it 
gave aided not a little in the arrangements 
that the constable and Rudolf Rassendyll 
made. What these were I must now relate, 
although, I fear, at the risk of some 
tediousness.

Yet that council of war in Zenda was held 
under no common circumstances. Cowed 
as Rischenheim appeared, they dared not 
let him out of their sight. Rudolf could not 
leave the room into which Sapt had 
locked him; the king's absence was to be 
short, and before he came again Rudolf 
must be gone, Rischenheim safely 
disposed of, and measures taken against 
the original letter reaching the hands for 
which the intercepted copy had been 
destined. The room was a large one. In the 
corner farthest from the door sat 
Rischenheim, disarmed, dispirited, to all 
seeming ready to throw up his dangerous 
game and acquiesce in any terms 
presented to him. Just inside the door, 
guarding it, if need should be, with their 
lives, were the other three, Bernenstein 
merry and triumphant, Sapt blunt and 
cool, Rudolf calm and clear-headed. The 
queen awaited the result of their 
deliberations in her apartments, ready to 
act as they directed, but determined to see 
Rudolf before he left the castle. They 
conversed together in low tones. Presently 
Sapt took paper and wrote. This first 
message was to me, and it bade me come 
to Zenda that afternoon; another head and 
another pair of hands were sadly needed. 
Then followed more deliberation; Rudolf 
took up the talking now, for his was the 
bold plan on which they consulted. Sapt 
twirled his moustache, smiling doubtfully.

"Yes, yes," murmured young Bernenstein, 
his eyes alight with excitement.

"It's dangerous, but the best thing," said 
Rudolf, carefully sinking his voice yet 
lower, lest the prisoner should catch the 
lightest word of what he said. "It involves 
my staying here till the evening. Is that 
possible?"

"No; but you can leave here and hide in 
the forest till I join you," said Sapt.

"Till we join you," corrected Bernenstein 
eagerly.

"No," said the constable, "you must look 
after our friend here. Come, Lieutenant, 
it's all in the queen's service."

"Besides," added Rudolf with a smile, 
"neither the colonel nor I would let you 
have a chance at Rupert. He's our game, 
isn't he, Sapt?"

The colonel nodded. Rudolf in his turn 
took paper, and here is the message that 
he wrote:

"Holf, 19, Ko"nigstrasse, Strelsau.--All 
well. He has what I had, but wishes to see 
what you have. He and I will be at the 
hunting-lodge at ten this evening. Bring it 
and meet us. The business is 
unsuspected.--R."

Rudolf threw the paper across to Sapt; 
Bernenstein leant over the constable's 
shoulder and read it eagerly.

"I doubt if it would bring me," grinned 
old Sapt, throwing the paper down.

"It'll bring Rupert to Hentzau. Why not? 
He'll know that the king will wish to meet 
him unknown to the queen, and also 
unknown to you, Sapt, since you were my 
friend: what place. more likely for the 
king to choose than his hunting-lodge, 
where he is accustomed to go when he 
wishes to be alone? The message will 
bring him, depend on it. Why, man, 
Rupert would come even if he suspected; 
and why should he suspect?"

"They may have a cipher, he and 
Rischenheim," objected Sapt.

"No, or Rupert would have sent the 
address in it," retorted Rudolf quickly.

"Then--when he comes?" asked 
Bernenstein.

"He finds such a king as Rischenheim 
found, and Sapt, here, at his elbow."

"But he'll know you," objected 
Bernenstein.

"Ay, I think he'll know me," said Rudolf 
with a smile. "Meanwhile we send for 
Fritz to come here and look after the 
king."

"And Rischenheim?"

"That's your share, Lieutenant. Sapt, is 
any one at Tarlenheim?"

"No. Count Stanislas has put it at Fritz's 
disposal."

"Good; then Fritz's two friends, the Count 
of Luzau-Rischenheim and Lieutenant 
von Bernenstein, will ride over there to-
day. The constable of Zenda will give the 
lieutenant twenty-four hours' leave of 
absence, and the two gentlemen will pass 
the day and sleep at the _i_ cha^teau _i_. 
They will pass the day side by side, 
Bernenstein, not losing sight of one 
another for an instant, and they will pass 
the night in the same room. And one of 
them will not close his eyes nor take his 
hand off the butt of his revolver."

"Very good, sir," said young Bernenstein.

"If he tries to escape or give any alarm, 
shoot him through the head, ride to the 
frontier, get to safe hiding, and, if you 
can, let us know."

"Yes," said Bernenstein simply. Sapt had 
chosen well, and the young officer made 
nothing of the peril and ruin that her 
Majesty's service might ask of him.

A restless movement and a weary sigh 
from Rischenheim attracted their 
attention. He had strained his ears to listen 
till his head ached, but the talkers had 
been careful, and he had heard nothing 
that threw light on their deliberations. He 
had now given up his vain attempt, and 
sat in listless inattention, sunk in an 
apathy.

"I don't think he'll give you much 
trouble," whispered Sapt to Bernenstein, 
with a jerk of his thumb towards the 
captive.

"Act as if he were likely to give you 
much," urged Rudolf, laying his hand on 
the lieutenant's arm.

"Yes, that's a wise man's advice," nodded 
the constable approvingly. "We were well 
governed, Lieutenant, when this Rudolf 
was king."

"Wasn't I also his loyal subject?" asked 
young Bernenstein.

"Yes, wounded in my service," added 
Rudolf; for he remembered how the boy--
he was little more then--had been fired 
upon in the park of Tarlenheim, being 
taken for Mr. Rassendyll himself.

Thus their plans were laid. If they could 
defeat Rupert, they would have 
Rischenheim at their mercy. If they could 
keep Rischenheim out of the way while 
they used his name in their trick, they had 
a strong chance of deluding and killing 
Rupert. Yes, of killing him; for that and 
nothing less was their purpose, as the 
constable of Zenda himself has told me.

"We would have stood on no ceremony," 
he said. "The queen's honor was at stake, 
and the fellow himself an assassin."

Bernenstein rose and went out. He was 
gone about half an hour, being employed 
in despatching the telegrams to Strelsau. 
Rudolf and Sapt used the interval to 
explain to Rischenheim what they 
proposed to do with him. They asked no 
pledge, and he offered none. He heard 
what they said with a dulled uninterested 
air. When asked if he would go without 
resistance, he laughed a bitter laugh. 
"How can I resist?" he asked. "I should 
have a bullet through my head."

"Why, without doubt," said Colonel Sapt. 
"My lord, you are very sensible."

"Let me advise you, my lord," said 
Rudolf, looking down on him kindly 
enough, "if you come safe through this 
affair, to add honor to your prudence, and 
chivalry to your honor. There is still time 
for you to become a gentleman."

He turned away, followed by a glance of 
anger from the count and a grating 
chuckle from old Sapt.

A few moments later Bernenstein 
returned. His errand was done, and horses 
for himself and Rischenheim were at the 
gate of the castle. After a few final words 
and clasp of the hand from Rudolf, the 
lieutenant motioned to his prisoner to 
accompany him, and they two walked out 
together, being to all appearance willing 
companions and in perfect friendliness 
with one another. The queen herself 
watched them go from the windows of her 
apartment, and noticed that Bernenstein 
rode half a pace behind, and that his free 
hand rested on the revolver by his side.

It was now well on in the morning, and 
the risk of Rudolf's sojourn in the castle 
grew greater with every moment. Yet he 
was resolved to see the queen before he 
went. This interview presented no great 
difficulties, since her Majesty was in the 
habit of coming to the constable's room to 
take his advice or to consult with him. 
The hardest task was to contrive 
afterwards a free and unnoticed escape for 
Mr. Rassendyll. To meet this necessity, 
the constable issued orders that the 
company of guards which garrisoned the 
castle should parade at one o'clock in the 
park, and that the servants should all, after 
their dinner, be granted permission to 
watch the manoeuvres. By this means he 
counted on drawing off any curious eyes 
and allowing Rudolf to reach the forest 
unobserved. They appointed a rendezvous 
in a handy and sheltered spot; the one 
thing which they were compelled to trust 
to fortune was Rudolf's success in evading 
chance encounters while he waited. Mr. 
Rassendyll himself was confident of his 
ability to conceal his presence, or, if need 
were, so to hide his face that no strange 
tale of the king being seen wandering, 
alone and beardless, should reach the ears 
of the castle or the town.

While Sapt was making his arrangements, 
Queen Flavia came to the room where 
Rudolf Rassendyll was. It was then 
nearing twelve, and young Bernenstein 
had been gone half an hour. Sapt attended 
her to the door, set a sentry at the end of 
the passage with orders that her Majesty 
should on no pretence be disturbed, 
promised her very audibly to return as 
soon as he possibly could, and 
respectfully closed the door after she had 
entered. The constable was well aware of 
the value in a secret business of doing 
openly all that can safely be done with 
openness.

All of what passed at that interview I do 
not know, but a part Queen Flavia herself 
told to me, or rather to Helga, my wife; 
for although it was meant to reach my ear, 
yet to me, a man, she would not disclose 
it directly. First she learnt from Mr. 
Rassendyll the plans that had been made, 
and, although she trembled at the danger 
that he must run in meeting Rupert of 
Hentzau, she had such love of him and 
such a trust in his powers that she seemed 
to doubt little of his success. But she 
began to reproach herself for having 
brought him into this peril by writing her 
letter. At this he took from his pocket the 
copy that Rischenheim had carried. He 
had found time to read it, and now before 
her eyes he kissed it.

"Had I as many lives as there are words, 
my queen," he said softly, "for each word 
I would gladly give a life."

"Ah, Rudolf, but you've only one life, and 
that more mine than yours. Did you think 
we should ever meet again?"

"I didn't know," said he; and now they 
were standing opposite one another.

"But I knew," she said, her eyes shining 
brightly; "I knew always that we should 
meet once more. Not how, nor where, but 
just that we should. So I lived, Rudolf."

"God bless you!" he said.

"Yes, I lived through it all."

He pressed her hand, knowing what that 
phrase meant and must mean for her.

"Will it last forever?" she asked, suddenly 
gripping his hand tightly. But a moment 
later she went on: "No, no, I mustn't make 
you unhappy, Rudolf. I'm half glad I 
wrote the letter, and half glad they stole it. 
It's so sweet to have you fighting for me, 
for me only this time, Rudolf--not for the 
king, for me!"

"Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don't be 
afraid: we shall win."

"You will win, yes. And then you'll go?" 
And, dropping his hand, she covered her 
face with hers.

"I mustn't kiss your face," said he, "but 
your hands I may kiss," and he kissed her 
hands as they were pressed against her 
face.

"You wear my ring," she murmured 
through her fingers, "always?"

"Why, yes," he said, with a little laugh of 
wonder at her question.

"And there is--no one else?"

"My queen!" said he, laughing again.

"No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew 
really," and now her hands flew out 
towards him, imploring his pardon. Then 
she began to speak quickly: "Rudolf, last 
night I had a dream about you, a strange 
dream. I seemed to be in Strelsau, and all 
the people were talking about the king. It 
was you they meant; you were the king. 
At last you were the king, and I was your 
queen. But I could see you only very 
dimly; you were somewhere, but I could 
not make out where; just sometimes your 
face came. Then I tried to tell you that 
you were king--yes, and Colonel Sapt and 
Fritz tried to tell you; the people, too, 
called out that you were king. What did it 
mean? But your face, when I saw it, was 
unmoved, and very pale, and you seemed 
not to hear what we said, not even what I 
said. It almost seemed as if you were 
dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn't die, 
even to be king," and she laid a hand on 
his shoulder.

"Sweetheart," said he gently, "in dreams 
desires and fears blend in strange visions, 
so I seemed to you to be both a king and a 
dead man; but I'm not a king, and I am a 
very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand 
thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming 
of me."

"No, but what could it mean?" she asked 
again.

"What does it mean when I dream always 
of you, except that I always love you?"

"Was it only that?" she said, still 
unconvinced.

What more passed between them I do not 
know. I think that the queen told my wife 
more, but women will sometimes keep 
women's secrets even from their 
husbands; though they love us, yet we are 
always in some sort the common enemy, 
against whom they join hands. Well, I 
would not look too far into such secrets, 
for to know must be, I suppose, to blame, 
and who is himself so blameless that in 
such a case he would be free with his 
censures?

Yet much cannot have passed, for almost 
close on their talk about the dream came 
Colonel Sapt, saying that the guards were 
in line, and all the women streamed out to 
watch them, while the men followed, lest 
the gay uniforms should make them 
forgotten. Certainly a quiet fell over the 
old castle, that only the constable's curt 
tones broke, as he bade Rudolf come by 
the back way to the stables and mount his 
horse.

"There's no time to lose," said Sapt, and 
his eye seemed to grudge the queen even 
one more word with the man she loved.

But Rudolf was not to be hurried into 
leaving her in such a fashion. He clapped 
the constable on the shoulder, laughing, 
and bidding him think of what he would 
for a moment; then he went again to the 
queen and would have knelt before her, 
but that she would not suffer, and they 
stood with hands locked. Then suddenly 
she drew him to her and kissed his 
forehead, saying: "God go with you, 
Rudolf my knight."

Thus she turned away, letting him go. He 
walked towards the door; but a sound 
arrested his steps, and he waited in the 
middle of the room, his eyes on the door. 
Old Sapt flew to the threshold, his sword 
half-way out of its sheath. There was a 
step coming down the passage, and the 
feet stopped outside the door.

"Is it the king?" whispered Rudolf.

"I don't know," said Sapt.

"No, it's not the king," came in 
unhesitating certainty from Queen Flavia.

They waited: a low knock sounded on the 
door. Still for a moment they waited. The 
knock was repeated urgently.

"We must open," said Sapt. "Behind the 
curtain with you, Rudolf."

The queen sat down, and Sapt piled a 
heap of papers before her, that it might 
seem as though he and she transacted 
business. But his precautions were 
interrupted by a hoarse, eager, low cry 
from outside, "Quick! in God's name, 
quick!"

They knew the voice for Bernenstein's. 
The queen sprang up, Rudolf came out, 
Sapt turned the key. The lieutenant 
entered, hurried, breathless, pale.

"Well?" asked Sapt.

"He has got away?" cried Rudolf, 
guessing in a moment the misfortune that 
had brought Bernenstein back.

"Yes, he's got away. Just as we left the 
town and reached the open road towards 
Tarlenheim, he said, 'Are we going to 
walk all the way? I was not loath to go 
quicker, and we broke into a trot. But I--
ah, what a pestilent fool I am!"

"Never mind that--go on."

"Why, I was thinking of him and my task, 
and having a bullet ready for him, and.--"

"Of everything except your horse?" 
guessed Sapt, with a grim smile.

"Yes; and the horse pecked and stumbled, 
and I fell forward on his neck. I put out 
my arm to recover myself, and--I jerked 
my revolver on to the ground."

"And he saw?"

"He saw, curse him. For a second he 
waited; then he smiled, and turned, and 
dug his spurs in and was off, straight 
across country towards Strelsau. Well, I 
was off my horse in a moment, and I fired 
three times after him."

"You hit?" asked Rudolf.

"I think so. He shifted the reins from one 
hand to the other and wrung his arm. I 
mounted and made after him, but his 
horse was better than mine and he gained 
ground. We began to meet people, too, 
and I didn't dare to fire again. So I left 
him and rode here to tell you. Never 
employ me again, Constable, so long as 
you live," and the young man's face was 
twisted with misery and shame, as, 
forgetting the queen's presence, he sank 
despondently into a chair.

Sapt took no notice of his self-reproaches. 
But Rudolf went and laid a hand on his 
shoulder.

"It was an accident," he said. "No blame 
to you."

The queen rose and walked towards him; 
Bernenstein sprang to his feet.

"Sir," said she, "it is not success but effort 
that should gain thanks," and she held out 
her hand.

Well, he was young; I do not laugh at the 
sob that escaped his lips as he turned his 
head.

"Let me try something else!" he implored.

"Mr. Rassendyll," said the queen, "you'll 
do my pleasure by employing this 
gentleman in my further service. I am 
already deep in his debt, and would be 
deeper." There was a moment's silence.

"Well, but what's to be done?" asked 
Colonel Sapt. "He's gone to Strelsau."

"He'll stop Rupert" mused Mr. 
Rassendyll. "He may or he mayn't."

"It's odds that he will."

"We must provide for both."

Sapt and Rudolf looked at one another.

"You must be here!" asked Rudolf of the 
constable. "Well, I'll go to Strelsau." His 
smile broke out. "That is, if Bernenstein'll 
lend me a hat."

The queen made no sound; but she came 
and laid her hand on his arm. He looked at 
her, smiling still.

"Yes, I'll go to Strelsau," said he, "and I'll 
find Rupert, ay, and Rischenheim too, if 
they're in the city."

"Take me with you," cried Bernenstein 
eagerly.

Rudolf glanced at Sapt. The constable 
shook his head. Bernenstein's face fell.

"It's not that, boy," said old Sapt, half in 
kindness, half in impatience. "We want 
you here. Suppose Rupert comes here 
with Rischenheim!"

The idea was new, but the event was by 
no means unlikely.

"But you'll be here, Constable," urged 
Bernenstein, "and Fritz von Tarlenheim 
will arrive in an hour."

"Ay, young man," said Sapt, nodding his 
head; "but when I fight Rupert of 
Hentzau, I like to have a man to spare, 
and he grinned broadly, being no whit 
afraid of what Bernenstein might think of 
his courage. "Now go and get him a hat," 
he added, and the lieutenant ran off on the 
errand.

But the queen cried:

"Are you sending Rudolf alone, then--
alone against two.

"Yes, madam, if I may command the 
campaign," said Sapt. "I take it he should 
be equal to the task."

He could not know the feelings of the 
queen's heart. She dashed her hand across 
her eyes, and turned in mute entreaty to 
Rudolf Rassendyll.

"I must go," he said softly. "We can't 
spare Bernenstein, and I mustn't stay 
here."

She said no more. Rudolf walked across 
to Sapt.

"Take me to the stables. Is the horse 
good? I daren't take the train. Ah, here's 
the lieutenant and the hat."

"The horse 'll get you there to-night," said 
Sapt. "Come along. Bernenstein, stay with 
the queen."

At the threshold Rudolf paused, and, 
turning his head, glanced once at Queen 
Flavia, who stood still as a statue, 
watching him go. Then he followed the 
constable, who brought him where the 
horse was. Sapt's devices for securing 
freedom from observation had served 
well, and Rudolf mounted unmolested.

"The hat doesn't fit very well," said 
Rudolf.

"Like a crown better, eh?" suggested the 
colonel.

Rudolf laughed as he asked, "Well, what 
are my orders?"

"Ride round by the moat to the road at the 
back; then through the forest to Hofbau; 
you know your way after that. You 
mustn't reach Strelsau till it's dark. Then, 
if you want a shelter--"

"To Fritz von Tarlenheim's, yes! From 
there I shall go straight to the address."

"Ay. And--Rudolf!"

"Yes?"

"Make an end of him this time."

"Please God. But if he goes to the lodge? 
He will, unless Rischenheim stops him."

"I'll be there in case--but I think 
Rischenheim will stop him."

"If he comes here?"

"Young Bernenstein will die before he 
suffers him to reach the king."

"Sapt!"

"Ay?"

"Be kind to her."

"Bless the man, yes!"

"Good -by."

"And good luck."

At a swift canter Rudolf darted round the 
drive that led from the stables, by the 
moat, to the old forest road behind; five 
minutes brought him within the shelter of 
the trees, and he rode on confidently, 
meeting nobody, save here and there a 
yokel, who, seeing a man ride hard with 
his head averted, took no more notice of 
him than to wish that he himself could 
ride abroad instead of being bound to 
work. Thus Rudolf Rassendyll set out 
again for the walls of Strelsau, through 
the forest of Zenda. And ahead of him, 
with an hour's start, galloped the Count of 
Luzau-Rischenheim, again a man, and a 
man with resolution, resentment, and 
revenge in his heart.

The game was afoot now; who could tell 
the issue of it?

---

CHAPTER VII--

THE MESSAGE OF SIMON THE 
HUNTSMAN

I RECEIVED the telegram sent to me by 
the Constable of Zenda at my own house 
in Strelsau about one o'clock. It is 
needless to say that I made immediate 
preparations to obey his summons. My 
wife indeed protested--and I must admit 
with some show of reason--that I was 
unfit to endure further fatigues, and that 
my bed was the only proper place for me. 
I could not listen; and James, Mr. 
Rassendyll's servant, being informed of 
the summons, was at my elbow with a 
card of the trains from Strelsau to Zenda, 
without waiting for any order from me. I 
had talked to this man in the course of our 
journey, and discovered that he had been 
in the service of Lord Topham, formerly 
British Ambassador to the Court of 
Ruritania. How far he was acquainted 
with the secrets of his present master, I 
did not know, but his familiarity with the 
city and the country made him of great 
use to me. We discovered, to our 
annoyance, that no train left till four 
o'clock, and then only a slow one; the 
result was that we could not arrive at the 
castle till past six o'clock. This hour was 
not absolutely too late, but I was of course 
eager to be on the scene of action as early 
as possible.

"You'd better see if you can get a special, 
my lord," James suggested; "I'll run on to 
the station and arrange about it."

I agreed. Since I was known to be often 
employed in the king's service, I could 
take a special train without exciting 
remark. James set out, and about a quarter 
of an hour later I got into my carriage to 
drive to the station. Just as the horses 
were about to start, however, the butler 
approached me.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said he, 
"but Bauer didn't return with your 
lordship. Is he coming back?"

"No," said I. "Bauer was grossly 
impertinent on the journey, and I 
dismissed him."

"Those foreign men are never to be 
trusted, my lord. And your lordship's 
bag?"

"What, hasn't it come?" I cried. "I told 
him to send it."

"It's not arrived, my lord."

"Can the rogue have stolen it?" I 
exclaimed indignantly.

"If your lordship wishes it, I will mention 
the matter to the police."

I appeared to consider this proposal.

"Wait till I come back," I ended by 
saying. "The bag may come, and I have 
no reason to doubt the fellow's honesty."

This, I thought, would be the end of my 
connection with Master Bauer. He had 
served Rupert's turn, and would now 
disappear from the scene. Indeed it may 
be that Rupert would have liked to 
dispense with further aid from him; but he 
had few whom he could trust, and was 
compelled to employ those few more than 
once. At any rate he had not done with 
Bauer, and I very soon received proof of 
the fact. My house is a couple of miles 
from the station, and we have to pass 
through a considerable part of the old 
town, where the streets are narrow and 
tortuous and progress necessarily slow. 
We had just entered the Ko"nigstrasse 
(and it must be remembered that I had at 
that time no reason for attaching any 
special significance to this locality), and 
were waiting impatiently for a heavy dray 
to move out of our path, when my 
coachman, who had overheard the butler's 
conversation with me, leant down from 
his box with an air of lively excitement.

"My lord," he cried, "there's Bauer--there, 
passing the butcher's shop!"

I sprang up in the carriage; the man's back 
was towards me, and he was threading his 
way through the people with a quick, 
stealthy tread. I believe he must have seen 
me, and was slinking away as fast as he 
could. I was not sure of him, but the 
coachman banished my doubt by saying, 
"It's Bauer--it's certainly Bauer, my lord."

I hardly stayed to form a resolution. If I 
could catch this fellow or even see where 
he went, a most important clue as to 
Rupert's doings and whereabouts might be 
put into my hand. I leapt out of the 
carriage, bidding the man wait, and at 
once started in pursuit of my former 
servant. I heard the coachman laugh: he 
thought, no doubt, that anxiety for the 
missing bag inspired such eager haste.

The numbers of the houses in the 
Ko"nigstrasse begin, as anybody familiar 
with Strelsau will remember, at the end 
adjoining the station. The street being a 
long one, intersecting almost the entire 
length of the old town, I was, when I set 
out after Bauer, opposite number 300 or 
thereabouts, and distant nearly three-
quarters of a mile from that important 
number nineteen, towards which Bauer 
was hurrying like a rabbit to its burrow. I 
knew nothing and thought nothing of 
where he was going; to me nineteen was 
no more than eighteen or twenty; my only 
desire was to overtake him. I had no clear 
idea of what I meant to do when I caught 
him, but I had some hazy notion of 
intimidating him into giving up his secret 
by the threat of an accusation of theft. In 
fact, he had stolen my bag. After him I 
went; and he knew that I was after him. I 
saw him turn his face over his shoulder, 
and then bustle on faster. Neither of us, 
pursued or pursuer, dared quite to run; as 
it was, our eager strides and our 
carelessness of collisions created more 
than enough attention. But I had one 
advantage. Most folk in Strelsau knew 
me, and many got out of my way who 
were by no means inclined to pay a like 
civility to Bauer. Thus I began to gain on 
him, in spite of his haste; I had started 
fifty yards behind, but as we neared the 
end of the street and saw the station ahead 
of us, not more than twenty separated me 
from him. Then an annoying thing 
happened. I ran full into a stout old 
gentleman; Bauer had run into him 
before, and he was standing, as people 
will, staring in resentful astonishment at 
his first assailant's retreating figure. The 
second collision immensely increased his 
vexation; for me it had yet worse 
consequences; for when I disentangled 
myself, Bauer was gone! There was not a 
sign of him; I looked up: the number of 
the house above me was twenty-three; but 
the door was shut. I walked on a few 
paces, past twenty-two, past twenty-one--
and up to nineteen. Nineteen was an old 
house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and 
an air almost dissipated. It was a shop 
where provisions of the cheaper sort were 
on view in the window, things that one 
has never eaten but has heard of people 
eating. The shop-door stood open, but 
there was nothing to connect Bauer with 
the house. Muttering an oath in my 
exasperation, I was about to pass on, 
when an old woman put her head out of 
the door and looked round. I was full in 
front of her. I am sure that the old woman 
started slightly, and I think that I did. For 
I knew her and she knew me. She was old 
Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, 
had betrayed to us the secret of the 
dungeon at Zenda, while the other had 
died by Mr. Rassendyll's hand by the side 
of the great pipe that masked the king's 
window. Her presence might mean 
nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect 
the house with the secret of the past and 
the crisis of the present.

She recovered herself in a moment, and 
curtseyed to me.

"Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it 
since you set up shop in Strelsau?"

"About six months, my lord," she 
answered, with a composed air and arms 
akimbo.

"I have not come across you before," said 
I, looking keenly at her.

"Such a poor little shop as mine would 
not be likely to secure your lordship's 
patronage," she answered, in a humility 
that seemed only half genuine.

I looked up at the windows. They were all 
closed and had their wooden lattices shut. 
The house was devoid of any signs of life.

"You've a good house here, mother, 
though it wants a splash of paint," said I. 
"Do you live all alone in it with your 
daughter?" For Max was dead and Johann 
abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I 
knew, no other children.

"Sometimes; sometimes not," said she. "I 
let lodgings to single men when I can."

"Full now?"

"Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I 
shot an arrow at a venture.

"The man who came in just now, then, 
was he only a customer?"

"I wish a customer had come in, but there 
has been nobody," she replied in surprised 
tones.

I looked full in her eyes; she met mine 
with a blinking imperturbability. There is 
no face so inscrutable as a clever old 
woman's when she is on her guard. And 
her fat body barred the entrance; I could 
not so much as see inside, while the 
window, choked full with pigs' trotters 
and such-like dainties, helped me very 
little. If the fox were there, he had got to 
earth and I could not dig him out.

At this moment I saw James approaching 
hurriedly. He was looking up the street, 
no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing 
at its delay. An instant later he saw me.

"My lord," he said, "your train will be 
ready in five minutes; if it doesn't start 
then, the line must be closed for another 
half-hour."

I perceived a faint smile on the old 
woman's face. I was sure then that I was 
on the track of Bauer, and probably of 
more than Bauer. But my first duty was to 
obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I 
could not force my way in, there in open 
daylight, without a scandal that would 
have set all the long ears in Strelsau 
aprick. I turned away reluctantly. I did not 
even know for certain that Bauer was 
within, and thus had no information of 
value to carry with me.

"If your lordship would kindly 
recommend me--" said the old hag.

"Yes, I'll recommend you," said I. "I'll 
recommend you to be careful whom you 
take for lodgers. There are queer fish 
about, mother."

"I take the money beforehand," she 
retorted with a grin; and I was as sure that 
she was in the plot as of my own 
existence.

There was nothing to be done;James's 
face urged me towards the station. I 
turned away. But at this instant a loud, 
merry laugh sounded from inside the 
house. I started, and this time violently. 
The old woman's brow contracted in a 
frown, and her lips twitched for a 
moment; then her face regained its 
composure; but I knew the laugh, and she 
must have guessed that I knew it. 
Instantly I tried to appear as though I had 
noticed nothing. I nodded to her 
carelessly, and bidding James follow me, 
set out for the station. But as we reached 
the platform, I laid my hand on his 
shoulder, saying:

"The Count of Hentzau is in that house, 
James."

He looked at me without surprise; he was 
as hard to stir to wonder as old Sapt 
himself.

"Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?"

"No, come with me," I answered. To tell 
the truth, I thought that to leave him alone 
in Strelsau to watch that house was in all 
likelihood to sign his death warrant, and I 
shrank from imposing the duty on him. 
Rudolf might send him if he would; I 
dared not. So we got into our train, and I 
suppose that my coachman, when he had 
looked long enough for me, went home. I 
forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely 
he thought it a fine joke to see his master 
hunting a truant servant and a truant bag 
through the streets in broad daylight. Had 
he known the truth, he would have been 
as interested, though, maybe, less amused.

I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past 
three, and was in the castle before four. I 
may pass over the most kind and gracious 
words with which the queen received me. 
Every sight of her face and every sound of 
her voice bound a man closer to her 
service, and now she made me feel that I 
was a poor fellow to have lost her letter 
and yet to be alive. But she would hear 
nothing of such talk, choosing rather to 
praise the little I had done than to blame 
the great thing in which I had failed. 
Dismissed from her presence, I flew 
open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his 
room with Bernenstein, and had the 
satisfaction of learning that my news of 
Rupert's whereabouts was confirmed by 
his information. I was also made 
acquainted with all that had been done, 
even as I have already related it, from the 
first successful trick played on 
Rischenheim to the moment of his 
unfortunate escape. But my face grew 
long and apprehensive when I heard that 
Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to 
Strelsau to put his head in that lion's 
mouth in the Ko"nigstrasse.

"There will be three of them there--
Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal 
Bauer," said I.

"As to Rupert, we don't know," Sapt 
reminded me. "He'll be there if 
Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him 
the truth. But we have also to be ready for 
him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, 
we're ready for him wherever he is: 
Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will 
ride to the lodge, and Bernenstein will be 
here with the queen."

"Only one here?" I asked.

"Ay, but a good one," said the constable, 
clapping Bernenstein on the shoulder. 
"We sha'n't be gone above four hours, and 
those while the king is safe in his bed. 
Bernenstein has only to refuse access to 
him, and stand to that with his life till we 
come back. You're equal to that, eh, 
Lieutenant?"

I am, by nature, a cautious man, and 
prone to look. at the dark side of every 
prospect and the risks of every enterprise; 
but I could not see what better 
dispositions were possible against the 
attack that threatened us. Yet I was sorely 
uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll.

Now, after all our stir and runnings to and 
fro, came an hour or two of peace. We 
employed the time in having a good meal, 
and it was past five when, our repast 
finished, we sat back in our chairs 
enjoying cigars. James had waited on us, 
quietly usurping the office of the 
constable's own servant, and thus we had 
been able to talk freely. The man's calm 
confidence in his master and his master's 
fortune also went far to comfort me.

"The king should be back soon," said Sapt 
at last, with a glance at his big, old-
fashioned silver watch. "Thank God, he'll 
be too tired to sit up long. We shall be 
free by nine o'clock, Fritz. I wish young 
Rupert would come to the lodge!" And 
the colonel's face expressed a lively 
pleasure at the idea.

Six o'clock struck, and the king did not 
appear. A few moments later, a message 
came from the queen, requesting our 
presence on the terrace in front of the 
cha^teau. The place commanded a view 
of the road by which the king would ride 
back, and we found the queen walking 
restlessly up and down, considerably 
disquieted by the lateness of his return. In 
such a position as ours, every unusual or 
unforeseen incident magnifies its possible 
meaning, and invests itself with a sinister 
importance which would at ordinary times 
seem absurd. We three shared the queen's 
feelings, and forgetting the many chances 
of the chase, any one of which would 
amply account for the king's delay, fell to 
speculating on remote possibilities of 
disaster. He might have met Rischenheim-
-though they had ridden in opposite 
directions; Rupert might have intercepted 
him--though no means could have 
brought Rupert to the forest so early. Our 
fears defeated common sense, and our 
conjectures outran possibility. Sapt was 
the first to recover from this foolish 
mood, and he rated us soundly, not 
sparing even the queen herself. With a 
laugh we regained some of our 
equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of 
our weakness.

"Still it's strange that he doesn't come," 
murmured the queen, shading her eyes 
with her hand, and looking along the road 
to where the dark masses of the forest 
trees bounded our view. It was already 
dusk, but not so dark but that we could 
have seen the king's party as soon as it 
came into the open.

If the king's delay seemed strange at six, it 
was stranger at seven, and by eight most 
strange. We had long since ceased to talk 
lightly; by now we had lapsed into 
silence. Sapt's scoldings had died away. 
The queen, wrapped in her furs (for it was 
very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but 
oftener paced restlessly to and fro. 
Evening had fallen. We did not know 
what to do, nor even whether we ought to 
do anything. Sapt would not own to 
sharing our worst apprehensions, but his 
gloomy silence in face of our surmises 
witnessed that he was in his heart as 
disturbed as we were. For my part I had 
come to the end of my endurance, and I 
cried, "For God's sake, let's act! Shall I go 
and seek him?"

"A needle in a bundle of hay," said Sapt 
with a shrug.

But at this instant my ear caught the 
sound of horses cantering on the road 
from the forest; at the same moment 
Bernenstein cried, "Here they come!" The 
queen paused, and we gathered round her. 
The horse-hoofs came nearer. Now we 
made out the figures of three men: they 
were the king's huntsmen, and they rode 
along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. 
The sound of it brought relief to us; so far 
at least there was no disaster. But why 
was not the king with them?

"The king is probably tired, and is 
following more slowly, madam," 
suggested Bernenstein.

This explanation seemed very probable, 
and the lieutenant and I, as ready to be 
hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on 
small provocation, joyfully accepted it. 
Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, 
said, "Ay, but let us hear," and raising his 
voice, called to the huntsmen, who had 
now arrived in the avenue. One of them, 
the king's chief huntsman Simon, 
gorgeous in his uniform of green and 
gold, came swaggering along, and bowed 
low to the queen.

"Well, Simon, where is the king?" she 
asked, trying to smile.

"The king, madam, has sent a message by 
me to your majesty."

"Pray, deliver it to me, Simon."

"I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine 
sport; and, indeed, madam, if I may say so 
for myself, a better run.--"

"You may say, friend Simon," interrupted 
the constable, tapping him on the 
shoulder, "anything you like for yourself, 
but, as a matter of etiquette, the king's 
message should come first."

"Oh, ay, Constable," said Simon. "You're 
always so down on a man, aren't you? 
Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed 
fine sport. For we started a boar at eleven, 
and--"

"Is this the king's message, Simon?" 
asked the queen, smiling in genuine 
amusement, but impatiently.

"Why, no, madam, not precisely his 
majesty's message."

"Then get to it, man, in Heaven's name," 
growled Sapt testily. For here were we 
four (the queen, too, one of us!) on 
tenterhooks, while the fool boasted about 
the sport that he had shown the king. For 
every boar in the forest Simon took as 
much credit as though he, and not 
Almighty God, had made the animal. It is 
the way with such fellows.

Simon became a little confused under the 
combined influence of his own seductive 
memories and Sapt's brusque 
exhortations.

"As I was saying, madam," he resumed, 
"the boar led us a long way, but at last the 
hounds pulled him down, and his majesty 
himself gave the coup de grace. Well, 
then it was very late "

"It's no earlier now," grumbled the 
constable.

"And the king, although indeed, madam, 
his majesty was so gracious as to say that 
no huntsman whom his majesty had ever 
had, had given his majesty--"

"God help us!" groaned the constable.

Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic 
glance at Colonel Sapt. The constable was 
frowning ferociously. In spite of the 
serious matters in hand I could not forbear 
a smile, while young Bernenstein broke 
into an audible laugh, which he tried to 
smother with his hand.

"Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?" 
said the queen, at once encouraging him 
and bringing him back to the point with a 
woman's skill.

"Yes, madam, the king was very tired; 
and as we chanced to kill near the 
hunting-lodge--"

I do not know whether Simon noticed any 
change in the manner of his audience. But 
the queen looked up with parted lips, and 
I believe that we three all drew a step 
nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this 
time.

"Yes, madam, the king was very tired, 
and as we chanced to kill near the 
hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our 
quarry there, and come back to dress it to-
morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--
that is, except Herbert, my brother, who 
stayed with the king by his majesty's 
orders. Because, madam, Herbert is a 
handy fellow, and my good mother taught 
him to cook a steak and--"

"Stayed where with the king?" roared 
Sapt.

"Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. 
The king stays there to-night, and will 
ride back tomorrow morning with 
Herbert. That, madam, is the king's 
message."

We had come to it at last, and it was 
something to come to. Simon gazed from 
face to face. I saw him, and I understood 
at once that our feelings must be speaking 
too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss 
him, saying:

"Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand."

He bowed to the queen; she roused 
herself, and added her thanks to mine. 
Simon withdrew, looking still a little 
puzzled.

After we were left alone, there was a 
moment's silence. Then I said:

"Suppose Rupert--"

The Constable of Zenda broke in with a 
short laugh.

"On my life," said he, "how things fall 
out! We say he will go to the hunting-
lodge, and--he goes!"

"If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn't 
stop him!" I urged again.

The queen rose from her seat and 
stretched out her hands towards us.

"Gentlemen, my letter!" said she.

Sapt wasted no time.

"Bernenstein," said he, "you stay here as 
we arranged. Nothing is altered. Horses 
for Fritz and myself in five minutes."

Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow 
along the terrace towards the stables.

"Nothing is altered, madam," said Sapt, 
"except that we must be there before 
Count Rupert."

I looked at my watch. It was twenty 
minutes past nine. Simon's cursed chatter 
had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my 
lips to speak. A glance from Sapt's eyes 
told me that he discerned what I was 
about to say. I was silent.

"You'll be in time?" asked the queen, with 
clasped hands and frightened eyes.

"Assuredly, madam," returned Sapt with a 
bow.

"You won't let him reach the king?"

"Why, no, madam," said Sapt with a 
smile.

"From my heart, gentlemen," she said in a 
trembling voice, "from my heart--"

"Here are the horses," cried Sapt. He 
snatched her hand, brushed it with his 
grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not 
sure I heard, and I can hardly believe 
what I think I heard. But I will set it down 
for what it is worth. I think he said, "Bless 
your sweet face, we'll do it." At any rate 
she drew back with a little cry of surprise, 
and I saw the tears standing in her eyes. I 
kissed her hand also; then we mounted, 
and we started, and we rode, as if the 
devil were behind us, for the hunting-
lodge.

But I turned once to watch her standing 
on the terrace, with young Bernenstein's 
tall figure beside her.

"Can we be in time?" said I. It was what I 
had meant to say before.

"I think not, but, by God, we'll try," said 
Colonel Sapt. And I knew why he had not 
let me speak.

Suddenly there was a sound behind us of 
a horse at the gallop. Our heads flew 
round in the ready apprehension of men 
on a perilous errand. The hoofs drew near, 
for the unknown rode with reckless haste.

"We had best see what it is," said the 
constable, pulling up.

A second more, and the horseman was 
beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half in 
amusement, half in vexation.

"Why, is it you, James?" I cried.

"Yes, sir," answered Rudolf Rassendyll's 
servant.

"What the devil do you want?" asked 
Sapt.

"I came to attend on the Count von 
Tarlenheim, sir."

"I did not give you any orders, James."

"No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not 
to leave you, unless you sent me away. So 
I made haste to follow you."

Then Sapt cried: "Deuce take it, what 
horse is that?"

"The best in the stables, so far as I could 
see, sir. I was afraid of not overtaking 
you."

Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but 
finally laughed.

"Much obliged for your compliment," 
said he. "The horse is mine."

"Indeed, sir?" said James with respectful 
interest.

For a moment we were all silent. Then 
Sapt laughed again.

"Forward!" said he, and the three of us 
dashed into the forest.

---

CHAPTER VIII--

THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND

Looking back now, in the light of the 
information I have gathered, I am able to 
trace very clearly, and almost hour by 
hour, the events of this day, and to 
understand how chance, laying hold of 
our cunning plan and mocking our 
wiliness, twisted and turned our device to 
a predetermined but undreamt-of issue, of 
which we were most guiltless in thought 
or intent. Had the king not gone to the 
hunting-lodge, our design would have 
found the fulfilment we looked for; had 
Rischenheim succeeded in warning 
Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood 
where we were. Fate or fortune would 
have it otherwise. The king, being weary, 
went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed 
in warning his cousin. It was a narrow 
failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, 
was in the house in the Ko"nigstrasse 
when I set out from Strelsau, and 
Rischenheim arrived there at half past 
four. He had taken the train at a roadside 
station, and thus easily outstripped Mr. 
Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his 
face, was forced to ride all the way and 
enter the city under cover of night. But 
Rischenheim had not dared to send a 
warning, for he knew that we were in 
possession of the address and did not 
know what steps we might have taken to 
intercept messages. Therefore he was 
obliged to carry the news himself; when 
he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert 
must have left the house almost 
immediately after I was safe away from 
the city. He was determined to be in good 
time for his appointment; his only 
enemies were not in Strelsau; there was 
no warrant on which he could be 
apprehended; and, although his 
connection with Black Michael was a 
matter of popular gossip, he felt himself 
safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that 
protected him. Accordingly he walked out 
of the house, went to the station, took his 
ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the 
four o'clock train, reached his destination 
about half-past five. He must have passed 
the train in which Rischenheim traveled; 
the first news the latter had of his 
departure was from a porter at the station, 
who, having recognized the Count of 
Hentzau, ventured to congratulate 
Rischenheim on his cousin's return. 
Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried 
in great agitation to the house in the 
Ko"nigstrasse, where the old woman Holf 
confirmed the tidings. Then he passed 
through a period of great irresolution. 
Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should 
follow him and share the perils into which 
his cousin was hastening. But caution 
whispered that he was not irrevocably 
committed, that nothing overt yet 
connected him with Rupert's schemes, and 
that we who knew the truth should be well 
content to purchase his silence as to the 
trick we had played by granting him 
immunity. His fears won the day, and, 
like the irresolute man he was, he 
determined to wait in Strelsau till he 
heard the issue of the meeting at the 
lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, 
he had something to offer us in return for 
peace; if his cousin escaped, he would be 
in the Ko"nigstrasse, prepared to second 
the further plans of the desperate 
adventurer. In any event his skin was safe, 
and I presume to think that this weighed a 
little with him; for excuse he had the 
wound which Bernenstein had given him, 
and which rendered his right arm entirely 
useless; had he gone then, he would have 
been a most inefficient ally.

Of all this we, as we rode through the 
forest, knew nothing. We might guess, 
conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain 
knowledge stopped with Rischenheim's 
start for the capital and Rupert's presence 
there at three o'clock. The pair might have 
met or might have missed. We had to act 
as though they had missed and Rupert 
were gone to meet the king. But we were 
late. The consciousness of that pressed 
upon us, although we evaded further 
mention of it; it made us spur and drive 
our horses as quickly, ay, and a little more 
quickly, than safety allowed. Once 
James's horse stumbled in the darkness 
and its rider was thrown; more than once 
a low bough hanging over the path nearly 
swept me, dead or stunned, from my seat. 
Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or 
threatened mishaps. He had taken the 
lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, 
rode ahead, turning neither to right nor 
left, never slackening his pace, sparing 
neither himself nor his beast. James and I 
were side by side behind him. We rode in 
silence, finding nothing to say to one 
another. My mind was full of a picture--
the picture of Rupert with his easy smile 
handing to the king the queen's letter. For 
the hour of the rendezvous was past. If 
that image had been translated into 
reality, what must we do? To kill Rupert 
would satisfy revenge, but of what other 
avail would it be when the king had read 
the letter? I am ashamed to say that I 
found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll 
for happening on a plan which the course 
of events had turned into a trap for 
ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau.

Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the 
first time, pointed in front of him. The 
lodge was before us; we saw it looming 
dimly a quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined 
in his horse, and we followed his 
example. All dismounted, we tied our 
horses to trees and went forward at a 
quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt 
should enter on pretext of having been 
sent by the queen to attend to her 
husband's comfort and arrange for his 
return without further fatigue next day. If 
Rupert had come and gone, the king's 
demeanor would probably betray the fact; 
if he had not yet come, I and James, 
patrolling outside, would bar his passage. 
There was a third possibility; he might be 
even now with the king. Our course in 
such a case we left unsettled; so far as I 
had any plan, it was to kill Rupert and to 
convince the king that the letter was a 
forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate 
that we turned our eyes away from the 
possibility which would make it our only 
resource.

We were now very near the hunting-
lodge, being about forty yards from the 
front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself 
on his stomach on the ground.

"Give me a match," he whispered.

James struck a light, and, the night being 
still, the flame burnt brightly: it showed 
us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently 
quite fresh, and leading away from the 
lodge. We rose and went on, following 
the tracks by the aid of more matches till 
we reached a tree twenty yards from the 
door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but 
beyond there was a double track of human 
feet in the soft black earth; a man had 
gone thence to the house and returned 
from the house thither. On the right of the 
tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to 
it and then ceasing. A man had ridden up 
from the right, dismounted, gone on foot 
to the house, returned to the tree, 
remounted, and ridden away along the 
track by which we had approached.

"It may be somebody else," said I; but I 
do not think that we any of us doubted in 
our hearts that the tracks were made by 
the coming of Hentzau. Then the king had 
the letter; the mischief was done. We 
were too late.

Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had 
come, it must be faced. Mr. Rassendyll's 
servant and I followed the constable of 
Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet 
of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform, 
loosened his sword in its sheath; James 
and I looked to our revolvers. There were 
no lights visible in the lodge; the door was 
shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked 
softly with his knuckles, but there was no 
answer from within. He laid hold of the 
handle and turned it; the door opened, and 
the passage lay dark and apparently empty 
before us.

"You stay here, as we arranged," 
whispered the colonel. "Give me the 
matches, and I'll go in."

James handed him the box of matches, 
and he crossed the threshold. For a yard 
or two we saw him plainly, then his figure 
grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing 
except my own hard breathing. But in a 
moment there was another sound--a 
muffled exclamation, and a noise of a 
man stumbling; a sword, too, clattered on 
the stones of the passage. We looked at 
one another; the noise did not produce 
any answering stir in the house; then 
came the sharp little explosion of a match 
struck on its box; next we heard Sapt 
raising himself, his scabbard scraping 
along the stones; his footsteps came 
towards us, and in a second he appeared 
at the door.

"What was it?" I whispered.

"I fell," said Sapt.

"Over what?"

"Come and see. James, stay here."

I followed the constable for the distance 
of eight or ten feet along the passage.

"Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked.

"We can see enough with a match," he 
answered. "Here, this is what I fell over."

Even before the match was struck I saw a 
dark body lying across the passage.

"A dead man?" I guessed instantly.

"Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a 
dead dog, Fritz." An exclamation of 
wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. 
At the same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, 
there's a lamp," and, stretching up his 
hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a 
bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it 
over the body. It served to give a fair, 
though unsteady, light, and enabled us to 
see what lay in the passage.

"It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in 
a whisper, although there was no sign of 
any listeners.

I knew the dog well; he was the king's 
favorite, and always accompanied him 
when he went hunting. He was obedient 
to every word of the king's, but of a rather 
uncertain temper towards the rest of the 
world. However, _i_ de mortuis nil nisi 
bonum _i_; there he lay dead in the 
passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's 
head. There was a bullet-hole right 
through his forehead. I nodded, and in my 
turn pointed to the dog's right shoulder, 
which was shattered by another ball.

"And see here," said the constable. "Have 
a pull at this."

I looked where his hand now was. In the 
dog's mouth was a piece of gray cloth, 
and on the piece of gray cloth was a horn 
coat-button. I took hold of the cloth and 
pulled. Boris held on even in death. Sapt 
drew his sword, and, inserting the point of 
it between the dog's teeth, parted them 
enough for me to draw out the piece of 
cloth.

"You'd better put it in your pocket," said 
the constable. "Now come along"; and, 
holding the lamp in one hand and his 
sword (which he did not resheathe) in the 
other, he stepped over the body of the 
boar-hound, and I followed him.

We were now in front of the door of the 
room where Rudolf Rassendyll had 
supped with us on the day of his first 
coming to Ruritania, and whence he had 
set out to be crowned in Strelsau. On the 
right of it was the room where the king 
slept, and farther along in the same 
direction the kitchen and the cellars. The 
officer or officers in attendance on the 
king used to sleep on the other side of the 
dining-room.

"We must explore, I suppose," said Sapt. 
In spite of his outward calmness, I caught 
in his voice the ring of excitement rising 
and ill-repressed. But at this moment we 
heard from the passage on our left (as we 
faced the door) a low moan, and then a 
dragging sound, as if a man were crawling 
along the floor, painfully trailing his 
limbs after him. Sapt held the lamp in that 
direction, and we saw Herbert the 
forester, pale-faced and wide-eyed, raised 
from the ground on his two hands, while 
his legs stretched behind him and his 
stomach rested on the flags.

"Who is it?" he said in a faint voice.

"Why, man, you know us," said the 
constable, stepping up to him. "What's 
happened here?"

The poor fellow was very faint, and, I 
think, wandered a little in his brain.

"I've got it, sir," he murmured; "I've got it, 
fair and straight. No more hunting for me, 
sir. I've got it here in the stomach. Oh, my 
God!" He let his head fall with a thud on 
the floor.

I ran and raised him. Kneeling on one 
knee, I propped his head against my leg.

"Tell us about it," commanded Sapt in a 
curt, crisp voice while I got the man into 
the easiest position that I could contrive.

In slow, struggling tones he began his 
story, repeating here, omitting there, often 
confusing the order of his narrative, 
oftener still arresting it while he waited 
for fresh strength. Yet we were not 
impatient, but heard without a thought of 
time. I looked round once at a sound, and 
found that James, anxious about us, had 
stolen along the passage and joined us. 
Sapt took no notice of him, nor of 
anything save the words that dropped in 
irregular utterance from the stricken man's 
lips. Here is the story, a strange instance 
of the turning of a great event on a small 
cause.

The king had eaten a little supper, and, 
having gone to his bedroom, had stretched 
himself on the bed and fallen asleep 
without undressing. Herbert was clearing 
the dining-table and performing similar 
duties, when suddenly (thus he told it) he 
found a man standing beside him. He did 
not know (he was new to the king's 
service) who the unexpected visitor was, 
but he was of middle height, dark, 
handsome, and "looked a gentleman all 
over." He was dressed in a shooting-tunic, 
and a revolver was thrust through the belt 
of it. One hand rested on the belt, while 
the other held a small square box.

"Tell the king I am here. He expects me," 
said the stranger. Herbert, alarmed at the 
suddenness and silence of the stranger's 
approach, and guiltily conscious of having 
left the door unbolted, drew back. He was 
unarmed, but, being a stout fellow, was 
prepared to defend his master as best he 
could. Rupert--beyond doubt it was 
Rupert--laughed lightly, saying again, 
"Man, he expects me. Go and tell him," 
and sat himself on the table, swinging his 
leg. Herbert, influenced by the visitor's air 
of command, began to retreat towards the 
bedroom, keeping his face towards 
Rupert.

"If the king asks more, tell him I have the 
packet and the letter," said Rupert. The 
man bowed and passed into the bedroom. 
The king was asleep; when roused he 
seemed to know nothing of letter or 
packet, and to expect no visitor. Herbert's 
ready fears revived; he whispered that the 
stranger carried a revolver. Whatever the 
king's faults might be--and God forbid 
that I should speak hardly of him whom 
fate used so hardly--he was no coward. 
He sprang from his bed; at the same 
moment the great boar-hound uncoiled 
himself and came from beneath, yawning 
and fawning. But in an instant the beast 
caught the scent of a stranger: his ears 
pricked and he gave a low growl, as he 
looked up in his master's face. Then 
Rupert of Hentzau, weary perhaps of 
waiting, perhaps only doubtful whether 
his message would be properly delivered, 
appeared in the doorway.

The king was unarmed, and Herbert in no 
better plight; their hunting weapons were 
in the adjoining room, and Rupert seemed 
to bar the way. I have said that the king 
was no coward, yet I think, that the sight 
of Rupert, bringing back the memory of 
his torments in the dungeon, half cowed 
him; for he shrank back crying, "You!" 
The hound, in subtle understanding of his 
master's movement, growled angrily.

"You expected me, sire?" said Rupert 
with a bow; but he smiled. I know that the 
sight of the king's alarm pleased him. To 
inspire terror was his delight, and it does 
not come to every man to strike fear into 
the heart of a king and an Elphberg. It had 
come more than once to Rupert of 
Hentzau.

"No," muttered the king. Then, recovering 
his composure a little, he said angrily, 
"How dare you come here?"

"You didn't expect me?" cried Rupert, and 
in an instant the thought of a trap seemed 
to flash across his alert mind. He drew the 
revolver halfway from his belt, probably 
in a scarcely conscious movement, born 
of the desire to assure himself of its 
presence. With a cry of alarm Herbert 
flung himself before the king, who sank 
back on the bed. Rupert, puzzled, vexed, 
yet half-amused (for he smiled still, the 
man said), took a step forward, crying out 
something about Rischenheim--what, 
Herbert could not tell us.

"Keep back," exclaimed the king. "Keep 
back."

Rupert paused; then, as though with a 
sudden thought, he held up the box that 
was in his left hand, saying:

'"Well, look at this sire, and we'll talk 
afterwards," and he stretched out his hand 
with the box in it.

Now the king stood on a razor's edge, for 
the king whispered to Herbert, "What is 
it? Go and take it."

But Herbert hesitated, fearing to leave the 
king, whom his body now protected as 
though with a shield. Rupert's impatience 
overcame him: if there were a trap, every 
moment's delay doubled his danger. With 
a scornful laugh he exclaimed, "Catch it, 
then, if you're afraid to come for it," and 
he flung the packet to Herbert or the king, 
or which of them might chance to catch it.

This insolence had a strange result. In an 
instant, with a fierce growl and a mighty 
bound, Boris was at the stranger's throat. 
Rupert had not seen or had not heeded the 
dog. A startled oath rang out from him. 
He snatched the revolver from his belt 
and fired at his assailant. This shot must 
have broken the beast's shoulder, but it 
only half arrested his spring. His great 
weight was still hurled on Rupert's chest, 
and bore him back on his knee. The 
packet that he had flung lay unheeded. 
The king, wild with alarm and furious 
with anger at his favorite's fate, jumped 
up and ran past Rupert into the next room. 
Herbert followed; even as they went 
Rupert flung the wounded, weakened 
beast from him and darted to the doorway. 
He found himself facing Herbert, who 
held a boar-spear, and the king, who had a 
double-barreled hunting-gun. He raised 
his left hand, Herbert said--no doubt he 
still asked a hearing--but the king leveled 
his weapon. With a spring Rupert gained 
the shelter of the door, the bullet sped by 
him, and buried itself in the wall of the 
room. Then Herbert was at him with the 
boar-spear. Explanations must wait now: 
it was life or death; without hesitation 
Rupert fired at Herbert, bringing him to 
the ground with a mortal wound. The 
king's gun was at his shoulder again.

"You damned fool!" roared Rupert, "if 
you must have it, take it," and gun and 
revolver rang out at the same moment. 
But Rupert--never did his nerve fail him--
hit, the king missed; Herbert saw the 
count stand for an instant with his 
smoking barrel in his hand, looking at the 
king, who lay on the ground. Then Rupert 
walked towards the door. I wish I had 
seen his face then! Did he frown or smile? 
Was triumph or chagrin uppermost? 
Remorse? Not he!

He reached the door and passed through. 
That was the last Herbert saw of him; but 
the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless 
player whose part had been so 
momentous, took the stage. Limping 
along, now whining in sharp agony, now 
growling in fierce anger, with blood 
flowing but hair bristling, the hound Boris 
dragged himself across the room, through 
the door, after Rupert of Hentzau. Herbert 
listened, raising his head from the ground. 
There was a growl, an oath, the sound of 
the scuffle. Rupert must have turned in 
time to receive the dog's spring. The 
beast, maimed and crippled by his 
shattered shoulder, did not reach his 
enemy's face, but his teeth tore away the 
bit of cloth that we had found held in the 
vise of his jaws. Then came another shot, 
a laugh, retreating steps, and a door 
slammed. With that last sound Herbert 
woke to the fact of the count's escape; 
with weary efforts he dragged himself 
into the passage. The idea that he could 
go on if he got a drink of brandy turned 
him in the direction of the cellar. But his 
strength failed, and he sank down where 
we found him, not knowing whether the 
king were dead or still alive, and unable 
even to make his way back to the room 
where his master lay stretched on the 
ground.

I had listened to the story, bound as 
though by a spell. Halfway through, 
James's hand had crept to my arm and 
rested there; when Herbert finished I 
heard the little man licking his lips, again 
and again slapping his tongue against 
them. Then I looked at Sapt. He was as 
pale as a ghost, and the lines on his face 
seemed to have grown deeper. He glanced 
up, and met my regard. Neither of us 
spoke; we exchanged thoughts with our 
eyes. "This is our work," we said to one 
another. "It was our trap, these are our 
victims." I cannot even now think of that 
hour, for by our act the king lay dead.

But was he dead? I seized Sapt by the 
arm. His glance questioned me.

"The king," I whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, the king," he returned.

Facing round, we walked to the door of 
the dining-room. Here I turned suddenly 
faint, and clutched at the constable. He 
held me up, and pushed the door wide 
open. The smell of powder was in the 
room; it seemed as if the smoke hung 
about, curling in dim coils round the 
chandelier which gave a subdued light. 
James had the lamp now, and followed us 
with it. But the king was not there. A 
sudden hope filled me. He had not been 
killed then! I regained strength, and 
darted across towards the inside room. 
Here too the light was dim, and I turned to 
beckon for the lamp. Sapt and James 
came together, and stood peering over my 
shoulder in the doorway.

The king lay prone on the floor, face 
downwards, near the bed. He had crawled 
there, seeking for some place to rest, as 
we supposed. He did not move. We 
watched him for a moment; the silence 
seemed deeper than silence could be. At 
last, moved by a common impulse, we 
stepped forward, but timidly, as though 
we approached the throne of Death 
himself. I was the first to kneel by the 
king and raise his head. Blood had flowed 
from his lips, but it had ceased to flow 
now. He was dead.

I felt Sapt's hand on my shoulder. 
Looking up, I saw his other hand 
stretched out towards the ground. I turned 
my eyes where he pointed. There, in the 
king's hand, stained with the king'sblood, 
was the box that I had carried to 
Wintenberg and Rupert of Hentzau had 
brought to the lodge that night. It was not 
rest, but the box that the dying king had 
sought in his last moment. I bent, and 
lifting his hand unclasped the fingers, still 
limp and warm.

Sapt bent down with sudden eagerness. 
"Is it open?" he whispered.

The string was round it; the sealing-wax 
was unbroken. The secret had outlived the 
king, and he had gone to his death 
unknowing. All at once--I cannot tell 
why--I put my hand over my eyes; I found 
my eyelashes were wet.

"Is it open?" asked Sapt again, for in the 
dim light he could not see.

"No," I answered.

"Thank God!" said he. And, for Sapt's, the 
voice was soft.

---

CHAPTER IX--

THE KING IN THE HUNTING LODGE

THE moment with its shock and tumult of 
feeling brings one judgment, later 
reflection another. Among the sins of 
Rupert of Hentzau I do not assign the first 
and greatest place to his killing of the 
king. It was, indeed, the act of a reckless 
man who stood at nothing and held 
nothing sacred; but when I consider 
Herbert's story, and trace how the deed 
came to be done and the impulsion of 
circumstances that led to it, it seems to 
have been in some sort thrust upon him by 
the same perverse fate that dogged our 
steps. He had meant the king no harm--
indeed it may be argued that, from 
whatever motive, he had sought to serve 
him--and save under the sudden stress of 
self-defense he had done him none. The 
king's unlooked-for ignorance of his 
errand, Herbert's honest hasty zeal, the 
temper of Boris the hound, had forced on 
him an act unmeditated and utterly against 
his interest. His whole guilt lay in 
preferring the king's death to his own--a 
crime perhaps in most men, but hardly 
deserving a place in Rupert's catalogue. 
All this I can admit now, but on that 
night, with the dead body lying there 
before us, with the story piteously told by 
Herbert's faltering voice fresh in our ears, 
it was hard to allow any such extenuation. 
Our hearts cried out for vengeance, 
although we ourselves served the king no 
more. Nay, it may well be that we hoped 
to stifle some reproach of our own 
consciences by a louder clamor against 
another's sin, or longed to offer some 
belated empty atonement to our dead 
master by executing swift justice on the 
man who had killed him. I cannot tell 
fully what the others felt, but in me at 
least the dominant impulse was to waste 
not a moment in proclaiming the crime 
and raising the whole country in pursuit 
of Rupert, so that every man in Ruritania 
should quit his work, his pleasure, or his 
bed, and make it his concern to take the 
Count of Hentzau, alive or dead. I 
remember that I walked over to where 
Sapt was sitting, and caught him by the 
arm, saying:

"We must raise the alarm. If you'll go to 
Zenda, I'll start for Strelsau."

"The alarm?" said he, looking up at me 
and tugging his moustache.

"Yes: when the news is known, every 
man in the kingdom will be on the 
lookout for him, and he can't escape."

"So that he'd be taken?" asked the 
constable.

"Yes, to a certainty," I cried, hot in 
excitement and emotion. Sapt glanced 
across at Mr. Rassendyll's servant. James 
had, with my help, raised the king's body 
on to the bed, and had aided the wounded 
forester to reach a couch. He stood now 
near the constable, in his usual 
unobtrusive readiness. He did not speak, 
but I saw a look of understanding in his 
eyes as he nodded his head to Colonel 
Sapt. They were well matched, that pair, 
hard to move, hard to shake, not to be 
turned from the purpose in their minds 
and the matter that lay to their hands.

"Yes, he'd probably be taken or killed," 
said Sapt.

"Then let's do it!" I cried.

"With the queen's letter on him," said 
Colonel Sapt.

I had forgotten.

"We have the box, he has the letter still," 
said Sapt.

I could have laughed even at that moment. 
He had left the box (whether from haste 
or heedlessness or malice, we could not 
tell), but the letter was on him. Taken 
alive, he would use that powerful weapon 
to save his life or satisfy his anger; if it 
were found on his body, its evidence 
would speak loud and clear to all the 
world. Again he was protected by his 
crime: while he had the letter, he must be 
kept inviolate from all attack except at our 
own hands. We desired his death, but we 
must be his body-guard and die in his 
defense rather than let any other but 
ourselves come at him. No open means 
must be used, and no allies sought. All 
this rushed to my mind at Sapt's words, 
and I saw what the constable and James 
had never forgotten. But what to do I 
could not see. For the King of Ruritania 
lay dead.

An hour or more had passed since our 
discovery, and it was now close on 
midnight. Had all gone well we ought by 
this time to have been far on our road 
back to the castle; by this time Rupert 
must be miles away from where he had 
killed the king; already Mr. Rassendyll 
would be seeking his enemy in Strelsau.

"But what are we to do about--about that, 
then?" I asked, pointing with my finger 
through the doorway towards the bed.

Sapt gave a last tug at his moustache, then 
crossed his hands on the hilt of the sword 
between his knees, and leant forward in 
his chair.

"Nothing, he said," looking at my face. 
"Until we have the letter, nothing."

"But it's impossible!" I cried.

"Why, no, Fritz," he answered 
thoughtfully. "It's not possible yet; it may 
become so. But if we can catch Rupert in 
the next day, or even in the next two days, 
it's not impossible. Only let me have the 
letter, and I'll account for the 
concealment. What? Is the fact that 
crimes are known never concealed, for 
fear of putting the criminal on his guard?"

"You'll be able to make a story, sir," 
James put in, with a grave but reassuring 
air.

"Yes, James, I shall be able to make a 
story, or your master will make one for 
me. But, by God, story or no story, the 
letter mustn't be found. Let them say we 
killed him ourselves if they like, but.--"

I seized his hand and gripped it.

"You don't doubt I'm with you?" I asked.

"Not for a moment, Fritz," he answered.

"Then how can we do it?"

We drew nearer together; Sapt and I sat, 
while James leant over Sapt's chair.

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, 
and the light burnt very dim. Now and 
again poor Herbert, for whom our skill 
could do nothing, gave a slight moan. I 
am ashamed to remember how little we 
thought of him, but great schemes make 
the actors in them careless of humanity; 
the life of a man goes for nothing against 
a point in the game. Except for his 
groans--and they grew fainter and less 
frequen--our voices alone broke the 
silence of the little lodge.

"The queen must know," said Sapt. "Let 
her stay at Zenda and give out that the 
king is at the lodge for a day or two 
longer. Then you, Fritz--for you must ride 
to the castle at once--and Bernenstein 
must get to Strelsau as quick as you can, 
and find Rudolf Rassendyll. You three 
ought to be able to track young Rupert 
down and get the letter from him. If he's 
not in the city, you must catch 
Rischenheim, and force him to say where 
he is; we know Rischenheim can be 
persuaded. If Rupert's there, I need give 
no advice either to you or to Rudolf."

"And you?"

"James and I stay here. If any one comes 
whom we can keep out, the king is ill. If 
rumors get about, and great folk come, 
why, they must enter."

"But the body?"

"This morning, when you're gone, we 
shall make a temporary grave. I dare say 
two," and he jerked his thumb towards 
poor Herbert.

"Or even," he added, with his grim smile, 
"three--for our friend Boris, too, must be 
out of sight."

"You'll bury the king?"

"Not so deep but that we can take him out 
again, poor fellow. Well, Fritz, have you a 
better plan?"

I had no plan, and I was not in love with 
Sapt's plan. Yet it offered us four and 
twenty hours. For that time, at least, it 
seemed as if the secret could be kept. 
Beyond that we could hardly hope for 
success; after that we must produce the 
king; dead or alive, the king must be seen. 
Yet it might be that before the respite ran 
out Rupert would be ours. In fine, what 
else could be chosen? For now a greater 
peril threatened than that against which 
we had at the first sought to guard. Then 
the worst we feared was that the letter 
should come to the king's hands. That 
could never be. But it would be a worse 
thing if it were found on Rupert, and all 
the kingdom, nay, all Europe, know that it 
was written in the hand of her who was 
now, in her own right, Queen of 
Ruritania. To save her from that, no 
chance was too desperate, no scheme too 
perilous; yes, if, as Sapt said, we 
ourselves were held to answer for the 
king's death, still we must go on. I, 
through whose negligence the whole train 
of disaster had been laid, was the last man 
to hesitate. In all honesty, I held my life 
due and forfeit, should it be demanded of 
me--my life and, before the world, my 
honor.

So the plan was made. A grave was to be 
dug ready for the king; if need arose, his 
body should be laid in it, and the place 
chosen was under the floor of the wine-
cellar. When death came to poor Herbert, 
he could lie in the yard behind the house; 
for Boris they meditated a resting-place 
under the tree where our horses were 
tethered. There was nothing to keep me, 
and I rose; but as I rose, I heard the 
forester's voice call plaintively for me. 
The unlucky fellow knew me well, and 
now cried to me to sit by him. I think Sapt 
wanted me to leave him, but I could not 
refuse his last request, even though it 
consumed some precious minutes. He was 
very near his end, and, sitting by him, I 
did my best to soothe his passing. His 
fortitude was good to see, and I believe 
that we all at last found new courage for 
our enterprise from seeing how this 
humble man met death. At least even the 
constable ceased to show impatience, and 
let me stay till I could close the sufferer's 
eyes.

But thus time went, and it was nearly five 
in the morning before I bade them 
farewell and mounted my horse. They 
took theirs and led them away to the 
stables behind the lodge; I waved my 
hand and galloped off on my return to the 
castle. Day was dawning, and the air was 
fresh and pure. The new light brought 
new hope; fears seemed to vanish before 
it; my nerves were strung to effort and to 
confidence. My horse moved freely under 
me and carried me easily along the grassy 
avenues. It was hard then to be utterly 
despondent, hard to doubt skill of brain, 
strength of hand, or fortune's favor.

The castle came in sight, and I hailed it 
with a glad cry that echoed among the 
trees. But a moment later I gave an 
exclamation of surprise, and raised myself 
a little from the saddle while I gazed 
earnestly at the summit of the keep. The 
flag staff was naked; the royal standard 
that had flapped in the wind last night was 
gone. But by immemorial custom the flag 
flew on the keep when the king or the 
queen was at the castle. It would fly for 
Rudolf V. no more; but why did it not 
proclaim and honor the presence of Queen 
Flavia? I sat down in my saddle and 
spurred my horse to the top of his speed. 
We had been buffeted by fate sorely, but 
now I feared yet another blow.

In a quarter of an hour more I was at the 
door. A servant ran out, and I dismounted 
leisurely and easily. Pulling off my 
gloves, I dusted my boots with them, 
turned to the stableman and bade him 
look to the horse, and then said to the 
footman:

"As soon as the queen is dressed, find out 
if she can see me. I have a message from 
his Majesty."

The fellow looked a little puzzled, but at 
this moment Hermann, the king's major-
domo, came to the door.

"Isn't the constable with you, my lord?" 
he asked.

"No, the constable remains at the lodge 
with the king," said I carelessly, though I 
was very far from careless. "I have a 
message for her Majesty, Hermann. Find 
out from some of the women when she 
will receive me."

"The queen's not here," said he. "Indeed 
we've had a lively time, my lord. At five 
o'clock she came out, ready dressed, from 
her room, sent for Lieutenant von 
Bernenstein, and announced that she was 
about to set out from the castle. As you 
know, the mail train passes here at six." 
Hermann took out his watch. "Yes, the 
queen must just have left the station."

"Where for?" I asked, with a shrug for the 
woman's whim. "Why, for Strelsau. She 
gave no reasons for going, and took with 
her only one lady, Lieutenant von 
Bernenstein being in attendance. It was a 
bustle, if you like, with everybody to be 
roused and got out of bed, and a carriage 
to be made ready, and messages to go to 
the station, and--"

"She gave no reasons?"

"None, my lord. She left with me a letter 
to the constable, which she ordered me to 
give to his own hands as soon as he 
arrived at the castle. She said it contained 
a message of importance, which the 
constable was to convey to the king, and 
that it must be intrusted to nobody except 
Colonel Sapt himself. I wonder, my lord, 
that you didn't notice that the flag was 
hauled down."

"Tut, man, I wasn't staring at the keep. 
Give me the letter." For I saw that the 
clue to this fresh puzzle must lie under the 
cover of Sapt's letter. That letter I must 
myself carry to Sapt, and without loss of 
time.

"Give you the letter, my lord? But, pardon 
me, you're not the constable." He laughed 
a little.

"Why, no," said I, mustering a smile. "It's 
true that I'm not the constable, but I'm 
going to the constable. I had the king's 
orders to rejoin him as soon as I had seen 
the queen, and since her Majesty isn't 
here, I shall return to the lodge directly a 
fresh horse can be saddled for me. And 
the constable's at the lodge. Come, the 
letter!"

"I can't give it you, my lord. Her 
Majesty's orders were positive."

"Nonsense! If she had known I should 
come and not the constable, she would 
have told me to carry it to him."

"I don't know about that, my lord: her 
orders were plain, and she doesn't like 
being disobeyed."

The stableman had led the horse away, the 
footman had disappeared, Hermann and I 
were alone. "Give me the letter," I said; 
and I know that my self-control failed, 
and eagerness was plain in my voice. 
Plain it was, and Hermann took alarm. He 
started back, clapping his hand to the 
breast of his laced coat. The gesture 
betrayed where the letter was; I was past 
prudence; I sprang on him and wrenched 
his hand away, catching him by the throat 
with my other hand. Diving into his 
pocket, I got the letter. Then I suddenly 
loosed hold of him, for his eyes were 
starting out of his head. I took out a 
couple of gold pieces and gave them to 
him.

"It's urgent, you fool," said I. "Hold your 
tongue about it." And without waiting to 
study his amazed red face, I turned and 
ran towards the stable. In five minutes I 
was on a fresh horse, in six I was clear of 
the castle, heading back fast as I could go 
for the hunting-lodge. Even now Hermann 
remembers the grip I gave him--though 
doubtless he has long spent the pieces of 
gold.

When I reached the end of this second 
journey, I came in for the obsequies of 
Boris. James was just patting the ground 
under the tree with a mattock when I rode 
up; Sapt was standing by, smoking his 
pipe. The boots of both were stained and 
sticky with mud. I flung myself from my 
saddle and blurted out my news. The 
constable snatched at his letter with an 
oath; James leveled the ground with 
careful accuracy; I do not remember 
doing anything except wiping my 
forehead and feeling very hungry.

"Good Lord, she's gone after him!" said 
Sapt, as he read. Then he handed me the 
letter.

I will not set out what the queen wrote. 
The purport seemed to us, who did not 
share her feelings, pathetic indeed and 
moving, but in the end (to speak plainly) 
folly. She had tried to endure her sojourn 
at Zenda, she said; but it drove her mad. 
She could not rest; she did not know how 
we fared, nor how those in Strelsau; for 
hours she had lain awake; then at last 
falling asleep, she had dreamt.

"I had had the same dream before. Now it 
came again. I saw him so plain. He 
seemed to me to be king, and to be called 
king. But he did not answer nor move. He 
seemed dead; and I could not rest." So she 
wrote, ever excusing herself, ever 
repeating how something drew her to 
Strelsau, telling her that she must go if 
she would see "him whom you know," 
alive again. "And I must see him--ah, I 
must see him! If the king has had the 
letter, I am ruined already. If he has not, 
tell him what you will or what you can 
contrive. I must go. It came a second 
time, and all so plain. I saw him; I tell you 
I saw him. Ah, I must see him again. I 
swear that I will only see him once. He's 
in danger--I know he's in danger; or what 
does the dream mean? Bernenstein will go 
with me, and I shall see him. Do, do 
forgive me: I can't stay, the dream was so 
plain." Thus she ended, seeming, poor 
lady, half frantic with the visions that her 
own troubled brain and desolate heart had 
conjured up to torment her. I did not 
know that she had before told Mr. 
Rassendyll himself of this strange dream; 
though I lay small store by such matters, 
believing that we ourselves make our 
dreams, fashioning out of the fears and 
hopes of to-day what seems to come by 
night in the guise of a mysterious 
revelation. Yet there are some things that 
a man cannot understand, and I do not 
profess to measure with my mind the 
ways of God.

However, not why the queen went, but 
that she had gone, concerned us. We had 
returned to the house now, and James, 
remembering that men must eat though 
kings die, was getting us some breakfast. 
In fact, I had great need of food, being 
utterly worn out; and they, after their 
labors, were hardly less weary. As we ate, 
we talked; and it was plain to us that I 
also must go to Strelsau. There, in the 
city, the drama must be played out. There 
was Rudolf, there Rischenheim, there in 
all likelihood Rupert of Hentzau, there 
now the queen. And of these Rupert 
alone, or perhaps Rischenheim also, knew 
that the king was dead, and how the issue 
of last night had shaped itself under the 
compelling hand of wayward fortune. The 
king lay in peace on his bed, his grave 
was dug; Sapt and James held the secret 
with solemn faith and ready lives. To 
Strelsau I must go to tell the queen that 
she was widowed, and to aim the stroke at 
young Rupert's heart.

At nine in the morning I started from the 
lodge. I was bound to ride to Hofbau and 
there wait for a train which would carry 
me to the capital. From Hofbau I could 
send a message, but the message must 
announce only my own coming, not the 
news I carried. To Sapt, thanks to the 
cipher, I could send word at any time, and 
he bade me ask Mr. Rassendyll whether 
he should come to our aid, or stay where 
he was.

"A day must decide the whole thing," he 
said. "We can't conceal the king's death 
long. For God's sake, Fritz, make an end 
of that young villain, and get the letter."

So, wasting no time in farewells, I set out. 
By ten o'clock I was at Hofbau, for I rode 
furiously. From there I sent to 
Bernenstein at the palace word of my 
coming. But there I was delayed. There 
was no train for an hour.

"I'll ride," I cried to myself, only to 
remember the next moment that, if I rode, 
I should come to my journey's end much 
later. There was nothing for it but to wait, 
and it may be imagined in what mood I 
waited. Every minute seemed an hour, 
and I know not to this day how the hour 
wore itself away. I ate, I drank, I smoked, 
I walked, sat, and stood. The 
stationmaster knew me, and thought I had 
gone mad, till I told him that I carried 
most important despatches from the king, 
and that the delay imperiled great 
interests. Then he became sympathetic; 
but what could he do? No special train 
was to be had at a roadside station: I must 
wait; and wait, somehow, and without 
blowing my brains out, I did.

At last I was in the train; now indeed we 
moved, and I came nearer. An hour's run 
brought me in sight of the city. Then, to 
my unutterable wrath, we were stopped, 
and waited motionless twenty minutes or 
half an hour. At last we started again; had 
we not, I should have jumped out and run, 
for to sit longer would have driven me 
mad. Now we entered the station. With a 
great effort I calmed myself. I lolled back 
in my seat; when we stopped I sat there 
till a porter opened the door. In lazy 
leisureliness I bade him get me a cab, and 
followed him across the station. He held 
the door for me, and, giving him his 
_i_douceur_i_, I set my foot on the step.

"Tell him to drive to the palace," said I, 
"and be quick. I'm late already, thanks to 
this cursed train."

"The old mare'll soon take you there, sir," 
said the driver. I jumped in. But at this 
moment I saw a man on the platform 
beckoning with his hand and hastening 
towards me. The cabman also saw him 
and waited. I dared not tell him to drive 
on, for I feared to betray any undue haste, 
and it would have looked strange not to 
spare a moment to my wife's cousin, 
Anton von Strofzin. He came up, holding 
out his hand,delicately gloved in pearl-
gray kid, for young Anton was a leader of 
the Strelsau dandies.

"Ah, my dear Fritz!" said he. "I am glad I 
hold no appointment at court. How 
dreadfully active you all are! I thought 
you were settled at Zenda for a month?"

"The queen changed her mind suddenly," 
said I, smiling. "Ladies do, as you know 
well, you who know all about them."

My compliment, or insinuation, produced 
a pleased smile and a gallant twirling of 
his moustache.

"Well, I thought you'd be here soon," he 
said, "but I didn't know that the queen had 
come."

"You didn't? Then why did you look for 
me?"

He opened his eyes a little in languid, 
elegant surprise. "Oh, I supposed you'd be 
on duty, or something, and have to come. 
Aren't you in attendance?"

"On the queen? No, not just now." 

"But on the king?"

"Why, yes," said I, and I leaned forward. 
"At least I'm engaged now on the king's 
business."

"Precisely," said he. "So I thought you'd 
come, as soon as I heard that the king was 
here."

It may be that I ought to have preserved 
my composure. But I am not Sapt nor 
Rudolf Rassendyll.

"The king here?" I gasped, clutching him 
by the arm.

"Of course. You didn't know? Yes, he's in 
town."

But I heeded him no more. For a moment 
I could not speak, then I cried to the 
cabman:

"To the palace. And drive like the devil!"

We shot away, leaving Anton open-
mouthed in wonder. For me, I sank back 
on the cushions, fairly aghast. The king 
lay dead in the hunting-lodge, but the king 
was in his capital!

Of course, the truth soon flashed through 
my mind, but it brought no comfort. 
Rudolf Rassendyll was in Strelsau. He 
had been seen by somebody and taken for 
the king. But comfort? What comfort was 
there, now that the king was dead and 
could never come to the rescue of his 
counterfeit?

In fact, the truth was worse than I 
conceived. Had I known it all, I might 
well have yielded to despair. For not by 
the chance, uncertain sight of a passer-by, 
not by mere rumor which might have 
been sturdily denied, not by the evidence 
of one only or of two, was the king's 
presence in the city known. That day, by 
the witness of a crowd of people, by his 
own claim and his own voice, ay, and by 
the assent of the queen herself, Mr. 
Rassendyll was taken to be the king in 
Strelsau, while neither he nor Queen 
Flavia knew that the king was dead. I 
must now relate the strange and perverse 
succession of events which forced them to 
employ a resource so dangerous and face 
a peril so immense. Yet, great and 
perilous as they knew the risk to be even 
when they dared it, in the light of what 
they did not know it was more fearful and 
more fatal still.

---

CHAPTER X--

THE KING IN STRELSAU

MR. RASSENDYLL reached Strelsau 
from Zenda without accident about nine 
o'clock in the evening of the same day as 
that which witnessed the tragedy of the 
hunting-lodge. He could have arrived 
sooner, but prudence did not allow him to 
enter the populous suburbs of the town till 
the darkness guarded him from notice. 
The gates of the city were no longer shut 
at sunset, as they had used to be in the 
days when Duke Michael was governor, 
and Rudolf passed them without 
difficulty. Fortunately the night, fine 
where we were, was wet and stormy at 
Strelsau; thus there were few people in 
the streets, and he was able to gain the 
door of my house still unremarked. Here, 
of course, a danger presented itself. None 
of my servants were in the secret; only my 
wife, in whom the queen herself had 
confided, knew Rudolf, and she did not 
expect to see him, since she was ignorant 
of the recent course of events. Rudolf was 
quite alive to the peril, and regretted the 
absence of his faithful attendant, who 
could have cleared the way for him. The 
pouring rain gave him an excuse for 
twisting a scarf about his face and pulling 
his coat-collar up to his ears, while the 
gusts of wind made the cramming of his 
hat low down over his eyes no more than 
a natural precaution against its loss. Thus 
masked from curious eyes, he drew rein 
before my door, and, having dismounted, 
rang the bell. When the butler came a 
strange hoarse voice, half-stifled by folds 
of scarf, asked for the countess, alleging 
for pretext a message from myself. The 
man hesitated, as well he might, to leave 
the stranger alone with the door open and 
the contents of the hall at his mercy. 
Murmuring an apology in case his visitor 
should prove to be a gentleman, he shut 
the door and went in search of his 
mistress. His description of the untimely 
caller at once roused my wife's quick wit; 
she had heard from me how Rudolf had 
ridden once from Strelsau to the hunting-
lodge with muffled face; a very tall man 
with his face wrapped in a scarf and his 
hat over his eyes, who came with a 
private message, suggested to her at least 
a possibility of Mr. Rassendyll's arrival. 
Helga will never admit that she is clever, 
yet I find she discovers from me what she 
wants to know, and I suspect hides 
successfully the small matters of which 
she in her wifely discretion deems I had 
best remain ignorant. Being able thus to 
manage me, she was equal to coping with 
the butler. She laid aside her embroidery 
most composedly.

"Ah, yes," she said, "I know the 
gentleman. Surely you haven't left him 
out in the rain?" She was anxious lest 
Rudolf's features should have been 
exposed too long to the light of the hall-
lamps.

The butler stammered an apology, 
explaining his fears for our goods and the 
impossibility of distinguishing social rank 
on a dark night. Helga cut him short with 
an impatient gesture, crying, "How stupid 
of you!" and herself ran quickly down and 
opened the door--a little way only, 
though. The first sight of Mr. Rassendyll 
confirmed her suspicions; in a moment, 
she said, she knew his eyes.

"It is you, then?" she cried. "And my 
foolish servant has left you in the rain! 
Pray come in. Oh, but your horse!" She 
turned to the penitent butler, who had 
followed her downstairs. "Take the 
baron's horse round to the stables," she 
said.

"I will send some one at once, my lady."

"No, no, take it yourself--take it at once. 
I'll look after the baron."

Reluctantly and ruefully the fat fellow 
stepped out into the storm. Rudolf drew 
back and let him pass, then he entered 
quickly, to find himself alone with Helga 
in the hall. With a finger on her lips, she 
led him swiftly into a small sitting-room 
on the ground floor, which I used as a sort 
of office or place of business. It looked 
out on the street, and the rain could be 
heard driving against the broad panes of 
the window. Rudolf turned to her with a 
smile, and, bowing, kissed her hand.

"The baron what, my dear countess?" he 
inquired.

"He won't ask," said she with a shrug. 
"Do tell me what brings you here, and 
what has happened."

He told her very briefly all he knew. She 
hid bravely her alarm at hearing that I 
might perhaps meet Rupert at the lodge, 
and at once listened to what Rudolf 
wanted of her.

"Can I get out of the house, and, if need 
be, back again unnoticed?" he asked.

"The door is locked at night, and only 
Fritz and the butler have keys."

Mr. Rassendyll's eye traveled to the 
window of the room.

"I haven't grown so fat that I can't get 
through there," said he. "So we'd better 
not trouble the butler. He'd talk, you 
know."

"I will sit here all night and keep 
everybody from the room."

"I may come back pursued if I bungle my 
work and an alarm is raised."

"Your work?" she asked, shrinking back a 
little.

"Yes," said he. "Don't ask what it is, 
Countess. It is in the queen's service."

"For the queen I will do anything and 
everything, as Fritz would."

He took her hand and pressed it in a 
friendly, encouraging way.

"Then I may issue my orders?" he asked, 
smiling.

"They shall be obeyed."

"Then a dry cloak, a little supper, and this 
room to myself, except for you."

As he spoke the butler turned the handle 
of the door. My wife flew across the 
room, opened the door, and, while Rudolf 
turned his back, directed the man to bring 
some cold meat, or whatever could be 
ready with as little delay as possible.

"Now come with me," she said to Rudolf, 
directly the servant was gone.

She took him to my dressing-room, where 
he got dry clothes; then she saw the 
supper laid, ordered a bedroom to be 
prepared, told the butler that she had 
business with the baron and that he need 
not sit up if she were later than eleven, 
dismissed him, and went to tell Rudolf 
that the coast was clear for his return to 
the sitting-room. He came, expressing 
admiration for her courage and address; I 
take leave to think that she deserved his 
compliments. He made a hasty supper; 
then they talked together, Rudolf smoking 
his cigar. Eleven came and went. It was 
not yet time. My wife opened the door 
and looked out. The hall was dark, the 
door locked and its key in the hands of the 
butler. She closed the door again and 
softly locked it. As the clock struck 
twelve Rudolf rose and turned the lamp 
very low. Then he unfastened the shutters 
noiselessly, raised the window and looked 
out.

"Shut them again when I'm gone," he 
whispered. "If I come back, I'll knock like 
this, and you'll open for me."

"For heaven's sake, be careful," she 
murmured, catching at his hand.

He nodded reassuringly, and crossing his 
leg over the windowsill, sat there for a 
moment listening. The storm was as fierce 
as ever, and the street was deserted. He let 
himself down on to the pavement, his face 
again wrapped up. She watched his tall 
figure stride quickly along till a turn of 
the road hid it. Then, having closed the 
window and the shutters again, she sat 
down to keep her watch, praying for him, 
for me, and for her dear mistress the 
queen. For she knew that perilous work 
was afoot that night, and did not know 
whom it might threaten or whom destroy.

From the moment that Mr. Rassendyll 
thus left my house at midnight on his 
search for Rupert of Hentzau, every hour 
and almost every moment brought its 
incident in the swiftly moving drama 
which decided the issues of our fortune. 
What we were doing has been told; by 
now Rupert himself was on his way back 
to the city, and the queen was meditating, 
in her restless vigil, on the resolve that in 
a few hours was to bring her also to 
Strelsau. Even in the dead of night both 
sides were active. For, plan cautiously and 
skillfully as he might, Rudolf fought with 
an antagonist who lost no chances, and 
who had found an apt and useful tool in 
that same Bauer, a rascal, and a cunning 
rascal, if ever one were bred in the world. 
From the beginning even to the end our 
error lay in taking too little count of this 
fellow, and dear was the price we paid.

Both to my wife and to Rudolf himself the 
street had seemed empty of every living 
being when she watched and he set out. 
Yet everything had been seen, from his 
first arrival to the moment when she 
closed the window after him. At either 
end of my house there runs out a 
projection, formed by the bay windows of 
the principal drawing-room and of the 
dining room respectively. These 
projecting walls form shadows, and in the 
shade of one of them--of which I do not 
know, nor is it of moment--a man 
watched all that passed; had he been 
anywhere else, Rudolf must have seen 
him. If we had not been too engrossed in 
playing our own hands, it would doubtless 
have struck us as probable that Rupert 
would direct Rischenheim and Bauer to 
keep an eye on my house during his 
absence; for it was there that any of us 
who found our way to the city would 
naturally resort in the first instance. As a 
fact, he had not omitted this precaution. 
The night was so dark that the spy, who 
had seen the king but once and never Mr. 
Rassendyll, did not recognize who the 
visitor was, but he rightly conceived that 
he should serve his employer by tracking 
the steps of the tall man who made so 
mysterious an arrival and so surreptitious 
a departure from the suspected house. 
Accordingly, as Rudolf turned the corner 
and Helena closed the window, a short, 
thickset figure started cautiously out of 
the projecting shadow, and followed in 
Rudolf's wake through the storm. The 
pair, tracker and tracked, met nobody, 
save here and there a police constable 
keeping a most unwilling beat. Even such 
were few, and for the most part more 
intent on sheltering in the lee of a friendly 
wall and thereby keeping a dry stitch or 
two on them than on taking note of 
passers-by. On the pair went. Now Rudolf 
turned into the Ko"nigstrasse. As he did 
so, Bauer, who must have been nearly a 
hundred yards behind (for he could not 
start till the shutters were closed) 
quickened his pace and reduced the 
interval between them to about seventy 
yards. This he might well have thought a 
safe distance on a night so wild, when the 
rush of wind and the pelt of the rain 
joined to hide the sound of footsteps.

But Bauer reasoned as a townsman, and 
Rudolf Rassendyll had the quick ear of a 
man bred in the country and trained to the 
woodland. All at once there was a jerk of 
his head; I know so well the motion which 
marked awakened attention in him. He 
did not pause nor break his stride: to do 
either would have been to betray his 
suspicions to his follower; but he crossed 
the road to the opposite side to that where 
No. 19 was situated, and slackened his 
pace a little, so that there was a longer 
interval between his own footfalls. The 
steps behind him grew slower, even as his 
did; their sound came no nearer: the 
follower would not overtake. Now, a man 
who loiters on such a night, just because 
another head of him is fool enough to 
loiter, has a reason for his action other 
than what can at first sight be detected. So 
thought Rudolf Rassendyll, and his brain 
was busied with finding it out.

Then an idea seized him, and, forgetting 
the precautions that had hitherto served so 
well, he came to a sudden stop on the 
pavement, engrossed in deep thought. 
Was the man who dogged his steps 
Rupert himself? It would be like Rupert to 
track him, like Rupert to conceive such an 
attack, like Rupert to be ready either for a 
fearless assault from the front or a 
shameless shot from behind, and 
indifferent utterly which chance offered, 
so it threw him one of them. Mr. 
Rassendyll asked no better than to meet 
his enemy thus in the open. They could 
fight a fair fight, and if he fell the lamp 
would be caught up and carried on by 
Sapt's hand or mine; if he got the better of 
Rupert, the letter would be his; a moment 
would destroy it and give safety to the 
queen. I do not suppose that he spent time 
in thinking how he should escape arrest at 
the hands of the police whom the fracas 
would probably rouse; if he did, he may 
well have reckoned on declaring plainly 
who he was, of laughing at their surprise 
over a chance likeness to the king, and of 
trusting to us to smuggle him beyond the 
arm of the law. What mattered all that, so 
that there was a moment in which to 
destroy the letter? At any rate he turned 
full round and began to walk straight 
towards Bauer, his hand resting on the 
revolver in the pocket of his coat.

Bauer saw him coming, and must have 
known that he was suspected or detected. 
At once the cunning fellow slouched his 
head between his shoulders, and set out 
along the street at a quick shuffle, 
whistling as he went. Rudolf stood still 
now in the middle of the road, wondering 
who the man was: whether Rupert, 
purposely disguising his gait, or a 
confederate, or, after all, some person 
innocent of our secret and indifferent to 
our schemes. On came Bauer, softly, 
whistling and slushing his feet carelessly 
through the liquid mud. Now he was 
nearly opposite where Mr. Rassendyll 
stood. Rudolf was well-nigh convinced 
that the man had been on his track: he 
would make certainty surer. The bold 
game was always his choice and his 
delight; this trait he shared with Rupert of 
Hentzau, and hence arose, I think, the 
strange secret inclination he had for his 
unscrupulous opponent. Now he walked 
suddenly across to Bauer, and spoke to 
him in his natural voice, at the same time 
removing the scarf partly, but not 
altogether, from his face.

"You're out late, my friend, for a night 
like this."

Bauer, startled though he was by the 
unexpected challenge, had his wits about 
him. Whether he identified Rudolf at 
once, I do not know; I think that he must 
at least have suspected the truth.

"A lad that has no home to go to must 
needs be out both late and early, sir," said 
he, arresting his shuffling steps, and 
looking up with that honest stolid air 
which had made a fool of me.

I had described him very minutely to Mr. 
Rassendyll; if Bauer knew or guessed 
who his challenger was, Mr. Rassendyll 
was as well equipped for the encounter.

"No home to go to!" cried Rudolf in a 
pitying tone. "How's that? But anyhow, 
Heaven forbid that you or any man should 
walk the streets a night like this. Come, 
I'll give you a bed. Come with me, and I'll 
find you good shelter, my boy."

Bauer shrank away. He did not see the 
meaning of this stroke, and his eye, 
traveling up the street, showed that his 
thoughts had turned towards flight. 
Rudolf gave no time for putting any such 
notion into effect. Maintaining his air of 
genial compassion, he passed his left arm 
through Bauer's right, saying:

"I'm a Christian man, and a bed you shall 
have this night, my lad, as sure as I'm 
alive. Come along with me. The devil, it's 
not weather for standing still!"

The carrying of arms in Strelsau was 
forbidden. Bauer had no wish to get into 
trouble with the police, and, moreover, he 
had intended nothing but a 
reconnaissance; he was therefore without 
any weapon, and he was a child in 
Rudolf's grasp. He had no alternative but 
to obey the suasion of Mr. Rassendyll's 
arm, and they two began to walk down 
the Ko"nigstrasse. Bauer's whistle had 
died away, not to return; but from time to 
time Rudolf hummed softly a cheerful 
tune, his fingers beating time on Bauer's 
captive arm. Presently they crossed the 
road. Bauer's lagging steps indicated that 
he took no pleasure in the change of side, 
but he could not resist.

"Ay, you shall go where I am going, my 
lad," said Rudolf encouragingly; and he 
laughed a little as he looked down at the 
fellow's face.

Along they went; soon they came to the 
small numbers at the station end of the 
Ko"nigstrasse. Rudolf began to peer up at 
the shop fronts.

"It's cursed dark," said he. "Pray, lad, can 
you make out which is nineteen?"

The moment he had spoken the smile 
broadened on his face. The shot had gone 
home. Bauer was a clever scoundrel, but 
his nerves were not under perfect control, 
and his arm had quivered under Rudolf's.

"Nineteen, sir?" he stammered.

"Ay, nineteen. That's where we're bound 
for, you and I. There I hope we shall find-
-what we want."

Bauer seemed bewildered: no doubt he 
was at a loss how either to understand or 
to parry the bold attack.

"Ah, this looks like it," said Rudolf, in a 
tone of great satisfaction, as they came to 
old Mother Holf's little shop. "Isn't that a 
one and a nine over the door, my lad? Ah, 
and Holf! Yes, that's the name. Pray ring 
the bell. My hands are occupied."

Rudolf's hands were indeed occupied; one 
held Bauer's arm, now no longer with a 
friendly pressure, but with a grip of iron; 
in the other the captive saw the revolver 
that had till now lain hidden.

"You see?" asked Rudolf pleasantly. 
"You must ring for me, mustn't you? It 
would startle them if I roused them with a 
shot." A motion of the barrel told Bauer 
the direction which the shot would take.

"There's no bell," said Bauer sullenly.

"Ah, then you knock?"

"I suppose so."

"In any particular way, my friend?"

"I don't know," growled Bauer.

"Nor I. Can't you guess?"

"No, I know nothing of it."

"Well, we must try. You knock, and--
Listen, my lad. You must guess right. You 
understand?"

"How can I guess?" asked Bauer, in an 
attempt at bluster.

"Indeed, I don't know," smiled Rudolf. 
"But I hate waiting, and if the door is not 
open in two minutes, I shall arouse the 
good folk with a shot. You see? You quite 
see, don't you?" Again the barrel's motion 
pointed and explained Mr. Rassendyll's 
meaning.

Under this powerful persuasion Bauer 
yielded. He lifted his hand and knocked 
on the door with his knuckles, first loudly, 
then very softly, the gentler stroke being 
repeated five times in rapid succession. 
Clearly he was expected, for without any 
sound of approaching feet the chain was 
unfastened with a subdued rattle. Then 
came the noise of the bolt being 
cautiously worked back into its socket. As 
it shot home a chink of the door opened. 
At the same moment Rudolf's hand 
slipped from Bauer's arm. With a swift 
movement he caught the fellow by the 
nape of the neck and flung him violently 
forward into the roadway, where, losing 
his footing, he fell sprawling face 
downwards in the mud. Rudolf threw 
himself against the door: it yielded, he 
was inside, and in an instant he had shut 
the door and driven the bolt home again, 
leaving Bauer in the gutter outside. Then 
he turned, with his hand on the butt of his 
revolver. I know that he hoped to find 
Rupert of Hentzau's face within a foot of 
his.

Neither Rupert nor Rischenheim, nor even 
the old woman fronted him: a tall, 
handsome, dark girl faced him, holding an 
oil-lamp in her hand. He did not know 
her, but I could have told him that she was 
old Mother Holf's youngest child, Rosa, 
for I had often seen her as I rode through 
the town of Zenda with the king, before 
the old lady moved her dwelling to 
Strelsau. Indeed the girl had seemed to 
haunt the king's foot-steps, and he had 
himself joked on her obvious efforts to 
attract his attention, and the languishing 
glances of her great black eyes. But it is 
the lot of prominent personages to inspire 
these strange passions, and the king had 
spent as little thought on her as on any of 
the romantic girls who found a naughty 
delight in half-fanciful devotion to him--
devotion starting, in many cases, by an 
irony of which the king was happily 
unconscious, from the brave figure that he 
made at his coronation and his 
picturesque daring in the affair of Black 
Michael. The worshipers never came near 
enough to perceive the alteration in their 
idol.

The half then, at least, of Rosa's 
attachment was justly due to the man who 
now stood opposite to her, looking at her 
with surprise by the murky light of the 
strong-smelling oil-lamp. The lamp shook 
and almost fell from her hand when she 
saw him; for the scarf had slid away, and 
his features were exposed to full view. 
Fright, delight, and excitement vied with 
one another in her eyes.

"The king!" she whispered in amazement. 
"No, but--" And she searched his face 
wonderingly.

"Is it the beard you miss?" asked Rudolf, 
fingering his chin. "Mayn't kings shave 
when they please, as well as other men?" 
Her face still expressed bewilderment, 
and still a lingering doubt. He bent 
towards her, whispering:

"Perhaps I wasn't over-anxious to be 
known at once."

She flushed with pleasure at the 
confidence he seemed to put in her.

"I should know you anywhere," she 
whispered, with a glance of the great 
black eyes. "Anywhere, your Majesty."

"Then you'll help me, perhaps?"

"With my life."

"No, no, my dear young lady, merely with 
a little information. Whose home is this?"

"My mother's."

"Ah! She takes lodgers?"

The girl appeared vexed at his cautious 
approaches. "Tell me what you want to 
know," she said simply.

"Then who's here?"

"My lord the Count of Luzau-
Rischenheim."

"And what's he doing?"

"He's lying on the bed moaning and 
swearing, because his wounded arm gives 
him pain."

"And is nobody else here?"

She looked round warily, and sank her 
voice to a whisper as she answered:

"No, not now--nobody else."

"I was seeking a friend of mine," said 
Rudolf. "I want to see him alone. It's not 
easy for a king to see people alone."

"You mean--?"

"Well, you know whom I mean."

"Yes. No, he's gone; but he's gone to find 
you."

"To find me! Plague take it! How do you 
know that, my pretty lady?"

"Bauer told me."

"Ah, Bauer! And who's Bauer?"

"The man who knocked. Why did you 
shut him out?"

"To be alone with you, to be sure. So 
Bauer tells you his master's secrets?"

She acknowledged his raillery with a 
coquettish laugh. It was not amiss for the 
king to see that she had her admirers.

"Well, and where has this foolish count 
gone to meet me?" asked Rudolf lightly.

"You haven't seen him?"

"No; I came straight from the Castle of 
Zenda."

"But," she cried, "he expected to find you 
at the hunting lodge. Ah, but now I 
recollect! The Count of Rischenheim was 
greatly vexed to find, on his return, that 
his cousin was gone."

"Ah, he was gone! Now I see! 
Rischenheim brought a message from me 
to Count Rupert."

"And they missed one another, your 
Majesty?"

"Exactly, my dear young lady. Very 
vexatious it is, upon my word!" In this 
remark, at least, Rudolf spoke no more 
and no other than he felt. "But when do 
you expect the Count of Hentzau?" he 
pursued.

"Early in the morning, your Majesty--at 
seven or eight."

Rudolf came nearer to her, and took a 
couple of gold coins from his pocket.

"I don't want money, your Majesty," she 
murmured.

"Oh, make a hole in them and hang them 
round your neck."

"Ah, yes: yes, give them to me," she 
cried, holding out her hand eagerly.

"You'll earn them?" he asked, playfully 
holding them out of her reach.

"How?"

"By being ready to open to me when I 
come at eleven and knock as Bauer 
knocked."

"Yes, I'll be there."

"And by telling nobody that I've been here 
to-night. Will you promise me that?"

"Not my mother?"

"No."

"Nor the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim?"

"Him least of all. You must tell nobody. 
My business is very private, and 
Rischenheim doesn't know it."

"I'll do all you tell me. But--but Bauer 
knows."

"True," said Rudolf. "Bauer knows. Well, 
we'll see about Bauer."

As he spoke he turned towards the door. 
Suddenly the girl bent, snatched at his 
hand and kissed it.

"I would die for you," she murmured.

"Poor child!" said he gently. I believe he 
was loath to make profit, even in the 
queen's service, of her poor foolish love. 
He laid his hand on the door, but paused a 
moment to say:

"If Bauer comes, you have told me 
nothing. Mind, nothing! I threatened you, 
but you told me nothing."

"He'll tell them you have been here."

"That can't be helped; at least they won't 
know when I shall arrive again. Good-
night."

Rudolf opened the door and slipped 
through, closing it hastily behind him. If 
Bauer got back to the house, his visit must 
be known; but if he could intercept Bauer, 
the girl's silence was assured. He stood 
just outside, listening intently and 
searching the darkness with eager eyes.

---

CHAPTER XI--

WHAT THE CHANCELLOR'S WIFE 
SAW

THE night, so precious in its silence, 
solitude, and darkness, was waning fast; 
soon the first dim approaches of day 
would be visible; soon the streets would 
become alive and people be about. Before 
then Rudolf Rassendyll, the man who 
bore a face that he dared not show in open 
day, must be under cover; else men would 
say that the king was in Strelsau, and the 
news would flash in a few hours through 
the kingdom and (so Rudolf feared) reach 
even those ears which we knew to be shut 
to all earthly sounds. But there was still 
some time at Mr. Rassendyll's disposal, 
and he could not spend it better than in 
pursuing his fight with Bauer. Taking a 
leaf out of the rascal's own book, he drew 
himself back into the shadow of the house 
walls and prepared to wait. At the worst 
he could keep the fellow from 
communicating with Rischenheim for a 
little longer, but his hope was that Bauer 
would steal back after a while and 
reconnoitre with a view to discovering 
how matters stood, whether the 
unwelcome visitor had taken his departure 
and the way to Rischenheim were open. 
Wrapping his scarf closely round his face, 
Rudolf waited, patiently enduring the 
tedium as he best might, drenched by the 
rain, which fell steadily, and very 
imperfectly sheltered from the buffeting 
of the wind. Minutes went by; there were 
no signs of Bauer nor of anybody else in 
the silent street. Yet Rudolf did not 
venture to leave his post; Bauer would 
seize the opportunity to slip in; perhaps 
Bauer had seen him come out, and was in 
his turn waiting till the coast should be 
clear; or, again, perhaps the useful spy 
had gone off to intercept Rupert of 
Hentzau, and warn him of the danger in 
the Ko"nigstrasse. Ignorant of the truth 
and compelled to accept all these chances, 
Rudolf waited, still watching the distant 
beginnings of dawning day, which must 
soon drive him to his hiding-place again. 
Meanwhile my poor wife waited also, a 
prey to every fear that a woman's 
sensitive mind can imagine and feed 
upon.

Rudolf turned his head this way and that, 
seeking always the darker blot of shadow 
that would mean a human being. For a 
while his search was vain, but presently 
he found what he looked for--ay, and even 
more. On the same side of the street, to 
his left hand, from the direction of the 
station, not one, but three blurred shapes 
moved up the street. They came stealthily, 
yet quickly; with caution, but without 
pause or hesitation. Rudolf, scenting 
danger, flattened himself close against the 
wall and felt for his revolver. Very likely 
they were only early workers or late 
revelers, but he was ready for something 
else; he had not yet sighted Bauer, and 
action was to be looked for from the man. 
By infinitely gradual sidelong slitherings 
he moved a few paces from the door of 
Mother Holf's house, and stood six feet 
perhaps, or eight, on the right-hand side 
of it. The three came on. He strained his 
eyes in the effort to discern their features. 
In that dim light certainty was impossible, 
but the one in the middle might well be 
Bauer: the height, the walk, and the make 
were much what Bauer's were. If it were 
Bauer, then Bauer had friends, and Bauer 
and his friends seemed to be stalking 
some game. Always most carefully and 
gradually Rudolf edged yet farther from 
the little shop. At a distance of some five 
yards he halted finally, drew out his 
revolver, covered the man whom he took 
to be Bauer, and thus waited his fortune 
and his chance.

Now, it was plain that Bauer--for Bauer it 
was--would look for one of two things: 
what he hoped was to find Rudolf still in 
the house, what he feared was to be told 
that Rudolf, having fulfilled the unknown 
purpose of his visit, was gone whole and 
sound. If the latter tidings met him, these 
two good friends of his whom he had 
enlisted for his reinforcement were to 
have five crowns each and go home in 
peace; if the former, they were to do their 
work and make ten crowns. Years after, 
one of them told me the whole story 
without shame or reserve. What their 
work was, the heavy bludgeons they 
carried and the long knife that one of 
them had lent to Bauer showed pretty 
clearly.

But neither to Bauer nor to them did it 
occur that their quarry might be crouching 
near, hunting as well as hunted. Not that 
the pair of ruffians who had been thus 
hired would have hesitated for that 
thought, as I imagine. For it is strange, yet 
certain, that the zenith of courage and the 
acme of villainy can alike be bought for 
the price of a lady's glove. Among such 
outcasts as those from whom Bauer drew 
his recruits the murder of a man is held 
serious only when the police are by, and 
death at the hands of him they seek to kill 
is no more than an every-day risk of their 
employment.

"Here's the house," whispered Bauer, 
stopping at the door. "Now, I'll knock, 
and you stand by to knock him on the 
head if he runs out. He's got a six-shooter, 
so lose no time."

"He'll only fire it in heaven," growled a 
hoarse, guttural voice that ended in a 
chuckle.

"But if he's gone?" objected the other 
auxiliary.

"Then I know where he's gone," answered 
Bauer. "Are you ready?"

A ruffian stood on either side of the door 
with uplifted bludgeon. Bauer raised his 
hand to knock.

Rudolf knew that Rischenheim was 
within, and he feared that Bauer, hearing 
that the stranger had gone, would take the 
opportunity of telling the count of his 
visit. The count would, in his turn, warn 
Rupert of Hentzau, and the work of 
catching the ringleader would all fall to be 
done again. At no time did Mr. 
Rassendyll take count of odds against 
him, but in this instance he may well have 
thought himself, with his revolver, a 
match for the three ruffians. At any rate, 
before Bauer had time to give the signal, 
he sprang out suddenly from the wall and 
darted at the fellow. His onset was so 
sudden that the other two fell back a pace; 
Rudolf caught Bauer fairly by the throat. I 
do not suppose that he meant to strangle 
him, but the anger, long stored in his 
heart, found vent in the fierce grip of his 
fingers. It is certain that Bauer thought his 
time was come, unless he struck a blow 
for himself. Instantly he raised his hand 
and thrust fiercely at Rudolf with his long 
knife. Mr. Rassendyll would have been a 
dead man, had he not loosed his hold and 
sprung lightly away. But Bauer sprang at 
him again, thrusting with the knife, and 
crying to his associates,

"Club him, you fools, club him!"

Thus exhorted, one jumped forward. The 
moment for hesitation had gone. In spite 
of the noise of wind and pelting rain, the 
sound of a shot risked much; but not to 
fire was death. Rudolf fired full at Bauer: 
the fellow saw his intention and tried to 
leap behind one of his companions; he 
was just too late, and fell with a groan to 
the ground.

Again the other ruffians shrank back, 
appalled by the sudden ruthless decision 
of the act. Mr. Rassendyll laughed, A half 
smothered yet uncontrolled oath broke 
from one of them.

"By God!" he whispered hoarsely, gazing 
at Rudolf's face and letting his arm fall to 
his side.

"My God!" he said then, and his mouth 
hung open. Again Rudolf laughed at his 
terrified stare.

"A bigger job than you fancied, is it?" he 
asked, pushing his scarf well away from 
his chin.

The man gaped at him; the other's eyes 
asked wondering questions, but neither 
did he attempt to resume the attack. The 
first at last found voice, and he said, 
"Well, it'd be damned cheap at ten 
crowns, and that's the living truth."

His friend--or confederate rather, for such 
men have no friends--looked on, still 
amazed.

"Take up that fellow by his head and his 
heels," ordered Rudolf. "Quickly! I 
suppose you don't want the police to find 
us here with him, do you? Well, no more 
do I. Lift him up."

As he spoke Rudolf turned to knock at the 
door of No. 19. But even as he did so 
Bauer groaned. Dead perhaps he ought to 
have been, but it seems to me that fate is 
always ready to take the cream and leave 
the scum. His leap aside had served him 
well, after all: he had nearly escaped scot 
free. As it was, the bullet, almost missing 
his head altogether, had just glanced on 
his temple as it passed; its impact had 
stunned, but not killed. Friend Bauer was 
in unusual luck that night; I wouldn't have 
taken a hundred to one about his chance 
of life. Rupert arrested his hand. It would 
not do to leave Bauer at the house, if 
Bauer were likely to regain speech. He 
stood for a moment, considering what to 
do, but in an instant the thoughts that he 
tried to gather were scattered again.

"The patrol! the patrol!" hoarsely 
whispered the fellow who had not yet 
spoken. There was a sound of the hoofs of 
horses. Down the street from the station 
end there appeared two mounted men. 
Without a second moment's hesitation the 
two rascals dropped their friend Bauer 
with a thud on the ground; one ran at his 
full speed across the street, the other 
bolted no less quickly up the 
Ko"nigstrasse. Neither could afford to 
meet the constables; and who could say 
what story this red-haired gentleman 
might tell, ay, or what powers he might 
command?

But, in truth, Rudolf gave no thought to 
either his story or his powers. If he were 
caught, the best he could hope would be 
to lie in the lockup while Rupert played 
his game unmolested. The device that he 
had employed against the amazed ruffians 
could be used against lawful authority 
only as a last and desperate resort. While 
he could run, run he would. In an instant 
he also took to his heels, following the 
fellow who had darted up the 
Ko"nigstrasse. But before he had gone 
very far, coming to a narrow turning, he 
shot down it; then he paused for a 
moment to listen.

The patrol had seen the sudden dispersal 
of the group, and, struck with natural 
suspicion, quickened pace. A few minutes 
brought them where Bauer was. They 
jumped from their horses and ran to him. 
He was unconscious, and could, of 
course, give them no account of how he 
came to be in his present state. The fronts 
of all the houses were dark, the doors 
shut; there was nothing to connect the 
man stretched on the ground with either 
No. 19 or any other dwelling. Moreover, 
the constables were not sure that the 
sufferer was himself a meritorious object, 
for his hand still held a long, ugly knife. 
They were perplexed: they were but two; 
there was a wounded man to look after; 
there were three men to pursue, and the 
three had fled in three separate directions. 
They looked up at No. 19; No. 19 
remained dark, quiet, absolutely 
indifferent. The fugitives were out of 
sight. Rudolf Rassendyll, hearing nothing, 
had started again on his way. But a 
minute later he heard a shrill whistle. The 
patrol were summoning assistance; the 
man must be carried to the station, and a 
report made; but other constables might 
be warned of what had happened, and 
despatched in pursuit of the culprits. 
Rudolf heard more than one answering 
whistle; he broke into a run, looking for a 
turning on the left that would take him 
back into the direction of my house, but 
he found none. The narrow street twisted 
and curved in the bewildering way that 
characterizes the old parts of the town. 
Rudolf had spent some time once in 
Strelsau; but a king learns little of back 
streets, and he was soon fairly puzzled as 
to his whereabouts. Day was dawning, 
and he began to meet people here and 
there. He dared run no more, even had his 
breath lasted him; winding the scarf about 
his face, and cramming his hat over his 
forehead again, he fell into an easy walk, 
wondering whether he could venture to 
ask his way, relieved to find no signs that 
he was being pursued, trying to persuade 
himself that Bauer, though not dead, was 
at least incapable of embarrassing 
disclosures; above all, conscious of the 
danger of his tell-tale face, and of the 
necessity of finding some shelter before 
the city was all stirring and awake.

At this moment he heard horses' hoofs 
behind him. He was now at the end of the 
street, where it opened on the square in 
which the barracks stand. He knew his 
bearings now, and, had he not been 
interrupted, could have been back to safe 
shelter in my house in twenty minutes. 
But, looking back, he saw the figure of a 
mounted constable just coming into sight 
behind him. The man seemed to see 
Rudolf, for he broke into a quick trot. Mr. 
Rassendyll's position was critical; this fact 
alone accounts for the dangerous step into 
which he allowed himself to be forced. 
Here he was, a man unable to give 
account of himself, of remarkable 
appearance, and carrying a revolver, of 
which one barrel was discharged. And 
there was Bauer, a wounded man, shot by 
somebody with a revolver, a quarter of an 
hour before. Even to be questioned was 
dangerous; to be detained meant ruin to 
the great business that engaged his 
energies. For all he knew, the patrol had 
actually sighted him as he ran. His fears 
were not vain; for the constable raised his 
voice, crying, "Hi, sir--you there--stop a 
minute!"

Resistance was the one thing worse than 
to yield. Wit, and not force, must find 
escape this time. Rudolf stopped, looking 
round again with a surprised air. Then he 
drew himself up with an assumption of 
dignity, and waited for the constable. If 
that last card must be played, he would 
win the hand with it.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked 
coldly, when the man was a few yards 
from him; and, as he spoke, he withdrew 
the scarf almost entirely from his features, 
keeping it only over his chin. "You call 
very peremptorily," he continued, staring 
contemptuously. "What's your business 
with me?"

With a violent start, the sergeant--for such 
the star on his collar and the lace on his 
cuff proclaimed him--leant forward in the 
saddle to look at the man whom he had 
hailed. Rudolf said nothing and did not 
move. The man's eyes studied his face 
intently. Then he sat bolt upright and 
saluted, his face dyed to a deep red in his 
sudden confusion.

"And why do you salute me now?" asked 
Rudolf in a mocking tone. "First you hunt 
me, then you salute me. By Heaven, I 
don't know why you put yourself out at all 
about me!"

"I--I--" the fellow stuttered. Then trying a 
fresh start, he stammered, "Your Majesty, 
I didn't know--I didn't suppose--"

Rudolf stepped towards him with a quick, 
decisive tread.

"And why do you call me 'Your 
Majesty'?" he asked, still mockingly.

"It--it--isn't it your Majesty?"

Rudolf was close by him now, his hand 
on the horse's neck.

He looked up into the sergeant's face with 
steady eyes, saying:

"You make a mistake, my friend. I am not 
the king."

"You are not--?" stuttered the bewildered 
fellow.

"By no means. And, sergeant--?"

"Your Majesty?"

"Sir, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"A zealous officer, sergeant, can make no 
greater mistake than to take for the king a 
gentleman who is not the king. It might 
injure his prospects, since the king, not 
being here, mightn't wish to have it 
supposed that he was here. Do you follow 
me, sergeant?"

The man said nothing, but stared hard. 
After a moment Rudolf continued:

"In such a case," said he, "a discreet 
officer would not trouble the gentleman 
any more, and would be very careful not 
to mention that he had made such a silly 
mistake. Indeed, if questioned, he would 
answer without hesitation that he hadn't 
seen anybody even like the king, much 
less the king himself."

A doubtful, puzzled little smile spread 
under the sergeant's moustache.

"You see, the king is not even in 
Strelsau," said Rudolf.

"Not in Strelsau, sir?"

"Why, no, he's at Zenda."

"Ah! At Zenda, sir?"

"Certainly. It is therefore impossible--
physically impossible--that he should be 
here."

The fellow was convinced that he 
understood now.

"It's certainly impossible, sir," said he, 
smiling more broadly.

"Absolutely. And therefore impossible 
also that you should have seen him." With 
this Rudolf took a gold piece from his 
pocket and handed it to the sergeant. The 
fellow took it with something like a wink.

"As for you, you've searched here and 
found nobody," concluded Mr. 
Rassendyll. "So hadn't you better at once 
search somewhere else?,

"Without doubt, sir," said the sergeant, 
and with the most deferential salute, and 
another confidential smile, he turned and 
rode back by the way he had come. No 
doubt he wished that he could meet a 
gentleman who was--not the king--every 
morning of his life. It hardly need be said 
that all idea of connecting the gentleman 
with the crime committed in the 
Ko"nigstrasse had vanished from his 
mind. Thus Rudolf won freedom from the 
man's interference, but at a dangerous 
cost--how dangerous he did not know. It 
was indeed most impossible that the king 
could be in Strelsau.

He lost no time now in turning his steps 
towards his refuge. It was past five 
o'clock, day came quickly, and the streets 
began to be peopled by men and women 
on their way to open stalls or to buy in the 
market. Rudolf crossed the square at a 
rapid walk, for he was afraid of the 
soldiers who were gathering for early duty 
opposite to the barracks. Fortunately he 
passed by them unobserved, and gained 
the comparative seclusion of the street in 
which my house stands, without 
encountering any further difficulties. In 
truth, he was almost in safety; but bad 
luck was now to have its turn. When Mr. 
Rassendyll was no more than fifty yards 
from my door, a carriage suddenly drove 
up and stopped a few paces in front of 
him. The footman sprang down and 
opened the door. Two ladies got out; they 
were dressed in evening costume, and 
were returning from a ball. One was 
middle-aged, the other young and rather 
pretty. They stood for a moment on the 
pavement, the younger saying:

"Isn't it pleasant, mother? I wish I could 
always be up at five o'clock."

"My dear, you wouldn't like it for long," 
answered the elder. "It's very nice for a 
change, but--"

She stopped abruptly. Her eye had fallen 
on Rudolf Rassendyll. He knew her: she 
was no less a person than the wife of 
Helsing the chancellor; his was the house 
at which the carriage had stopped. The 
trick that had served with the sergeant of 
police would not do now. She knew the 
king too well to believe that she could be 
mistaken about him; she was too much of 
a busybody to be content to pretend that 
she was mistaken.

"Good gracious!" she whispered loudly, 
and, catching her daughter's arm, she 
murmured, "Heavens, my dear, it's the 
king!"

Rudolf was caught. Not only the ladies, 
but their servants were looking at him.

Flight was impossible. He walked by 
them. The ladies curtseyed, the servants 
bowed bare-headed. Rudolf touched his 
hat and bowed slightly in return. He 
walked straight on towards my house; 
they were watching him, and he knew it. 
Most heartily did he curse the untimely 
hours to which folks keep up their 
dancing, but he thought that a visit to my 
house would afford as plausible an excuse 
for his presence as any other. So he went 
on, surveyed by the wondering ladies, and 
by the servants who, smothering smiles, 
asked one another what brought his 
Majesty abroad in such a plight (for 
Rudolf's clothes were soaked and his 
boots muddy), at such an hour--and that in 
Strelsau, when all the world thought he 
was at Zenda.

Rudolf reached my house. Knowing that 
he was watched he had abandoned all 
intention of giving the signal agreed on 
between my wife and himself and of 
making his way in through the window. 
Such a sight would indeed have given the 
excellent Baroness von Helsing matter for 
gossip! It was better to let every servant in 
my house see his open entrance. But, alas, 
virtue itself sometimes leads to ruin. My 
dearest Helga, sleepless and watchful in 
the interest of her mistress, was even now 
behind the shutter, listening with all her 
ears and peering through the chinks. No 
sooner did Rudolf's footsteps become 
audible than she cautiously unfastened the 
shutter, opened the window, put her pretty 
head out, and called softly: "All's safe! 
Come in!"

The mischief was done then, for the faces 
of Helsing's wife and daughter, ay, and 
the faces of Helsing's servants, were 
intent on this most strange spectacle. 
Rudolf, turning his head over his 
shoulder, saw them; a moment later poor 
Helga saw them also. Innocent and 
untrained in controlling her feelings, she 
gave a shrill little cry of dismay, and 
hastily drew back. Rudolf looked round 
again. The ladies had retreated to the 
cover of the porch, but he still saw their 
eager faces peering from between the 
pillars that supported it.

"I may as well go in now," said Rudolf, 
and in he sprang. There was a merry smile 
on his face as he ran forward to meet 
Helga, who leant against the table, pale 
and agitated.

"They saw you?" she gasped.

"Undoubtedly," said he. Then his sense of 
amusement conquered everything else, 
and he sat down in a chair, laughing.

"I'd give my life," said he, "to hear the 
story that the chancellor will be waked up 
to hear in a minute or two from now!"

But a moment's thought made him grave 
again. For whether he were the king or 
Rudolf Rassendyll, he knew that my 
wife's name was in equal peril. Knowing 
this, he stood at nothing to serve her. He 
turned to her and spoke quickly.

"You must rouse one of the servants at 
once. Send him round to the chancellor's 
and tell the chancellor to come here 
directly. No, write a note. Say the king 
has come by appointment to see Fritz on 
some private business, but that Fritz has 
not kept the appointment, and that the 
king must now see the chancellor at once. 
Say there's not a moment to lose."

She was looking at him with wondering 
eyes.

"Don't you see," he said, "if I can impose 
on Helsing, I may stop those women's 
tongues? If nothing's done, how long do 
you suppose it'll be before all Strelsau 
knows that Fritz von Tarlenheim's wife let 
the king in at the window at five o'clock 
in the morning?"

"I don't understand," murmured poor 
Helga in bewilderment.

"No, my dear lady, but for Heaven's sake 
do what I ask of you. It's the only chance 
now."

"I'll do it," she said, and sat down to write.

Thus it was that, hard on the marvelous 
tidings which, as I conjecture, the 
Baroness von Helsing poured into her 
husband's drowsy ears, came an 
imperative summons that the chancellor 
should wait on the king at the house of 
Fritz von Tarlenheim.

Truly we had tempted fate too far by 
bringing Rudolf Rassendyll again to 
Strelsau.

---

CHAPTER XII--

BEFORE THEM ALL!

GREAT as was the risk and immense as 
were the difficulties created by the course 
which Mr. Rassendyll adopted, I cannot 
doubt that he acted for the best in the light 
of the information which he possessed. 
His plan was to disclose himself in the 
character of the king to Helsing, to bind 
him to secrecy, and make him impose the 
same obligation on his wife, daughter, and 
servants. The chancellor was to be quieted 
with the excuse of urgent business, and 
conciliated by a promise that he should 
know its nature in the course of a few 
hours; meanwhile an appeal to his loyalty 
must suffice to insure obedience. If all 
went well in the day that had now 
dawned, by the evening of it the letter 
would be destroyed, the queen's peril past, 
and Rudolf once more far away from 
Strelsau. Then enough of the truth--no 
more--must be disclosed. Helsing would 
be told the story of Rudolf Rassendyll and 
persuaded to hold his tongue about the 
harum-scarum Englishman (we are ready 
to believe much of an Englishman) having 
been audacious enough again to play the 
king in Strelsau. The old chancellor was a 
very good fellow, and I do not think that 
Rudolf did wrong in relying upon him. 
Where he miscalculated was, of course, 
just where he was ignorant. The whole of 
what the queen's friends, ay, and the 
queen herself, did in Strelsau, became 
useless and mischievous by reason of the 
king's death; their action must have been 
utterly different, had they been aware of 
that catastrophe; but their wisdom must be 
judged only according to their knowledge.

In the first place, the chancellor himself 
showed much good sense. Even before he 
obeyed the king's summons he sent for the 
two servants and charged them, on pain of 
instant dismissal and worse things to 
follow, to say nothing of what they had 
seen. His commands to his wife and 
daughter were more polite, doubtless, but 
no less peremptory. He may well have 
supposed that the king's business was 
private as well as important when it led 
his Majesty to be roaming the streets of 
Strelsau at a moment when he was 
supposed to be at the Castle of Zenda, and 
to enter a friend's house by the window at 
such untimely hours. The mere facts were 
eloquent of secrecy. Moreover, the king 
had shaved his beard--the ladies were sure 
of it--and this, again, though it might be 
merely an accidental coincidence, was 
also capable of signifying a very urgent 
desire to be unknown. So the chancellor, 
having given his orders, and being 
himself aflame with the liveliest curiosity, 
lost no time in obeying the king's 
commands, and arrived at my house 
before six o'clock.

When the visitor was announced Rudolf 
was upstairs, having a bath and some 
breakfast. Helga had learnt her lesson 
well enough to entertain the visitor until 
Rudolf appeared. She was full of 
apologies for my absence, protesting that 
she could in no way explain it; neither 
could she so much as conjecture what was 
the king's business with her husband. She 
played the dutiful wife whose virtue was 
obedience, whose greatest sin would be 
an indiscreet prying into what it was not 
her part to know.

"I know no more," she said, "than that 
Fritz wrote to me to expect the king and 
him at about five o'clock, and to be ready 
to let them in by the window, as the king 
did not wish the servants to be aware of 
his presence."

The king came and greeted Helsing most 
graciously. The tragedy and comedy of 
these busy days were strangely mingled; 
even now I can hardly help smiling when 
I picture Rudolf, with grave lips, but that 
distant twinkle in his eye (I swear he 
enjoyed the sport), sitting down by the old 
chancellor in the darkest corner of the 
room, covering him with flattery, hinting 
at most strange things, deploring a secret 
obstacle to immediate confidence, 
promising that to-morrow, at latest, he 
would seek the advice of the wisest and 
most tried of his counselors, appealing to 
the chancellor's loyalty to trust him till 
then. Helsing, blinking through his 
spectacles, followed with devout attention 
the long narrative that told nothing, and 
the urgent exhortation that masked a trick. 
His accents were almost broken with 
emotion as he put himself absolutely at 
the king's disposal, and declared that he 
could answer for the discretion of his 
family and household as completely as for 
his own.

"Then you're a very lucky man, my dear 
chancellor," said Rudolf, with a sigh 
which seemed to hint that the king in his 
palace was not so fortunate. Helsing was 
immensely pleased. He was all agog to go 
and tell his wife how entirely the king 
trusted to her honor and silence.

There was nothing that Rudolf more 
desired than to be relieved of the excellent 
old fellow's presence; but, well aware of 
the supreme importance of keeping him in 
a good temper, he would not hear of his 
departure for a few minutes.

"At any rate, the ladies won't talk till after 
breakfast, and since they got home only at 
five o'clock they won't breakfast yet 
awhile," said he.

So he made Helsing sit down, and talked 
to him. Rudolf had not failed to notice 
that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim had 
been a little surprised at the sound of his 
voice; in this conversation he studiously 
kept his tones low, affecting a certain 
weakness and huskiness such as he had 
detected in the king's utterances, as he 
listened behind the curtain in Sapt's room 
at the castle. The part was played as 
completely and triumphantly as in the old 
days when he ran the gauntlet of every 
eye in Strelsau. Yet if he had not taken 
such pains to conciliate old Helsing, but 
had let him depart, he might not have 
found himself driven to a greater and even 
more hazardous deception.

They were conversing together alone. My 
wife had been prevailed on by Rudolf to 
lie down in her room for an hour. Sorely 
needing rest, she had obeyed him, having 
first given strict orders that no member of 
the household should enter the room 
where the two were except on an express 
summons. Fearing suspicion, she and 
Rudolf had agreed that it was better to 
rely on these injunctions than to lock the 
door again as they had the night before.

But while these things passed at my 
house, the queen and Bernenstein were on 
their way to Strelsau. Perhaps, had Sapt 
been at Zenda, his powerful influence 
might have availed to check the impulsive 
expedition; Bernenstein had no such 
authority, and could only obey the queen's 
peremptory orders and pathetic prayers. 
Ever since Rudolf Rassendyll left her, 
three years before, she had lived in stern 
self-repression, never her true self, never 
for a moment able to be or to do what 
every hour her heart urged on her. How 
are these things done? I doubt if a man 
lives who could do them; but women live 
who do them. Now his sudden coming, 
and the train of stirring events that 
accompanied it, his danger and hers, his 
words and her enjoyment of his presence, 
had all worked together to shatter her self-
control; and the strange dream, 
heightening the emotion which was its 
own cause, left her with no conscious 
desire save to be near Mr. Rassendyll, and 
scarcely with a fear except for his safety. 
As they journeyed her talk was all of his 
peril, never of the disaster which 
threatened herself, and which we were all 
striving with might and main to avert 
from her head. She traveled alone with 
Bernenstein, getting rid of the lady who 
attended her by some careless pretext, and 
she urged on him continually to bring her 
as speedily as might be to Mr. Rassendyll. 
I cannot find much blame for her. Rudolf 
stood for all the joy in her life, and Rudolf 
had gone to fight with the Count of 
Hentzau. What wonder that she saw him, 
as it were, dead? Yet still she would have 
it that, in his seeming death, all men 
hailed him for their king. Well, it was her 
love that crowned him.

As they reached the city, she grew more 
composed, being persuaded by 
Bernenstein that nothing in her bearing 
must rouse suspicion. Yet she was none 
the less resolved to seek Mr. Rassendyll at 
once. In truth, she feared even then to find 
him dead, so strong was the hold of her 
dream on her; until she knew that he was 
alive she could not rest. Bernenstein, 
fearful that the strain would kill her, or 
rob her of reason, promised everything; 
and declared, with a confidence which he 
did not feel, that beyond doubt Mr. 
Rassendyll was alive and well.

"But where--where?" she cried eagerly, 
with clasped hands.

"We're most likely, madam, to find him at 
Fritz von Tarlenheim's," answered the 
lieutenant. "He would wait there till the 
time came to attack Rupert, or, if the thing 
is over, he will have returned there."

"Then let us drive there at once," she 
urged.

Bernenstein, however, persuaded her to 
go to the palace first and let it be known 
there that she was going to pay a visit to 
my wife. She arrived at the palace at eight 
o'clock, took a cup of chocolate, and then 
ordered her carriage. Bernenstein alone 
accompanied her when she set out for my 
house about nine. He was, by now, hardly 
less agitated than the queen herself.

In her entire preoccupation with Mr. 
Rassendyll, she gave little thought to what 
might have happened at the hunting 
lodge; but Bernenstein drew gloomy 
auguries from the failure of Sapt and 
myself to return at the proper time. Either 
evil had befallen us, or the letter had 
reached the king before we arrived at the 
lodge; the probabilities seemed to him to 
be confined to these alternatives. Yet 
when he spoke in this strain to the queen, 
he could get from her nothing except, "If 
we can find Mr. Rassendyll, he will tell us 
what to do."

Thus, then, a little after nine in the 
morning the queen's carriage drove up to 
my door. The ladies of the chancellor's 
family had enjoyed a very short night's 
rest, for their heads came bobbing out of 
window the moment the wheels were 
heard; many people were about now, and 
the crown on the panels attracted the 
usual small crowd of loiterers. 
Bernenstein sprang out and gave his hand 
to the queen. With a hasty slight bow to 
the onlookers, she hastened up the two or 
three steps of the porch, and with her own 
hand rang the bell. Inside, the carriage 
had just been observed. My wife's 
waiting-maid ran hastily to her mistress; 
Helga was lying on her bed; she rose at 
once, and after a few moments of 
necessary preparations (or such 
preparations as seem to ladies necessary, 
however great the need of haste may be) 
hurried downstairs to receive her Majesty-
-and to warn her Majesty. She was too 
late. The door was already open. The 
butler and the footman both had run to it, 
and thrown it open for the queen. As 
Helga reached the foot of the stairs, her 
Majesty was just entering the room where 
Rudolf was, the servants attending her, 
and Bernenstein standing behind, his 
helmet in his hand.

Rudolf and the chancellor had been 
continuing their conversation. To avoid 
the observations of passers-by (for the 
interior of the room is easy to see from 
the street), the blind had been drawn 
down, and the room was in deep shadow. 
They had heard the wheels, but neither of 
them dreamt that the visitor could be the 
queen. It was an utter surprise to them 
when, without their orders, the door was 
suddenly flung open. The chancellor, 
slow of movement, and not, if I may say 
it, over-quick of brain, sat in his corner 
for half a minute or more before he rose 
to his feet. On the other hand, Rudolf 
Rassendyll was the best part of the way 
across the room in an instant. Helga was 
at the door now, and she thrust her head 
round young Bernenstein's broad 
shoulders. Thus she saw what happened. 
The queen, forgetting the servants, and 
not observing Helsing--seeming indeed to 
stay for nothing, and to think of nothing, 
but to have her thoughts and heart filled 
with the sight of the man she loved and 
the knowledge of his safety--met him as 
he ran towards her, and, before Helga, or 
Bernenstein, or Rudolf himself, could stay 
her or conceive what she was about to do, 
caught both his hands in hers with an 
intense grasp, crying:

"Rudolf, you're safe! Thank God, oh, 
thank God!" and she carried his hands to 
her lips and kissed them passionately.

A moment of absolute silence followed, 
dictated in the servants by decorum, in the 
chancellor by consideration, in Helga and 
Bernenstein by utter consternation. 
Rudolf himself also was silent, but 
whether from bewilderment or an emotion 
answering to hers, I know not. Either it 
might well be. The stillness struck her. 
She looked up in his eyes; she looked 
round the room and saw Helsing, now 
bowing profoundly from the corner; she 
turned her head with a sudden frightened 
jerk, and glanced at my motionless 
deferential servants. Then it came upon 
her what she had done. She gave a quick 
gasp for breath, and her face, always pale, 
went white as marble. Her features set in 
a strange stiffness, and suddenly she 
reeled where she stood, and fell forward. 
Only Rudolf's hand bore her up. Thus for 
a moment, too short to reckon, they stood. 
Then he, a smile of great love and pity 
coming on his lips, drew her to him, and 
passing his arm about her waist, thus 
supported her. Then, smiling still, he 
looked down on her, and said in a low 
tone, yet distinct enough for all to hear:

"All is well, dearest."

My wife gripped Bernenstein's arm, and 
he turned to find her pale-faced too, with 
quivering lips and shining eyes. But the 
eyes had a message, and an urgent one, 
for him. He read it; he knew that it bade 
him second what Rudolf Rassendyll had 
done. He came forward and approached 
Rudolf; then he fell on one knee, and 
kissed Rudolf's left hand that was 
extended to him.

"I'm very glad to see you, Lieutenant von 
Bernenstein," said Rudolf Rassendyll.

For a moment the thing was done, ruin 
averted, and safety secured. Everything 
had been at stake; that there was such a 
man as Rudolf Rassendyll might have 
been disclosed; that he had once filled the 
king's throne was a high secret which they 
were prepared to trust to Helsing under 
stress of necessity; but there remained 
something which must be hidden at all 
costs, and which the queen's passionate 
exclamation had threatened to expose. 
There was a Rudolf Rassendyll, and he 
had been king; but, more than all this, the 
queen loved him and he the queen. That 
could be told to none, not even to 
Helsing; for Helsing, though he would not 
gossip to the town, would yet hold 
himself bound to carry the matter to the 
king. So Rudolf chose to take any future 
difficulties rather than that present and 
certain disaster. Sooner than entail it on 
her he loved, he claimed for himself the 
place of her husband and the name of 
king. And she, clutching at the only 
chance that her act left, was content to 
have it so. It may be that for an instant her 
weary, tortured brain found sweet rest in 
the dim dream that so it was, for she let 
her head lie there on his breast and her 
eyes closed, her face looking very 
peaceful, and a soft little sigh escaping in 
pleasure from her lips.

But every moment bore its peril and 
exacted its effort. Rudolf led the queen to 
a couch, and then briefly charged the 
servants not to speak of his presence for a 
few hours. As they had no doubt 
perceived, said he, from the queen's 
agitation, important business was on foot; 
it demanded his presence in Strelsau, but 
required also that his presence should not 
be known. A short time would free them 
from the obligation which he now asked 
of their loyalty. When they had 
withdrawn, bowing obedience, he turned 
to Helsing, pressed his hand warmly, 
reiterated his request for silence, and said 
that he would summon the chancellor to 
his presence again later in the day, either 
where he was or at the palace. Then he 
bade all withdraw and leave him alone for 
a little with the queen. He was obeyed; 
but Helsing had hardly left the house 
when Rudolf called Bernenstein back, and 
with him my wife. Helga hastened to the 
queen, who was still sorely agitated; 
Rudolf drew Bernenstein aside, and 
exchanged with him all their news. Mr. 
Rassendyll was much disturbed at finding 
that no tidings had come from Colonel 
Sapt and myself, but his apprehension 
was greatly increased on learning the 
untoward accident by which the king 
himself had been at the lodge the night 
before. Indeed, he was utterly in the dark; 
where the king was, where Rupert, where 
we were, he did not know. And he was 
here in Strelsau, known as the king to half 
a dozen people or more, protected only by 
their promises, liable at any moment to be 
exposed by the coming of the king 
himself, or even by a message from him.

Yet, in face of all perplexities, perhaps 
even the more because of the darkness in 
which he was enveloped, Rudolf held 
firm to his purpose. There were two 
things that seemed plain. If Rupert had 
escaped the trap and was still alive with 
the letter on him, Rupert must be found; 
here was the first task. That 
accomplished, there remained for Rudolf 
himself nothing save to disappear as 
quietly and secretly as he had come, 
trusting that his presence could be 
concealed from the man whose name he 
had usurped. Nay, if need were, the king 
must be told that Rudolf Rassendyll had 
played a trick on the chancellor, and, 
having enjoyed his pleasure, was gone 
again. Everything could, in the last resort, 
be told, save that which touched the 
queen's honor.

At this moment the message which I 
despatched from the station at Hofbau 
reached my house. There was a knock at 
the door. Bernenstein opened it and took 
the telegram, which was addressed to my 
wife. I had written all that I dared to trust 
to such a means of communication, and 
here it is:

"I am coming to Strelsau. The king will 
not leave the lodge to-day. The count 
came, but left before we arrived. I do not 
know whether he has gone to Strelsau. He 
gave no news to the king."

"Then they didn't get him!" cried 
Bernenstein in deep disappointment.

"No, but he gave no news to the king," 
said Rudolf triumphantly.

They were all standing now round the 
queen, who sat on the couch. She seemed 
very faint and weary, but at peace. It was 
enough for her that Rudolf fought and 
planned for her.

"And see this," Rudolf went on. "'The 
king will not leave the lodge to-day.' 
Thank God, then, we have to-day!"

"Yes, but where's Rupert?"

"We shall know in an hour, if he's in 
Strelsau," and Mr. Rassendyll looked as 
though it would please him well to find 
Rupert in Strelsau. "Yes, I must seek him. 
I shall stand at nothing to find him. If I 
can only get to him as the king, then I'll 
be the king. We have to-day!"

My message put them in heart again, 
although it left so much still unexplained. 
Rudolf turned to the queen.

"Courage, my queen," said he. "A few 
hours now will see an end of all our 
dangers."

"And then?" she asked.

"Then you'll be safe and at rest," said he, 
bending over her and speaking softly. 
"And I shall be proud in the knowledge of 
having saved you."

"And you?"

"I must go," Helga heard him whisper as 
he bent lower still, and she and 
Bernenstein moved away.

---

CHAPTER XIII--

A KING UP HIS SLEEVE

The tall handsome girl was taking down 
the shutters from the shop front at No. 19 
in the Ko"nigstrasse. She went about her 
work languidly enough, but there was a 
tinge of dusky red on her cheeks and her 
eyes were brightened by some suppressed 
excitement. Old Mother Holf, leaning 
against the counter, was grumbling 
angrily because Bauer did not come. Now 
it was not likely that Bauer would come 
just yet, for he was still in the infirmary 
attached to the police-cells, where a 
couple of doctors were very busy setting 
him on his legs again. The old woman 
knew nothing of this, but only that he had 
gone the night before to reconnoitre; 
where he was to play the spy she did not 
know, on whom perhaps she guessed.

"You're sure he never came back?" she 
asked her daughter.

"He never came back that I saw," 
answered the girl. "And I was on the 
watch with my lamp here in the shop till it 
grew light."

"He's twelve hours gone now, and never a 
message! Ay, and Count Rupert should be 
here soon, and he'll be in a fine taking if 
Bauer's not back."

The girl made no answer; she had finished 
her task and stood in the doorway, 
looking out on the street. It was past eight, 
and many people were about, still for the 
most part humble folk; the more 
comfortably placed would not be moving 
for an hour or two yet. In the road the 
traffic consisted chiefly of country carts 
and wagons, bringing in produce for the 
day's victualling of the great city. The girl 
watched the stream, but her thoughts were 
occupied with the stately gentleman who 
had come to her by night and asked a 
service of her. She had heard the revolver 
shot outside; as it sounded she had blown 
out her lamp, and there behind the door in 
the dark had heard the swiftly retreating 
feet of the fugitives and, a little later, the 
arrival of the patrol. Well, the patrol 
would not dare to touch the king; as for 
Bauer, let him be alive or dead: what 
cared she, who was the king's servant, 
able to help the king against his enemies? 
If Bauer were the king's enemy, right glad 
would she be to hear that the rogue was 
dead. How finely the king had caught him 
by the neck and thrown him out! She 
laughed to think how little her mother 
knew the company she had kept that 
night.

The row of country carts moved slowly 
by. One or two stopped before the shop, 
and the carters offered vegetables for sale. 
The old woman would have nothing to 
say to them, but waved them on irritably. 
Three had thus stopped and again 
proceeded, and an impatient grumble 
broke from the old lady as a fourth, a 
covered wagon, drew up before the door.

"We don't want anything: go on, go on 
with you!" she cried shrilly.

The carter got down from his seat without 
heeding her, and walked round to the 
back.

"Here you are, sir," he cried. "Nineteen, 
Ko"nigstrasse."

A yawn was heard, and the long sigh a 
man gives as he stretches himself in the 
mingled luxury and pain of an awakening 
after sound refreshing sleep.

"All right; I'll get down," came in answer 
from inside.

"Ah, it's the count!" said the old lady to 
her daughter in satisfied tones. "What will 
he say, though, about that rogue Bauer?"

Rupert of Hentzau put his head out from 
under the wagon-tilt, looked up and down 
the street, gave the carter a couple of 
crowns, leapt down, and ran lightly across 
the pavement into the little shop. The 
wagon moved on.

"A lucky thing I met him," said Rupert 
cheerily. "The wagon hid me very well; 
and handsome as my face is, I can't let 
Strelsau enjoy too much of it just now. 
Well, mother, what cheer? And you, my 
pretty, how goes it with you?" He 
carelessly brushed the girl's cheek with 
the glove that he had drawn off. "Faith, 
though, I beg your pardon." he added a 
moment later, "the glove's not clean 
enough for that," and he looked at his buff 
glove, which was stained with patches of 
dull rusty 'brown.

"It's all as when you left, Count Rupert," 
said Mother Holf, "except that that rascal 
Bauer went out last night--"

"That's right enough. But hasn't he 
returned?"

"No, not yet."

"Hum. No signs of--anybody else?" His 
look defined the vague question.

The old woman shook her head. The girl 
turned away to hide a smile. "Anybody 
else" meant the king, so she suspected. 
Well, they should hear nothing from her. 
The king himself had charged her to be 
silent.

"But Rischenheim has come, I suppose?" 
pursued Rupert.

"Oh, yes; he came, my lord, soon after 
you went. He wears his arm in a sling."

"Ah!" cried Rupert in sudden excitement. 
"As I guessed! The devil! If only I could 
do everything myself, and not have to 
trust to fools and bunglers! Where's the 
count?"

"Why, in the attic. You know the way."

"True. But I want some breakfast, 
mother."

"Rosa shall serve you at once, my lord."

The girl followed Rupert up the narrow 
crazy staircase of the tall old house. They 
passed three floors, all uninhabited; a last 
steep flight that brought them right under 
the deep arched roof. Rupert opened a 
door that stood at the top of the stairs, 
and, followed still by Rosa with her 
mysterious happy smile, entered a long 
narrow room. The ceiling, high in the 
centre, sloped rapidly down on either side, 
so that at door and window it was little 
more than six feet above the floor. There 
was an oak table and a few chairs; a 
couple of iron bedsteads stood by the wall 
near the window. One was empty; the 
Count of Luzau-Rischenheim lay on the 
other, fully dressed, his right arm 
supported in a sling of black silk. Rupert 
paused on the threshold, smiling at his 
cousin; the girl passed on to a high press 
or cupboard, and, opening it, took out 
plates, glasses, and the other furniture of 
the table. Rischenheim sprang up and ran 
across the room.

"What news?" he cried eagerly. "You 
escaped them, Rupert?"

"It appears so," said Rupert airily; and, 
advancing into the room, he threw himself 
into a chair, tossing his hat on to the table.

"It appears that I escaped, although some 
fool's stupidity nearly made an end of 
me." Rischenheim flushed.

"I'll tell you about that directly," he said, 
glancing at the girl who had put some 
cold meat and a bottle of wine on the 
table, and was now completing the 
preparations for Rupert's meal in a very 
leisurely fashion.

"Had I nothing to do but to look at pretty 
faces--which, by Heaven, I wish heartily 
were the case--I would beg you to stay," 
said Rupert, rising and making her a 
profound bow.

"I've no wish to hear what doesn't concern 
me," she retorted scornfully.

"What a rare and blessed disposition!" 
said he, holding the door for her and 
bowing again.

"I know what I know," she cried to him 
triumphantly from the landing. "Maybe 
you'd give something to know it too, 
Count Rupert!"

"It's very likely, for, by Heaven, girls 
know wonderful things!" smiled Rupert; 
but he shut the door and came quickly 
back to the table, now frowning again. 
"Come, tell me, how did they make a fool 
of you, or why did you make a fool of me, 
cousin?"

While Rischenheim related how he had 
been trapped and tricked at the Castle of 
Zenda, Rupert of Hentzau made a very 
good breakfast. He offered no interruption 
and no comments, but when Rudolf 
Rassendyll came into the story he looked 
up for an instant with a quick jerk of his 
head and a sudden light in his eyes. The 
end of Rischenheim's narrative found him 
tolerant and smiling again.

"Ah, well, the snare was cleverly set," he 
said. "I don't wonder you fell into it."

"And now you? What happened to you?" 
asked Rischenheim eagerly.

"I? Why, having your message which was 
not your message, I obeyed your 
directions which were not your 
directions."

"You went to the lodge "

"Certainly."

"And you found Sapt there?--Anybody 
else?"

"Why, not Sapt at all."

"Not Sapt? But surely they laid a trap for 
you?"

"Very possibly, but the jaws didn't bite." 
Rupert crossed his legs and lit a cigarette.

"But what did you find?"

"I? I found the king's forester, and the 
king's boar-hound, and--well, I found the 
king himself, too."

"The king at the lodge?"

"You weren't so wrong as you thought, 
were you?"

"But surely Sapt, or Bernenstein, or some 
one was with him?"

"As I tell you, his forester and his boar-
hound. No other man or beast, on my 
honor."

"Then you gave him the letter?" cried 
Rischenheim, trembling with excitement.

"Alas, no, my dear cousin. I threw the box 
at him, but I don't think he had time to 
open it. We didn't get to that stage of the 
conversation at which I had intended to 
produce the letter."

"But why not--why not?"

Rupert rose to his feet, and, coming just 
opposite to where Rischenheim sat, 
balanced himself on his heels, and looked 
down at his cousin, blowing the ash from 
his cigarette and smiling pleasantly.

"Have you noticed," he asked, "that my 
coat's torn?"

"I see it is."

"Yes. The boar-hound tried to bite me, 
cousin. And the forester would have 
stabbed me. And--well, the king wanted 
to shoot me."

"Yes, yes! For God's sake, what 
happened?"

"Well, they none of them did what they 
wanted. That's what happened, dear 
cousin."

Rischenheim was staring at him now with 
wide-opened eyes. Rupert smiled down 
on him composedly.

"Because, you see," he added, "Heaven 
helped me. So that, my dear cousin, the 
dog will bite no more, and the forester 
will stab no more. Surely the country is 
well rid of them?"

A silence followed. Then Rischenheim, 
leaning forward, said in a low whisper, as 
though afraid to hear his own question:

"And the king?"

"The king? Well, the king will shoot no 
more."

For a moment Rischenheim, still leaning 
forward, gazed at his cousin. Then he 
sank slowly back into his chair.

"My God!" he murmured: "my God!"

"The king was a fool," said Rupert. 
"Come, I'll tell you a little more about it." 
He drew a chair up and seated himself in 
it.

While he talked Rischenheim seemed 
hardly to listen. The story gained in effect 
from the contrast of Rupert's airy telling; 
his companion's pale face and twitching 
hands tickled his fancy to more shameless 
jesting. But when he had finished, he gave 
a pull to his small smartly-curled 
moustache and said with a sudden gravity:

"After all, though, it's a serious matter."

Rischenheim was appalled at the issue. 
His cousin's influence had been strong 
enough to lead him into the affair of the 
letter; he was aghast to think how Rupert's 
reckless dare-deviltry had led on from 
stage to stage till the death of a king 
seemed but an incident in his schemes. He 
sprang suddenly to his feet, crying:

"But we must fly--we must fly!"

"No, we needn't fly. Perhaps we'd better 
go, but we needn't fly."

"But when it becomes known?" He broke 
off and then cried:

"Why did you tell me? Why did you come 
back here?"

"Well, I told you because it was 
interesting, and I came back here because 
I had no money to go elsewhere."

"I would have sent money."

"I find that I get more when I ask in 
person. Besides, is everything finished?"

"I'll have no more to do with it."

"Ah, my dear cousin, you despond too 
soon. The good king has unhappily gone 
from us, but we still have our dear queen. 
We have also, by the kindness of Heaven, 
our dear queen's letter."

"I'll have no more to do with it."

"Your neck feeling--?" Rupert delicately 
imitated the putting of a noose about a 
man's throat.

Rischenheim rose suddenly and flung the 
window open wide.

"I'm suffocated," he muttered with a 
sullen frown, avoiding Rupert's eyes.

"Where's Rudolf Rassendyll?" asked 
Rupert. "Have you heard of him?"

"No, I don't know where he is."

"We must find that out, I think."

Rischenheim turned abruptly on him.

"I had no hand in this thing," he said, "and 
I'll have no more to do with it. I was not 
there. What did I know of the king being 
there? I'm not guilty of it: on my soul, I 
know nothing of it."

"That's all very true," nodded Rupert.

"Rupert," cried he, "let me go, let me 
alone. If you want money, I'll give it to 
you. For God's sake take it, and get out of 
Strelsau!"

"I'm ashamed to beg, my dear cousin, but 
in fact I want a little money until I can 
contrive to realize my valuable property. 
Is it safe, I wonder? Ah, yes, here it is."

He drew from his inner pocket the queen's 
letter. "Now if the king hadn't been a 
fool!" he murmured regretfully, as he 
regarded it.

Then he walked across to the window and 
looked out; he could not himself be seen 
from the street, and nobody was visible at 
the windows opposite. Men and women 
passed to and fro on their daily labors or 
pleasures; there was no unusual stir in the 
city. Looking over the roofs, Rupert could 
see the royal standard floating in the wind 
over the palace and the barracks. He took 
out his watch; Rischenheim imitated his 
action; it was ten minutes to ten.

"Rischenheim," he called, "come here a 
moment. Here--look out."

Rischenheim obeyed, and Rupert let him 
look for a minute or two before speaking 
again.

"Do you see anything remarkable?" he 
asked then.

"No, nothing," answered Rischenheim, 
still curt and sullen in his fright.

"Well, no more do I. And that's very odd. 
For don't you think that Sapt or some 
other of her Majesty's friends must have 
gone to the lodge last night?"

"They meant to, I swear," said 
Rischenheim with sudden attention.

"Then they would have found the king. 
There's a telegraph wire at Hofbau, only a 
few miles away. And it's ten o'clock. My 
cousin, why isn't Strelsau mourning for 
our lamented king? Why aren't the flags at 
half-mast? I don't understand it."

"No," murmured Rischenheim, his eyes 
now fixed on his cousin's face.

Rupert broke into a smile and tapped his 
teeth with his fingers.

"I wonder," said he meditatively, "if that 
old player Sapt has got a king up his 
sleeve again! If that were so " He stopped 
and seemed to fall into deep thought. 
Rischenheim did not interrupt him, but 
stood looking now at him, now out of the 
window. Still there was no stir in the 
streets, and still the standards floated at 
the summit of the flag staffs. The king's 
death was not yet known in Strelsau.

"Where's Bauer?" asked Rupert suddenly. 
"Where the plague can Bauer be? He was 
my eyes. Here we are, cooped up, and I 
don't know what's going on."

"I don't know where he is. Something 
must have happened to him."

"Of course, my wise cousin. But what?"

Rupert began to pace up and down the 
room, smoking another cigarette at a great 
pace. Rischenheim sat down by the table, 
resting his head on his hand. He was 
wearied out by strain and excitement, his 
wounded arm pained him greatly, and he 
was full of horror and remorse at the 
event which happened unknown to him 
the night before.

"I wish I was quit of it," he moaned at 
last. Rupert stopped before him.

"You repent of your misdeeds?" he asked. 
"Well, then, you shall be allowed to 
repent. Nay, you shall go and tell the king 
that you repent. Rischenheim, I must 
know what they are doing. You must go 
and ask an audience of the king."

"But the king is--"

"We shall know that better when you've 
asked for your audience. See here."

Rupert sat down by his cousin and 
instructed him in his task. This was no 
other than to discover whether there were 
a king in Strelsau, or whether the only 
king lay dead in the hunting lodge. If 
there were no attempt being made to 
conceal the king's death, Rupert's plan 
was to seek safety in flight. He did not 
abandon his designs: from the secure 
vantage of foreign soil he would hold the 
queen's letter over her head, and by the 
threat of publishing it insure at once 
immunity for himself and almost any 
further terms which he chose to exact 
from her. If, on the other hand, the Count 
of Luzau-Rischenheim found a king in 
Strelsau, if the royal standards continued 
to wave at the summit of their flag staffs, 
and Strelsau knew nothing of the dead 
man in the lodge, then Rupert had laid his 
hand on another secret; for he knew who 
the king in Strelsau must be. Starting from 
this point, his audacious mind darted 
forward to new and bolder schemes. He 
could offer again to Rudolf Rassendyll 
what he had offered once before, three 
years ago--a partnership in crime and the 
profits of crime--or if this advance were 
refused, then he declared that he would 
himself descend openly into the streets of 
Strelsau and proclaim the death of the 
king from the steps of the cathedral.

"Who can tell," he cried, springing up, 
enraptured and merry with the inspiration 
of his plan, "who can tell whether Sapt or 
I came first to the lodge? Who found the 
king alive, Sapt or I? Who left him dead, 
Sapt or I? Who had most interest in 
killing him--I, who only sought to make 
him aware of what touched his honor, or 
Sapt, who was and is hand and glove with 
the man that now robs him of his name 
and usurps his place while his body is still 
warm? Ah, they haven't done with Rupert 
of Hentzau yet!"

He stopped, looking down on his 
companion. Rischenheim's fingers still 
twitched nervously and his cheeks were 
pale. But now his face was alight with 
interest and eagerness. Again the 
fascination of Rupert's audacity and the 
infection of his courage caught on his 
kinsman's weaker nature, and inspired 
him to a temporary emulation of the will 
that dominated him.

"You see," pursued Rupert, "it's not likely 
that they'll do you any harm."

"I'll risk anything."

"Most gallant gentleman! At the worst 
they'll only keep you a prisoner. Well, if 
you're not back in a couple of hours, I 
shall draw my conclusions. I shall know 
that there's a king in Strelsau."

"But where shall I look for the king?"

"Why, first in the palace, and secondly at 
Fritz von Tarlenheim's. I expect you'll 
find him at Fritz's, though."

"Shall I go there first, then?"

"No. That would be seeming to know too 
much."

"You'll wait here?"

"Certainly, cousin--unless I see cause to 
move, you know."

"And I shall find you on my return?"

"Me, or directions from me. By the way, 
bring money too. There's never any harm 
in having a full pocket. I wonder what the 
devil does without a breeches-pocket?

Rischenheim let that curious speculation 
alone, although he remembered the 
whimsical air with which Rupert 
delivered it. He was now on fire to be 
gone, his ill-balanced brain leaping from 
the depths of despondency to the certainty 
of brilliant success, and not heeding the 
gulf of danger that it surpassed in buoyant 
fancy.

"We shall have them in a corner, Rupert," 
he cried.

"Ay, perhaps. But wild beasts in a corner 
bite hard."

"I wish my arm were well!"

"You'll be safer with it wounded," said 
Rupert with a smile.

"By God, Rupert, I can defend myself."

"True, true; but it's your brain I want now, 
cousin."

"You shall see that I have something in 
me."

"If it please God, dear cousin."

With every mocking encouragement and 
every careless taunt Rischenheim's 
resolve to prove himself a man grew 
stronger. He snatched up a revolver that 
lay on the mantelpiece and put it in his 
pocket.

"Don't fire, if you can help it," advised 
Rupert. Rischenheim's answer was to 
make for the door at a great speed. Rupert 
watched him go, and then returned to the 
window. The last his cousin saw was his 
figure standing straight and lithe against 
the light, while he looked out on the city. 
Still there was no stir in the streets, still 
the royal standard floated at the top of the 
flag staffs.

Rischenheim plunged down the stairs: his 
feet were too slow for his eagerness. At 
the bottom he found the girl Rosa 
sweeping the passage with great apparent 
diligence.

"You're going out, my lord?" she asked.

"Why, yes; I have business. Pray stand on 
one side, this passage is so cursedly 
narrow."

Rosa showed no haste in moving.

"And the Count Rupert, is he going out 
also?" she asked.

"You see he's not with me. He'll wait." 
Rischenheim broke off and asked angrily: 
"What business is it of yours, girl? Get 
out of the way!"

She moved aside now, making him no 
answer. He rushed past; she looked after 
him with a smile of triumph. Then she fell 
again to her sweeping. The king had 
bidden her be ready at eleven. It was half-
past ten. Soon the king would have need 
of her.

---

CHAPTER XIV--

THE NEWS COMES TO STRELSAU

ON leaving No. 19, Rischenheim walked 
swiftly some little way up the 
Ko"nigstrasse and then hailed a cab. He 
had hardly raised his hand when he heard 
his name called, and, looking round, saw 
Anton von Strofzin's smart phaeton 
pulling up beside him. Anton was driving, 
and on the other seat was a large nosegay 
of choice flowers.

"Where are you off to?" cried Anton, 
leaning forward with a gay smile.

"Well, where are you? To a lady's, I 
presume, from your bouquet there," 
answered Rischenheim as lightly as he 
could.

"The little bunch of flowers," simpered 
young Anton, "is a cousinly offering to 
Helga von Tarlenheim, and I'm going to 
present it. Can I give you a lift 
anywhere?"'

Although Rischenheim had intended to go 
first to the palace, Anton's offer seemed to 
give him a good excuse for drawing the 
more likely covert first.

"I was going to the palace to find out 
where the king is. I want to see him, if 
he'll give me a minute or two," he 
remarked.

"I'll drive you there afterwards. Jump up. 
That your cab? Here you are, cabman," 
and flinging the cabman a crown, he 
displaced the bouquet and made room for 
Rischenheim beside him.

Anton's horses, of which he was not a 
little proud, made short work of the 
distance to my home. The phaeton rattled 
up to the door and both young men got 
out. The moment of their arrival found the 
chancellor just leaving to return to his 
own home. Helsing knew them both, and 
stopped to rally Anton on the matter of his 
bouquet. Anton was famous for his 
bouquets, which he distributed widely 
among the ladies of Strelsau.

"I hoped it was for my daughter," said the 
chancellor slyly. "For I love flowers, and 
my wife has ceased to provide me with 
them; moreover, I've ceased to provide 
her with them, so, but for my daughter, 
we should have none."

Anton answered his chaff, promising a 
bouquet for the young lady the next day, 
but declaring that he could not disappoint 
his cousin. He was interrupted by 
Rischenheim, who, looking round on the 
group of bystanders, now grown 
numerous, exclaimed: "What's going on 
here, my dear chancellor? What are all 
these people hanging about here for? Ah, 
that's a royal carriage!"

"The queen's with the countess," 
answered Helsing. "The people are 
waiting to see her come out."

"She's always worth seeing," Anton 
pronounced, sticking his glass in his eye.

"And you've been to visit her?" pursued 
Rischenheim.

"Why, yes. I--I went to pay my respects, 
my dear Rischenheim."

"An early visit!"

"It was more or less on business."

"Ah, I have business also, and very 
important business. But it's with the 
king."

"I won't keep you a moment, 
Rischenheim," called Anton, as, bouquet 
in hand, he knocked at the door.

"With the king?" said Helsing. "Ah, yes, 
but the king--"

"I'm on my way to the palace to find out 
where he is. If I can't see him, I must 
write at once. My business is very 
urgent."

"Indeed, my dear count, indeed! Dear me! 
Urgent, you say?"

"But perhaps you can help me. Is he at 
Zenda?"

The chancellor was becoming very 
embarrassed; Anton had disappeared into 
the house; Rischenheim buttonholed him 
resolutely.

"At Zenda? Well, now, I don't--Excuse 
me, but what's your business?"

"Excuse me, my dear chancellor; it's a 
secret."

"I have the king's confidence."

"Then you'll be indifferent to not enjoying 
mine," smiled Rischenheim.

"I perceive that your arm is hurt," 
observed the chancellor, seeking a 
diversion.

"Between ourselves, that has something to 
do with my business. Well, I must go to 
the palace. Or--stay--would her Majesty 
condescend to help me? I think I'll risk a 
request. She can but refuse," and so 
saying Rischenheim approached the door.

"Oh, my friend, I wouldn't do that," cried 
Helsing, darting after him. "The queen is-
-well, very much engaged. She won't like 
to be troubled."

Rischenheim took no notice of him, but 
knocked loudly. The door was opened, 
and he told the butler to carry his name to 
the queen and beg a moment's speech 
with her. Helsing stood in perplexity on 
the step. The crowd was delighted with 
the coming of these great folk and showed 
no sign of dispersing. Anton von Strofzin 
did not reappear. Rischenheim edged 
himself inside the doorway and stood on 
the threshold of the hall. There he heard 
voices proceeding from the sitting-room 
on the left. He recognized the queen's, my 
wife's, and Anton's. Then came the 
butler's, saying, "I will inform the count 
of your Majesty's wishes."

The door of the room opened; the butler 
appeared, and immediately behind him 
Anton von Strofzin and Bernenstein. 
Bernenstein had the young fellow by the 
arm, and hurried him through the hall. 
They passed the butler, who made way for 
them, and came to where Rischenheim 
stood.

"We meet again," said Rischenheim with 
a bow.

The chancellor rubbed his hands in 
nervous perturbation. The butler stepped 
up and delivered his message: the queen 
regretted her inability to receive the 
count. Rischenheim nodded, and, standing 
so that the door could not be shut, asked 
Bernenstein whether he knew where the 
king was.

Now Bernenstein was most anxious to get 
the pair of them away and the door shut, 
but he dared show no eagerness.

"Do you want another interview with the 
king already?" he asked with a smile. 
"The last was so pleasant, then?"

Rischenheim took no notice of the taunt, 
but observed sarcastically: "There's a 
strange difficulty in finding our good 
king. The chancellor here doesn't know 
where he is, or at least he won't answer 
my questions."

"Possibly the king has his reasons for not 
wishing to be disturbed," suggested 
Bernenstein.

"It's very possible," retorted Rischenheim 
significantly.

"Meanwhile, my dear count, I shall take it 
as a personal favor if you'll move out of 
the doorway."

"Do I incommode you by standing here?" 
answered the count.

"Infinitely, my lord," answered 
Bernenstein stiffly.

"Hallo, Bernenstein, what's the matter?" 
cried Anton, seeing that their tones and 
glances had grown angry. The crowd also 
had noticed the raised voices and hostile 
manner of the disputants, and began to 
gather round in a more compact group.

Suddenly a voice came from inside the 
hall: it was distinct and loud, yet not 
without a touch of huskiness. The sound 
of it hushed the rising quarrel and 
silenced the crowd into expectant 
stillness. Bernenstein looked aghast, 
Rischenheim nervous yet triumphant, 
Anton amused and gratified.

"The king!" he cried, and burst into a 
laugh. "You've drawn him, Rischenheim!"

The crowd heard his boyish exclamation 
and raised a cheer. Helsing turned, as 
though to rebuke them. Had not the king 
himself desired secrecy? Yes, but he who 
spoke as the king chose any risk sooner 
than let Rischenheim go back and warn 
Rupert of his presence.

"Is that the Count of Luzau-
Rischenheim?" called Rudolf from within. 
"If so, let him enter and then shut the 
door."

There was something in his tone that 
alarmed Rischenheim. He started back on 
the step. But Bernenstein caught him by 
the arm.

"Since you wish to come in, come in," he 
said with a grim smile.

Rischenheim looked round, as though he 
meditated flight. The next moment 
Bernenstein was thrust aside. For one 
short instant a tall figure appeared in the 
doorway; the crowd had but a glimpse, 
yet they cheered again. Rischenheim's 
hand was clasped in a firm grip; he passed 
unwillingly but helplessly through the 
door. Bernenstein followed; the door was 
shut. Anton faced round on Helsing, a 
scornful twist on his lips.

"There was a deuced lot of mystery about 
nothing," said he. "Why couldn't you say 
he was there?" And without waiting for an 
answer from the outraged and bewildered 
chancellor he swung down the steps and 
climbed into his phaeton.

The people round were chatting noisily, 
delighted to have caught a glimpse of the 
king, speculating what brought him and 
the queen to my house, and hoping that 
they would soon come out and get into the 
royal carriage that still stood waiting.

Had they been able to see inside the door, 
their emotion would have been stirred to a 
keener pitch. Rudolf himself caught 
Rischenheim by the arm, and without a 
moment's delay led him towards the back 
of the house. They went along a passage 
and reached a small room that looked out 
on the garden. Rudolf had known my 
house in old days, and did not forget its 
resources.

"Shut the door, Bernenstein," said Rudolf. 
Then he turned to Rischenheim. "My 
lord," he said, "I suppose you came to 
find out something. Do you know it 
now?"

Rischenheim plucked up courage to 
answer him.

"Yes, I know now that I have to deal with 
an impostor," said he defiantly.

"Precisely. And impostors can't afford to 
be exposed." Rischenheim's cheek turned 
rather pale. Rudolf faced him, and 
Bernenstein guarded the door. He was 
absolutely at their mercy; and he knew 
their secret. Did they know his--the news 
that Rupert of Hentzau had brought?

"Listen," said Rudolf. "For a few hours 
to-day I am king in Strelsau. In those few 
hours I have an account to settle with your 
cousin: something that he has, I must 
have. I'm going now to seek him, and 
while I seek him you will stay here with 
Bernenstein. Perhaps I shall fail, perhaps I 
shall succeed. Whether I succeed or fail, 
by to-night I shall be far from Strelsau, 
and the king's place will be free for him 
again."

Rischenheim gave a slight start, and a 
look of triumph spread over his face. 
They did not know that the king was 
dead.

Rudolf came nearer to him, fixing his 
eyes steadily on his prisoner's face.

"I don't know," he continued, "why you 
are in this business, my lord. Your 
cousin's motives I know well. But I 
wonder that they seemed to you great 
enough to justify the ruin of an unhappy 
lady who is your queen. Be assured that I 
will die sooner than let that letter reach 
the king's hand."

Rischenheim made him no answer.

"Are you armed?" asked Rudolf.

Rischenheim sullenly flung his revolver 
on the table. Bernenstein came forward 
and took it.

"Keep him here, Bernenstein. When I 
return I'll tell you what more to do. If I 
don't return, Fritz will be here soon, and 
you and he must make your own plans."

"He sha'n't give me the slip a second 
time," said Bernenstein.

"We hold ourselves free," said Rudolf to 
Rischenheim, "to do what we please with 
you, my lord. But I have no wish to cause 
your death, unless it be necessary. You 
will be wise to wait till your cousin's fate 
is decided before you attempt any further 
steps against us." And with a slight bow 
he left the prisoner in Bernenstein's 
charge, and went back to the room where 
the queen awaited him. Helga was with 
her. The queen sprang up to meet him.

"I mustn't lose a moment," he said. "All 
that crowd of people know now that the 
king is here. The news will filter through 
the town in no time. We must send word 
to Sapt to keep it from the king's ears at 
all costs: I must go and do my work, and 
then disappear."

The queen stood facing him. Her eyes 
seemed to devour his face; but she said 
only: "Yes, it must be so."

"You must return to the palace as soon as 
I am gone. I shall send out and ask the 
people to disperse, and then I must be 
off."

"To seek Rupert of Hentzau?"

"Yes."

She struggled for a moment with the 
contending feelings that filled her heart. 
Then she came to him and seized hold of 
his hand.

"Don't go," she said in low trembling 
tones. "Don't go, Rudolf. He'll kill you. 
Never mind the letter. Don't go: I had 
rather a thousand times that the king had 
it than that you should .... Oh, my dear, 
don't go!"

"I must go," he said softly.

Again she began to implore him, but he 
would not yield. Helga moved towards 
the door, but Rudolf stopped her.

"No," he said; "you must stay with her; 
you must go to the palace with her."

Even as he spoke they heard the wheels of 
a carriage driven quickly to the door. By 
now I had met Anton von Strofzin and 
heard from him that the king was at my 
house. As I dashed up the news was 
confirmed by the comments and jokes of 
the crowd.

"Ah, he's in a hurry," they said. "He's kept 
the king waiting. He'll get a wigging."

As may be supposed, I paid little heed to 
them. I sprang out and ran up the steps to 
the door. I saw my wife's face at the 
window: she herself ran to the door and 
opened it for me.

"Good God," I whispered, "do all these 
people know he's here, and take him for 
the king?"

"Yes," she said. "We couldn't help it. He 
showed himself at the door."

It was worse than I dreamt: not two or 
three people, but all that crowd were 
victims of the mistake; all of them had 
heard that the king was in Strelsau--ay, 
and had seen him.

"Where is he? Where is he?" I asked, and 
followed her hastily to the room.

The queen and Rudolf were standing side 
by side. What I have told from Helga's 
description had just passed between them. 
Rudolf ran to meet me.

"Is all well?" he asked eagerly.

I forgot the queen's presence and paid no 
sign of respect to her. I caught Rudolf by 
the arm and cried to him: "Do they take 
you for the king?"

"Yes," he said. "Heavens, man, don't look 
so white! We shall manage it. I can be 
gone by to-night."

"Gone? How will that help, since they 
believe you to be the king?"

"You can keep it from the king," he 
urged. "I couldn't help it. I can settle with 
Rupert and disappear."

The three were standing round me, 
surprised at my great and terrible 
agitation. Looking back now, I wonder 
that I could speak to them at all.

Rudolf tried again to reassure me. He 
little knew the cause of what he saw.

"It won't take long to settle affairs with 
Rupert," said he. "And we must have the 
letter, or it will get to the king after all."

"The king will never see the letter," I 
blurted out, as I sank back in a chair.

They said nothing. I looked round on their 
faces. I had a strange feeling of 
helplessness, and seemed to be able to do 
nothing but throw the truth at them in 
blunt plainness. Let them make what they 
could of it, I could make nothing.

"The king will never see the letter," I 
repeated. "Rupert himself has insured 
that."

"What do you mean? You've not met 
Rupert? You've not got the letter?"

"No, no; but the king can never read it."

Then Rudolf seized me by the shoulder 
and fairly shook me; indeed I must have 
seemed like a man in a dream or a torpor.

"Why not, man; why not?" he asked in 
urgent low tones. Again I looked at them, 
but somehow this time my eyes were 
attracted and held by the queen's face. I 
believe that she was the first to catch a 
hint of the tidings I brought. Her lips were 
parted, and her gaze eagerly strained upon 
me. I rubbed my hand across my 
forehead, and, looking up stupidly at her, 
I said:

"He never can see the letter. He's dead."

There was a little scream from Helga; 
Rudolf neither spoke nor moved; the 
queen continued to gaze at me in 
motionless wonder and horror.

"Rupert killed him," said I. "The boar-
hound attacked Rupert; then Herbert and 
the king attacked him; and he killed them 
all. Yes, the king is dead. He's dead."

Now none spoke. The queen's eyes never 
left my face. "Yes, he's dead." said I; and 
I watched her eyes still. For a long while 
(or long it seemed) they were on my face; 
at last, as though drawn by some 
irresistible force, they turned away. I 
followed the new line they took. She 
looked at Rudolf Rassendyll, and he at 
her. Helga had taken out her 
handkerchief, and, utterly upset by the 
horror and shock, was lying back in a low 
chair, sobbing half-hysterically; I saw the 
swift look that passed from the queen to 
her lover, carrying in it grief, remorse, 
and most unwilling joy. He did not speak 
to her, but put out his hand and took hers. 
She drew it away almost sharply, and 
covered her face with both hands.

Rudolf turned to me. "When was it?"

"Last night."

"And the .... He's at the lodge?"

"Yes, with Sapt and James."

I was recovering my senses and my 
coolness.

"Nobody knows yet," I said. "We were 
afraid you might be taken for him by 
somebody. But, my God, Rudolf, what's 
to be done now?"

Mr. Rassendyll's lips were set firm and 
tight. He frowned slightly, and his blue 
eyes wore a curious entranced expression. 
He seemed to me to be forgetful of 
everything, even of us who were with 
him, in some one idea that possessed him. 
The queen herself came nearer to him and 
lightly touched his arm with her hand. He 
started as though surprised, then fell again 
into his

"What's to be done, Rudolf?" I asked 
again.

"I'm going to kill Rupert of Hentzau," he 
said. "The rest we'll talk of afterwards."

He walked rapidly across the room and 
rang the bell. "Clear those people away," 
he ordered. "Tell them that I want to be 
quiet. Then send a closed carriage round 
for me. Don't be more than ten minutes."

The servant received his peremptory 
orders with a low bow, and left us. The 
queen, who had been all this time 
outwardly calm and composed, now fell 
into a great agitation, which even the 
consciousness of our presence could not 
enable her to hide.

"Rudolf, must you go? Since--since this 
has happened "

"Hush, my dearest lady," he whispered. 
Then he went on more loudly, "I won't 
quit Ruritania a second time leaving 
Rupert of Hentzau alive. Fritz, send word 
to Sapt that the king is in Strelsau--he will 
understand--and that instructions from the 
king will follow by midday. When I have 
killed Rupert, I shall visit the lodge on my 
way to the frontier."

He turned to go, but the queen, following, 
detained him for a minute.

"You'll come and see me before you go?, 
she pleaded.

"But I ought not," said he, his resolute 
eyes suddenly softening in a marvelous 
fashion.

"You will?"

"Yes, my queen."

Then I sprang up, for a sudden dread laid 
hold on me.

"Heavens, man," I cried, "what if he kills 
you--there in the Ko"nigstrasse?"

Rudolf turned to me; there was a look of 
surprise on his face. "He won't kill me," 
he answered.

The queen, looking still in Rudolf's face, 
and forgetful now, as it seemed, of the 
dream that had so terrified her, took no 
notice of what I said, but urged again: 
"You'll come, Rudolf?"

"Yes, once, my queen," and with a last 
kiss of her hand he was gone.

The queen stood for yet another moment 
where she was, still and almost rigid. 
Then suddenly she walked or stumbled to 
where my wife sat, and, flinging herself 
on her knees, hid her face in Helga's lap; I 
heard her sobs break out fast and 
tumultuously. Helga looked up at me, the 
tears streaming down her cheeks. I turned 
and went out. Perhaps Helga could 
comfort her; I prayed that God in His pity 
might send her comfort, although she for 
her sin's sake dared not ask it of Him. 
Poor soul! I hope there may be nothing 
worse scored to my account.

---

CHAPTER XV--

A PASTIME FOR COLONEL SAPT

THE Constable of Zenda and James, Mr. 
Rassendyll's servant, sat at breakfast in 
the hunting-lodge. They were in the small 
room which was ordinarily used as the 
bedroom of the gentleman in attendance 
on the king: they chose it now because it 
commanded a view of the approach. The 
door of the house was securely fastened; 
they were prepared to refuse admission; in 
case refusal was impossible, the 
preparations for concealing the king's 
body and that of his huntsman Herbert 
were complete. Inquirers would be told 
that the king had ridden out with his 
huntsman at daybreak, promising to return 
in the evening but not stating where he 
was going; Sapt was under orders to await 
his return, and James was expecting 
instructions from his master the Count of 
Tarlenheim. Thus armed against 
discovery, they looked for news from me 
which should determine their future 
action.

Meanwhile there was an interval of 
enforced idleness. Sapt, his meal finished, 
puffed away at his great pipe; James, after 
much pressure, had consented to light a 
small black clay, and sat at his ease with 
his legs stretched before him. His brows 
were knit, and a curious half-smile played 
about his mouth.

"What may you be thinking about, friend 
James?" asked the constable between two 
puffs. He had taken a fancy to the alert, 
ready little fellow.

James smoked for a moment, and then 
took his pipe from his mouth.

"I was thinking, sir, that since the king is 
dead--"

He paused.

"The king is no doubt dead, poor fellow," 
said Sapt, nodding.

"That since he's certainly dead, and since 
my master, Mr. Rassendyll, is alive--"

"So far as we know, James," Sapt 
reminded him.

"Why, yes, sir, so far as we know. Since, 
then, Mr. Rassendyll is alive and the king 
is dead, I was thinking that it was a great 
pity, sir, that my master can't take his 
place and be king." James looked across 
at the constable with an air of a man who 
offers a respectful suggestion.

"A remarkable thought, James," observed 
the constable with a grin.

"You don't agree with me, sir?, asked 
James deprecatingly.

"I don't say that it isn't a pity, for Rudolf 
makes a good king. But you see it's 
impossible, isn't it?"

James nursed his knee between his hands, 
and his pipe, which he had replaced, stuck 
out of one corner of his mouth.

"When you say impossible, sir," he 
remarked deferentially, "I venture to 
differ from you."

"You do? Come, we're at leisure. Let's 
hear how it would be possible."

"My master is in Strelsau, sir," began 
James.

"Well, most likely."

"I'm sure of it, sir. If he's been there, he 
will be taken for the king."

"That has happened before, and no doubt 
may happen again, unless--"

"Why, of course, sir, unless the king's 
body should be discovered."

"That's what I was about to say, James."

James kept silence for a few minutes. 
Then he observed, "It will be very 
awkward to explain how the king was 
killed."

"The story will need good telling," 
admitted Sapt.

"And it will be difficult to make it appear 
that the king was killed in Strelsau; yet if 
my master should chance to be killed in 
Strelsau--"

"Heaven forbid, James! On all grounds, 
Heaven forbid!"

"Even if my master is not killed, it will be 
difficult for us to get the king killed at the 
right time, and by means that will seem 
plausible."

Sapt seemed to fall into the humor of the 
speculation. "That's all very true. But if 
Mr. Rassendyll is to be king, it will be 
both awkward and difficult to dispose of 
the king's body and of this poor fellow 
Herbert," said he, sucking at his pipe.

Again James paused for a little while 
before he remarked: "I am, of course, sir, 
only discussing the matter by way of 
passing the time. It would probably be 
wrong to carry any such plan into effect."

"It might be, but let us discuss it--to pass 
the time," said Sapt; and he leant forward, 
looking into the servant's quiet, shrewd 
face.

"Well, then, sir, since it amuses you, let 
us say that the king came to the lodge last 
night, and was joined there by his friend 
Mr. Rassendyll."

"And did I come too?"

"You, sir, came also, in attendance on the 
king."

"Well, and you, James? You came. How 
came you?"

"Why, sir, by the Count of Tarlenheim's 
orders, to wait on Mr. Rassendyll, the 
king's friend. Now, the king, sir... This is 
my story, you know, sir, only my story."

"Your story interests me. Go on with it."

"The king went out very early this 
morning, sir."

"That would be on private business?"

"So we should have understood. But Mr. 
Rassendyll, Herbert, and ourselves 
remained here."

"Had the Count of Hentzau been?"

"Not to our knowledge, sir. But we were 
all tired and slept very soundly."

"Now did we?" said the constable, with a 
grim smile.

"In fact, sir, we were all overcome with 
fatigue--Mr. Rassendyll like the rest--and 
full morning found us still in our beds. 
There we should be to this moment, sir, 
had we not been suddenly aroused in a 
startling and fearful manner."

"You should write story books, James. 
Now what was this fearful manner in 
which we were aroused?"

James laid down his pipe, and, resting his 
hands on his knees, continued his story.

"This lodge, sir, this wooden lodge--for 
the lodge is all of wood, sir, without and 
within."

"This lodge is undoubtedly of wood, 
James, and, as you say, both inside and 
out."

"And since it is, sir, it would be mighty 
careless to leave a candle burning where 
the oil and firewood are stored."

"Most criminal!"

"But hard words don't hurt dead men; and 
you see, sir, poor Herbert is dead."

"It is true. He wouldn't feel aggrieved."

"But we, sir, you and I, awaking--"

"Aren't the others to awake, James?"

"Indeed, sir, I should pray that they had 
never awaked. For you and I, waking first, 
would find the lodge a mass of flames. 
We should have to run for our lives."

"What! Should we make no effort to rouse 
the others?"

"Indeed, sir, we should do all that men 
could do; we should even risk death by 
suffocation."

"But we should fail, in spite of our 
heroism, should we?"

"Alas, sir, in spite of all our efforts we 
should fail. The flames would envelop the 
lodge in one blaze; before help could 
come, the lodge would be in ruins, and 
my unhappy master and poor Herbert 
would be consumed to ashes."

"Hum!"

"They would, at least, sir, be entirely 
unrecognizable."

"You think so?"

"Beyond doubt, if the oil and the firewood 
and the candle were placed to the best 
advantage."

"Ah, yes. And there would be an end of 
Rudolf Rassendyll?"

"Sir, I should myself carry the tidings to 
his family."

"Whereas the King of Ruritania--"

"Would enjoy a long and prosperous 
reign, God willing, sir."

"And the Queen of Ruritania, James?"

"Do not misunderstand me, sir. They 
could be secretly married. I should say re-
married."

"Yes, certainly, re-married."

"By a trustworthy priest."

"You mean by an untrustworthy priest?"

"It's the same thing, sir, from a different 
point of view." For the first time James 
smiled a thoughtful smile.

Sapt in his turn laid down his pipe now, 
and was tugging at his moustache. There 
was a smile on his lips too, and his eyes 
looked hard into James's. The little man 
met his glance composedly.

"It's an ingenious fancy, this of yours, 
James," the constable remarked. "What, 
though, if your master's killed too? That's 
quite possible. Count Rupert's a man to be 
reckoned with."

"If my master is killed, sir, he must be 
buried," answered James.

"In Strelsau?" came in quick question 
from Sapt.

"He won't mind where, sir."

"True, he won't mind, and we needn't 
mind for him."

"Why, no, sir. But to carry a body secretly 
from here to Strelsau--"

"Yes, that is, as we agreed at the first, 
difficult. Well, it's a pretty story, but--
your master wouldn't approve of it. 
Supposing he were not killed, I mean."

"It's a waste of time, sir, disapproving of 
what's done: he might think the story 
better than the truth, although it's not a 
good story."

The two men's eyes met again in a long 
glance.

"Where do you come from?" asked Sapt, 
suddenly.

"London, sir, originally."

"They make good stories there?"

"Yes, sir, and act them sometimes."

The instant he had spoken, James sprang 
to his feet and pointed out of the window.

A man on horseback was cantering 
towards the lodge. Exchanging one quick 
look, both hastened to the door, and, 
advancing some twenty yards, waited 
under the tree on the spot where Boris lay 
buried.

"By the way," said Sapt, "you forgot the 
dog." And he pointed to the ground.

"The affectionate beast will be in his 
master's room and die there, sir."

"Eh, but he must rise again first!"

"Certainly, sir. That won't be a long 
matter."

Sapt was still smiling in grim amusement 
when the messenger came up and, leaning 
from his home, handed him a telegram.

"Special and urgent, sir," said he.

Sapt tore it open and read. It was the 
message that I sent in obedience to Mr. 
Rassendyll's orders. He would not trust 
my cipher, but, indeed, none was 
necessary. Sapt would understand the 
message, although it said simply, "The 
king is in Strelsau. Wait orders at the 
lodge. Business here in progress, but not 
finished. Will wire again."

Sapt handed it to James, who took it with 
a respectful little bow. James read it with 
attention, and returned it with another 
bow.

"I'll attend to what it says, sir," he 
remarked.

"Yes," said Sapt. "Thanks, my man," he 
added to the messenger. "Here's a crown 
for you. If any other message comes for 
me and you bring it in good time, you 
shall have another."

"You shall have it quick as a horse can 
bring it from the station, sir."

"The king's business won't bear delay, you 
know," nodded Sapt.

"You sha'n't have to wait, sir," and, with a 
parting salute, the fellow turned his horse 
and trotted away.

"You see," remarked Sapt, "that your 
story is quite imaginary. For that fellow 
can see for himself that the lodge was not 
burnt down last night."

"That's true; but, excuse me, sir--"

"Pray go on, James. I've told you that I'm 
interested."

"He can't see that it won't be burnt down 
to-night. A fire, sir, is a thing that may 
happen any night."

Then old Sapt suddenly burst into a roar, 
half-speech, half laughter.

"By God, what a thing!" he roared; and 
James smiled complacently.

"There's a fate about it," said the 
constable. "There's a strange fate about it. 
The man was born to it. We'd have done it 
before if Michael had throttled the king in 
that cellar, as I thought he would. Yes, by 
heavens, we'd have done it! Why, we 
wanted it! God forgive us, in our hearts 
both Fritz and I wanted it. But Rudolf 
would have the king out. He would have 
him out, though he lost a throne--and 
what he wanted more--by it. But he would 
have him out. So he thwarted the fate. But 
it's not to be thwarted. Young Rupert may 
think this new affair is his doing. No, it's 
the fate using him. The fate brought 
Rudolf here again, the fate will have him 
king. Well, you stare at me. Do you think 
I'm mad, Mr. Valet?"

"I think, sir, that you talk very good sense, 
if I may say so," answered James.

"Sense?" echoed Sapt with a chuckle. "I 
don't know about that. But the fate's there, 
depend on it!"

The two were back in their little room 
now, past the door that hid the bodies of 
the king and his huntsman. James stood 
by the table, old Sapt roamed up and 
down, tugging his moustache, and now 
and again sawing the air with his sturdy 
hairy hand.

"I daren't do it," he muttered: "I daren't do 
it. It's a thing a man can't set his hand to 
of his own will. But the fate'll do it--the 
fate'll do it. The fate'll force it on us."

"Then we'd best be ready, sir," suggested 
James quietly. Sapt turned on him 
quickly, almost fiercely.

"They used to call me a cool hand," said 
he. "By Jove, what are you?"

"There's no harm in being ready, sir," said 
James, the servant.

Sapt came to him and caught hold of his 
shoulders. "Ready?" he asked in a gruff 
whisper.

"The oil, the firewood, the light," said 
James.

"Where, man, where? Do you mean, by 
the bodies?"

"Not where the bodies are now. Each 
must be in the proper place."

"We must move them then?"

"Why, yes. And the dog too."

Sapt almost glared at him; then he burst 
into a laugh.

"So be it," he said. "You take command. 
Yes, we'll be ready. The fate drives."

Then and there they set about what they 
had to do. It seemed indeed as though 
some strange influence were dominating 
Sapt; he went about the work like a man 
who is hardly awake. They placed the 
bodies each where the living man would 
be by night--the king in the guest-room, 
the huntsman in the sort of cupboard 
where the honest fellow had been wont to 
lie. They dug up the buried dog, Sapt 
chuckling convulsively, James grave as 
the mute whose grim doings he seemed to 
travesty: they carried the shot-pierced, 
earth-grimed thing in, and laid it in the 
king's room. Then they made their piles of 
wood, pouring the store of oil over them, 
and setting bottles of spirit near, that the 
flames having cracked the bottles, might 
gain fresh fuel. To Sapt it seemed now as 
if they played some foolish game that was 
to end with the playing, now as if they 
obeyed some mysterious power which 
kept its great purpose hidden from its 
instruments. Mr. Rassendyll's servant 
moved and arranged and ordered all as 
deftly as he folded his master's clothes or 
stropped his master's razor. Old Sapt 
stopped him once as he went by.

"Don't think me a mad fool, because I talk 
of the fate," he said, almost anxiously.

"Not I, sir," answered James, "I know 
nothing of that. But I like to be ready."

"It would be a thing!" muttered Sapt.

The mockery, real or assumed, in which 
they had begun their work, had vanished 
now. If they were not serious, they played 
at seriousness. If they entertained no 
intention such as their acts seemed to 
indicate, they could no longer deny that 
they had cherished a hope. They shrank, 
or at least Sapt shrank, from setting such a 
ball rolling; but they longed for the fate 
that would give it a kick, and they made 
smooth the incline down which it, when 
thus impelled, was to run. When they had 
finished their task and sat down again 
opposite to one another in the little front 
room, the whole scheme was ready, the 
preparations were made, all was in train; 
they waited only for that impulse from 
chance or fate which was to turn the 
servant's story into reality and action. And 
when the thing was done, Sapt's coolness, 
so rarely upset, yet so completely beaten 
by the force of that wild idea, came back 
to him. He lit his pipe again and lay back 
in his chair, puffing freely, with a 
meditative look on his face.

"It's two o'clock, sir," said James. 
"Something should have happened before 
now in Strelsau."

"Ah, but what?" asked the constable.

Suddenly breaking on their ears came a 
loud knock at the door. Absorbed in their 
own thoughts, they had not noticed two 
men riding up to the lodge. The visitors 
wore the green and gold of the king's 
huntsmen; the one who had knocked was 
Simon, the chief huntsman, and brother of 
Herbert, who lay dead in the little room 
inside.

"Rather dangerous!" muttered the 
Constable of Zenda as he hurried to the 
door, James following him.

Simon was astonished when Sapt opened 
the door.

"Beg pardon, Constable, but I want to see 
Herbert. Can I go in?" And he jumped 
down from his horse, throwing the reins 
to his companion.

"What's the good of your going in?" asked 
Sapt. "Herbert's not here."

"Not here? Then where is he?"

"Why, he went with the king this 
morning."

"Oh, he went with the king, sir? Then he's 
in Strelsau, I suppose?"

"If you know that, Simon, you're wiser 
than I am."

"But the king is in Strelsau, sir."

"The deuce he is! He said nothing of 
going to Strelsau. He rose early and rode 
off with Herbert, merely saying they 
would be back to-night."

"He went to Strelsau, sir. I am just from 
Zenda, and his Majesty is known to have 
been in town with the queen. They were 
both at Count Fritz's."

"I'm much interested to hear it. But didn't 
the telegram say where Herbert was?"

Simon laughed.

"Herbert's not a king, you see," he said. 
"Well, I'll come again to-morrow 
morning, for I must see him soon. He'll be 
back by then, sir?"

"Yes, Simon, your brother will be here to-
morrow morning."

"Or what's left of him after such a two-
days of work," suggested Simon jocularly.

"Why, yes, precisely," said Sapt, biting 
his moustache and darting one swift 
glance at James. "Or what's left of him, as 
you say."

"And I'll bring a cart and carry the boar 
down to the castle at the same time, sir. 
At least, I suppose you haven't eaten it 
all?

Sapt laughed; Simon was gratified at the 
tribute, and laughed even more heartily 
himself.

"We haven't even cooked it yet," said 
Sapt, "but I won't answer for it that we 
sha'n't have by to-morrow."

"All right, sir; I'll be here. By the way, 
there's another bit of news come on the 
wires. They say Count Rupert of Hentzau 
has been seen in the city."

"Rupert of Hentzau? Oh, pooh! Nonsense, 
my good Simon. He daren't show his face 
there for his life."

"Ah, but it may be no nonsense. Perhaps 
that's what took the king to Strelsau."

"It's enough to take him if it's true," 
admitted Sapt.

"Well, good day, sir."

"Good day, Simon."

The two huntsmen rode off. James 
watched them for a little while.

"The king," he said then, "is known to be 
in Strelsau; and now Count Rupert is 
known to be in Strelsau. How is Count 
Rupert to have killed the king here in the 
forest of Zenda, sir?"

Sapt looked at him almost apprehensively.

"How is the king's body to come to the 
forest of Zenda?" asked James. "Or how 
is the king's body to go to the city of 
Strelsau?"

"Stop your damned riddles!" roared Sapt. 
"Man, are you bent on driving me into 
it?"

The servant came near to him, and laid a 
hand on his shoulder.

"You went into as great a thing once 
before, sir," said he.

"It was to save the king."

"And this is to save the queen and 
yourself. For if we don't do it, the truth 
about my master must be known."

Sapt made him no answer. They sat down 
again in silence.

There they sat, sometimes smoking, never 
speaking, while the tedious afternoon 
wore away, and the shadows from the 
trees of the forest lengthened. They did 
not think of eating or drinking; they did 
not move, save when James rose and lit a 
little fire of brushwood in the grate. It 
grew dusk and again James moved to 
light the lamp. It was hard on six o'clock, 
and still no news came from Strelsau.

Then there was the sound of a horse's 
hoofs. The two rushed to the door, beyond 
it, and far along the grassy road that gave 
approach to the hunting-lodge. They 
forgot to guard the secret and the door 
gaped open behind them. Sapt ran as he 
had not run for many a day, and 
outstripped his companion. There was a 
message from Strelsau!

The constable, without a word of greeting, 
snatched the envelope from the hand of 
the messenger and tore it open. He read it 
hastily, muttering under his breath "Good 
God!, Then he turned suddenly round and 
began to walk quickly Back to James, 
who, seeing himself beaten in the race, 
had dropped to a walk. But the messenger 
had his cares as well as the constable. If 
the constable's thoughts were on a crown, 
so were his. He called out in indignant 
protest:

"I have never drawn rein since Hofbau, 
sir. Am I not to have my crown?"

Sapt stopped, turned, and retraced his 
steps. He took a crown from his pocket. 
As he looked up in giving it, there was a 
queer smile on his broad, weather-beaten 
face.

"Ay," he said, "every man that deserves a 
crown shall have one, if I can give it 
him."

Then he turned again to James, who had 
now come up, and laid his hand on his 
shoulder.

"Come along, my king-maker," said he.

James looked in his face for a moment. 
The constable's eyes met his; and the 
constable nodded.

So they turned to the lodge where the 
dead king and his huntsman lay. Verily 
the fate drove.

---

CHAPTER XVI--

A CROWD IN THE KO"NIGSTRASSE

The project that had taken shape in the 
thoughts of Mr. Rassendyll's servant, and 
had inflamed Sapt's daring mind as the 
dropping of a spark kindles dry shavings, 
had suggested itself vaguely to more than 
one of us in Strelsau. We did not indeed 
coolly face and plan it, as the little servant 
had, nor seize on it at once with an 
eagerness to be convinced of its necessity, 
like the Constable of Zenda; but it was 
there in my mind, sometimes figuring as a 
dread, sometimes as a hope, now seeming 
the one thing to be avoided, again the 
only resource against a more disastrous 
issue. I knew that it was in Bernenstein's 
thoughts no less than in my own; for 
neither of us had been able to form any 
reasonable scheme by which the living 
king, whom half Strelsau now knew to be 
in the city, could be spirited away, and the 
dead king set in his place. The change 
could take place, as it seemed, only in one 
way and at one cost: the truth, or the 
better part of it, must be told, and every 
tongue set wagging with gossip and 
guesses concerning Rudolf Rassendyll 
and his relations with the queen. Who that 
knows what men and women are would 
not have shrunk from that alternative? To 
adopt it was to expose the queen to all or 
nearly all the peril she had run by the loss 
of the letter. We indeed assumed, 
influenced by Rudolf's unhesitating self-
confidence, that the letter would be won 
back, and the mouth of Rupert of Hentzau 
shut; but enough would remain to furnish 
material for eager talk and for conjectures 
unrestrained by respect or charity. 
Therefore, alive as we were to its 
difficulties and its unending risks, we yet 
conceived of the thing as possible, had it 
in our hearts, and hinted it to one another-
-my wife to me, I to Bernenstein, and he 
to me--in quick glances and half uttered 
sentences that declared its presence while 
shunning the open confession of it. For 
the queen herself I cannot speak. Her 
thoughts, as I judged them, were bounded 
by the longing to see Mr. Rassendyll 
again, and dwelt on the visit that he 
promised as the horizon of hope. To 
Rudolf we had dared to disclose nothing 
of the part our imaginations set him to 
play: if he were to accept it, the 
acceptance would be of his own act, 
because the fate that old Sapt talked of 
drove him, and on no persuasion of ours. 
As he had said, he left the rest, and had 
centered all his efforts on the immediate 
task which fell to his hand to perform, the 
task that was to be accomplished at the 
dingy old house in the Ko"nigstrasse. We 
were indeed awake to the fact that even 
Rupert's death would not make the secret 
safe. Rischenheim, although for the 
moment a prisoner and helpless, was alive 
and could not be mewed up for ever; 
Bauer was we knew not where, free to act 
and free to talk. Yet in our hearts we 
feared none but Rupert, and the doubt was 
not whether we could do the thing so 
much as whether we should. For in 
moments of excitement and intense 
feeling a man makes light of obstacles 
which look large enough as he turns 
reflective eyes on them in the quiet of 
after-days.

A message in the king's name had 
persuaded the best part of the idle crowd 
to disperse reluctantly. Rudolf himself 
had entered one of my carriages and 
driven off. He started not towards the 
Ko"nigstrasse, but in the opposite 
direction: I supposed that he meant to 
approach his destination by a circuitous 
way, hoping to gain it without attracting 
notice. The queen's carriage was still 
before my door, for it had been arranged 
that she was to proceed to the palace and 
there await tidings. My wife and I were to 
accompany her; and I went to her now, 
where she sat alone, and asked if it were 
her pleasure to start at once. I found her 
thoughtful but calm. She listened to me; 
then, rising, she said, "Yes, I will go." But 
then she asked suddenly, "Where is the 
Count of Luzau-Rischenheim?"

I told her how Bernenstein kept guard 
over the count in the room at the back of 
the house. She seemed to consider for a 
moment, then she said:

"I will see him. Go and bring him to me. 
You must be here while I talk to him, but 
nobody else."

I did not know what she intended, but I 
saw no reason to oppose her wishes, and I 
was glad to find for her any means of 
employing this time of suspense. I obeyed 
her commands and brought Rischenheim 
to her. He followed me slowly and 
reluctantly; his unstable mind had again 
jumped from rashness to despondency: he 
was pale and uneasy, and, when he found 
himself in her presence, the bravado of his 
bearing, maintained before Bernenstein, 
gave place to a shamefaced sullenness. He 
could not meet the grave eyes that she 
fixed on him.

I withdrew to the farther end of the room; 
but it was small, and I heard all that 
passed. I had my revolver ready to cover 
Rischenheim in case he should be moved 
to make a dash for liberty. But he was 
past that: Rupert's presence was a tonic 
that nerved him to effort and to 
confidence, but the force of the last dose 
was gone and the man was sunk again to 
his natural irresolution.

"My lord," she began gently, motioning 
him to sit, "I have desired to speak with 
you, because I do not wish a gentleman of 
your rank to think too much evil of his 
queen. Heaven has willed that my secret 
should be to you no secret, and therefore I 
may speak plainly. You may say my own 
shame should silence me; I speak to 
lessen my shame in your eyes, if I can."

Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, 
not understanding her mood. He had 
expected reproaches, and met low-voiced 
apology.

"And yet," she went on, "it is because of 
me that the king lies dead now; and a 
faithful humble fellow also, caught in the 
net of my unhappy fortunes, has given his 
life for me, though he didn't know it. Even 
while we speak, it may be that a 
gentleman, not too old yet to learn 
nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; 
while another, whom I alone of all that 
know him may not praise, carries his life 
lightly in his hand for me. And to you, my 
lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a 
harsh deed in some cloak of excuse, 
making you seem to serve the king in 
working my punishment."

Rischenheim's eyes fell to the ground, and 
he twisted his hands nervously in and out, 
the one about the other. I took my hand 
from my revolver: he would not move 
now.

"I don't know," she went on, now almost 
dreamily, and as though she spoke more 
to herself than to him, or had even 
forgotten his presence, "what end in 
Heaven's counsel my great unhappiness 
has served. Perhaps I, who have place 
above most women, must also be tried 
above most; and in that trial I have failed. 
Yet, when I weigh my misery and my 
temptation, to my human eyes it seems 
that I have not failed greatly. My heart is 
not yet humbled, God's work not yet 
done. But the guilt of blood is on my soul-
-even the face of my dear love I can see 
now only through its scarlet mist; so that 
if what seemed my perfect joy were now 
granted me, it would come spoilt and 
stained and blotched."

She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; 
but he neither spoke nor moved.

"You knew my sin," she said, "the sin so 
great in my heart; and you knew how little 
my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my 
lord, that the sin had no punishment, that 
you took it in hand to add shame to my 
suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men 
must temper its indulgence by their 
severity? Yet I know that because I was 
wrong, you, being wrong, might seem to 
yourself not wrong, and in aiding your 
kinsman might plead that you served the 
king's honor. Thus, my lord, I was the 
cause in you of a deed that your heart 
could not welcome nor your honor praise. 
I thank God that you have come to no 
more hurt by it."

Rischenheim began to mutter in a low 
thick voice, his eyes still cast down: 
"Rupert persuaded me. He said the king 
would be very grateful, and--would give 
me--" His voice died away, and he sat 
silent again, twisting his hands.

"I know--I know," she said. "But you 
wouldn't have listened to such persuasions 
if my fault hadn't blinded your eyes."

She turned suddenly to me, who had been 
standing all the while aloof, and stretched 
out her hands towards me, her eyes filled 
with tears.

"Yet," said she, "your wife knows, and 
still loves me, Fritz."

"She should be no wife of mine, if she 
didn't," I cried. "For I and all of mine ask 
no better than to die for your Majesty."

"She knows, and yet she loves me," 
repeated the queen. I loved to see that she 
seemed to find comfort in Helga's love. It 
is women to whom women turn, and 
women whom women fear.

"But Helga writes no letters," said the 
queen.

"Why, no," said I, and I smiled a grim 
smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll had never 
wooed my wife.

She rose, saying: "Come, let us go to the 
palace."

As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick 
impulsive step towards her.

"Well, my lord," said she, turning towards 
him, "will you also go with me?"

"Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take 
care--" I began. But I stopped. The 
slightest gesture of her hand silenced me.

"Will you go with me?" she asked 
Rischenheim again.

"Madam," he stammered, "Madam--"

She waited. I waited also, although I had 
no great patience with him. Suddenly he 
fell on his knee, but he did not venture to 
take her hand. Of her own accord she 
came and stretched it out to him, saying 
sadly: "Ah, that by forgiving I could win 
forgiveness!"

Rischenheim caught at her hand and 
kissed it.

"It was not I," I heard him mutter. "Rupert 
set me on, and I couldn't stand out against 
him."

"Will you go with me to the palace?" she 
asked, drawing her hand away, but 
smiling.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim," I 
made bold to observe, "knows some 
things that most people do not know, 
madam." She turned on me with dignity, 
almost with displeasure.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may 
be trusted to be silent," she said. "We ask 
him to do nothing against his cousin. We 
ask only his silence."

"Ay," said I, braving her anger, "but what 
security shall we have?"

"His word of honor, my lord." I knew that 
a rebuke to my presumption lay in her 
calling me "my lord," for, save on formal 
occasions, she always used to call me 
Fritz.

"His word of honor!" I grumbled. "In 
truth, madam--"

"He's right," said Rischenheim; "he's 
right."

"No, he's wrong," said the queen, smiling. 
"The count will keep his word, given to 
me."

Rischenheim looked at her and seemed 
about to address her, but then he turned to 
me, and said in a low tone:

"By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I'll serve 
her in everything--"

"My lord," said she most graciously, and 
yet very sadly, "you lighten the burden on 
me no less by your help than because I no 
longer feel your honor stained through 
me. Come, we will go to the palace." And 
she went to him, saying, "We will go 
together."

There was nothing for it but to trust him. I 
knew that I could not turn her.

"Then I'll see if the carriage is ready," 
said I.

"Yes, do, Fritz," said the queen. But as I 
passed she stopped me for a moment, 
saying in a whisper, "Show that you trust 
him."

I went and held out my hand to him. He 
took and pressed it.

"On my honor," he said.

Then I went out and found Bernenstein 
sitting on a bench in the hall. The 
lieutenant was a diligent and watchful 
young man; he appeared to be examining 
his revolver with sedulous care.

"You can put that away," said I rather 
peevishly--I had not fancied shaking 
hands with Rischenheim. "He's not a 
prisoner any longer. He's one of us now."

"The deuce he is!" cried Bernenstein, 
springing to his feet.

I told him briefly what had happened, and 
how the queen had won Rupert's 
instrument to be her servant.

"I suppose he'll stick to it," I ended; and I 
thought he would, though I was not eager 
for his help.

A light gleamed in Bernenstein's eyes, 
and I felt a tremble in the hand that he laid 
on my shoulder.

"Then there's only Bauer now," he 
whispered. "If Rischenheim's with us, 
only Bauer!"

I knew very well what he meant. With 
Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the only 
man, save Rupert himself, who knew the 
truth, the only man who threatened that 
great scheme which more and more filled 
our thoughts and grew upon us with an 
increasing force of attraction as every 
obstacle to it seemed to be cleared out of 
the way. But I would not look at 
Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even 
with my eyes how my mind jumped with 
his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--
which you will.

"Yes, if we can shut Bauer's mouth." he 
went on.

"The queen's waiting for the carriage," I 
interrupted snappishly.

"Ah, yes, of course, the carriage," and he 
twisted me round till I was forced to look 
him in the face. Then he smiled, and even 
laughed a little.

"Only Bauer now!" said he.

"And Rupert," I remarked sourly.

"Oh, Rupert's dead bones by now," he 
chuckled, and with that he went out of the 
hall door and announced the queen's 
approach to her servants. It must be said 
for young Bernenstein that he was a 
cheerful fellow-conspirator. His 
equanimity almost matched Rudolf's own; 
I could not rival it myself.

I drove to the palace with the queen and 
my wife, the other two following in a 
second carriage. I do not know what they 
said to one another on the way, but 
Bernenstein was civil enough to his 
companion when I rejoined them. With us 
my wife was the principal speaker: she 
filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, 
the gaps in our knowledge of how he had 
spent his night in Strelsau, and by the 
time we arrived we were fully informed in 
every detail. The queen said little. The 
impulse which had dictated her appeal to 
Rischenheim and carried her through it 
seemed to have died away; she had 
become again subject to fears and 
apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when 
she suddenly put out her hand and 
touched mine, whispering:

"He must be at the house by now."

Our way did not lie by the house, and we 
came to the palace without any news of 
our absent chief (so I call him--as such we 
all, from the queen herself, then regarded 
him). She did not speak of him again; but 
her eyes seemed to follow me about as 
though she were silently asking some 
service of me; what it was I could not 
understand. Bernenstein had disappeared, 
and the repentant count with him: 
knowing they were together, I was in no 
uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that 
his companion contrived no treachery. 
But I was puzzled by the queen's tacit 
appeal. And I was myself on fire for news 
from the Ko"nigstrasse. It was now two 
hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, 
and no word had come of him or from 
him. At last I could bear it no longer. The 
queen was sitting with her hand in my 
wife's; I had been seated on the other side 
of the room, for I thought that they might 
wish to talk to one another; yet I had not 
seen them exchange a word. I rose 
abruptly and crossed the room to where 
they were.

"Have you need of my presence, madam, 
or have I your permission to be away for a 
time?" I asked.

"Where do you wish to go, Fritz?" the 
queen asked with a little start, as though I 
had come suddenly across her thoughts.

"To the Ko"nigstrasse," said I.

To my surprise she rose and caught my 
hand.

"God bless you, Fritz!" she cried. "I don't 
think I could have endured it longer. But I 
wouldn't ask you to go. But go, my dear 
friend, go and bring me news of him. Oh, 
Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!"

My wife looked up at me with a brave 
smile and a trembling lip.

"Shall you go into the house, Fritz?" she 
asked.

"Not unless I see need, sweetheart," said 
I.

She came and kissed me. "Go, if you are 
wanted," she said. And she tried to smile 
at the queen, as though she risked me 
willingly.

"I could have been such a wife, Fritz," 
whispered the queen. "Yes, I could."

I had nothing to say; at the moment I 
might not have been able to say it if I had. 
There is something in the helpless 
courage of women that makes me feel 
soft. We can work and fight; they sit and 
wait. Yet they do not flinch. Now I know 
that if I had to sit and think about the 
thing I should turn cur.

Well, I went, leaving them there together. 
I put on plain clothes instead of my 
uniform, and dropped my revolver into 
the pocket of my coat. Thus prepared, I 
slipped out and made my way on foot to 
the Ko"nigstrasse.

It was now long past midday, but many 
folks were at their dinner and the streets 
were not full. Two or three people 
recognized me, but I passed by almost 
unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or 
excitement, and the flags still floated high 
in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the 
men of Strelsau thought still that their 
king lived and was among them. I feared 
that Rudolf's coming would have been 
seen, and expected to find a crowd of 
people near the house. But when I reached 
it there were no more than ten or a dozen 
idle fellows lounging about. I began to 
stroll up and down with as careless an air 
as I could assume.

Soon, however, there was a change. The 
workmen and business folk, their meal 
finished, began to come out of their 
houses and from the restaurants. The 
loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of 
them. Some said, "Indeed?" shook their 
heads, smiled and passed on: they had no 
time to waste in staring at the king. But 
many waited; lighting their cigars or 
cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping 
with one another, looking at their watches 
now and again, lest they should overstay 
their leisure. Thus the assembly grew to 
the number of a couple of hundred. I 
ceased my walk, for the pavement was too 
crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the 
throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my 
mouth, I felt a hand on my shoulder. 
Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He 
was in uniform. By his side was 
Rischenheim.

"You're here too, are you?" said I. "Well, 
nothing seems to be happening, does it?"

For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The 
shutters were up, the door closed; the little 
shop was not open for business that day.

Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. 
His companion took no heed of my 
remark; he was evidently in a state of 
great agitation, and his eyes never left the 
door of the house. I was about to address 
him, when my attention was abruptly and 
completely diverted by a glimpse of a 
head, caught across the shoulders of the 
bystanders.

The fellow whom I saw wore a brown 
wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled down 
low over his forehead, but nevertheless 
beneath its rim there appeared a white 
bandage running round his head. I could 
not see the face, but the bullet-shaped 
skull was very familiar to me. I was sure 
from the first moment that the bandaged 
man was Bauer. Saying nothing to 
Bernenstein,

I began to steal round outside the crowd. 
As I went, I heard somebody saying that it 
was all nonsense; the king was not there: 
what should the king do in such a house? 
The answer was a reference to one of the 
first loungers; he replied that he did not 
know what the devil the king did there, 
but that the king or his double had 
certainly gone in, and had as certainly not 
yet come out again. I wished I could have 
made myself known to them and 
persuaded them to go away; but my 
presence would have outweighed my 
declarations, and been taken as a sure sign 
that the king was in the house. So I kept 
on the outskirts and worked my way 
unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. 
Evidently Bauer's hurt had not been so 
serious as to prevent him leaving the 
infirmary to which the police had carried 
him: he was come now to await, even as I 
was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf's visit to 
the house in the Ko"nigstrasse.

He had not seen me, for he was looking at 
No. 19 as intently as Rischenheim. 
Apparently neither had caught sight of the 
other, or Rischenheim would have shown 
some embarrassment, Bauer some 
excitement. I wormed my way quickly 
towards my former servant. My mind was 
full of the idea of getting hold of him. I 
could not forget Bernenstein's remark, 
"Only Bauer now!" If I could secure 
Bauer we were safe. Safe in what? I did 
not answer to myself, but the old idea was 
working in me. Safe in our secret and safe 
in our plan--in the plan on which we all, 
we here in the city, and those two at the 
hunting-lodge, had set our minds! Bauer's 
death, Bauer's capture, Bauer's silence, 
however procured, would clear the 
greatest hindrance from its way.

Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept 
cautiously up behind him. His hand was 
in his trousers' pocket; where the curve of 
the elbow came there with a space 
between arm and body. I slipped in my 
left arm and hooked it firmly inside his. 
He turned round and saw me.

"Thus we meet again, Bauer," said I.

He was for a moment flabbergasted, and 
stared stupidly at me.

"Are you also hoping to see the king?" I 
asked.

He began to recover himself. A slow, 
cunning smile spread over his face.

"The king?" he asked.

"Well, he's in Strelsau, isn't he? Who gave 
you the wound on your head?"

Bauer moved his arm as though he meant 
to withdraw it from my grasp. He found 
himself tightly held.

"Where's that bag of mine?" I asked.

I do not know what he would have 
answered, for at this instant there came a 
sound from behind the closed door of the 
house. It was as if some one ran rapidly 
and eagerly towards the door. Then came 
an oath in a shrill voice, a woman's voice, 
but harsh and rough. It was answered by 
an angry cry in a girl's intonation. Full of 
eagerness, I drew my arm from Bauer's 
and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle 
from him and turned round, to see his 
bandaged head retreating rapidly down 
the street. I had no time to look to him, for 
now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder, 
making their way through the crowd, 
regardless of any one in their way, and 
paying no attention to abuse or 
remonstrances. They were the lieutenant 
and Rischenheim. Without a moment's 
hesitation I set myself to push and battle a 
way through, thinking to join them in 
front. On they went, and on I went. All 
gave place before us in surly reluctance or 
frightened willingness. We three were 
together in the first rank of the crowd 
when the door of the house was flung 
open, and a girl ran out. Her hair was 
disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full 
of alarm. There she stood on the doorstep, 
facing the crowd, which in an instant 
grew as if by magic to three times its 
former size, and, little knowing what she 
did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer 
terror:

"Help, help! The king! The king!"

---

CHAPTER XVII--

YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-
ACTOR

There rises often before my mind the 
picture of young Rupert, standing where 
Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return 
of his messenger and watching for some 
sign that should declare to Strelsau the 
death of its king which his own hand had 
wrought. His image is one that memory 
holds clear and distinct, though time may 
blur the shape of greater and better men, 
and the position in which he was that 
morning gives play enough to the 
imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a 
broken reed, and Bauer, who was gone, 
none knew where, he stood alone against 
a kingdom which he had robbed of its 
head, and a band of resolute men who 
would know no rest and no security so 
long as he lived. For protection he had 
only a quick brain, his courage, and his 
secret. Yet he could not fly--he was 
without resources till his cousin furnished 
them--and at any moment his opponents 
might find themselves able to declare the 
king's death and raise the city in hue and 
cry after him. Such men do not repent; but 
it may be that he regretted the enterprise 
which had led him on so far and forced on 
him a deed so momentous; yet to those 
who knew him it seems more likely that 
the smile broadened on his firm full lips 
as he looked down on the unconscious 
city. Well, I daresay he would have been 
too much for me, but I wish I had been 
the man to find him there. He would not 
have had it so; for I believe that he asked 
no better than to cross swords again with 
Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on 
the issue.

Down below, the old woman was cooking 
a stew for her dinner, now and then 
grumbling to herself that the Count of 
Luzau-Rischenheim was so long away, 
and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-
house. The kitchen door stood open, and 
through it could be seen the girl Rosa, 
busily scrubbing the tiled floor; her color 
was high and her eyes bright; from time to 
time she paused in her task, and, raising 
her head, seemed to listen. The time at 
which the king needed her was past, but 
the king had not come. How little the old 
woman knew for whom she listened! All 
her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer 
did not come and what could have 
befallen him. It was grand to hold the 
king's secret for him, and she would hold 
it with her life; for he had been kind and 
gracious to her, and he was her man of all 
the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy 
fellow; the Count of Hentzau was 
handsome, handsome as the devil; but the 
king was her man. And the king had 
trusted her; she would die before hurt 
should come to him.

There were wheels in the street--quick-
rolling wheels. They seemed to stop a few 
doors away, then to roll on again past the 
house. The girl's head was raised; the old 
woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no 
heed. The girl's straining ear caught a 
rapid step outside. Then it came--the 
knock, the sharp knock followed by five 
light ones. The old woman heard now: 
dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted 
the mess off the fire and turned round, 
saying: "There's the rogue at last! Open 
the door for him, Rosa."

Before she spoke Rosa had darted down 
the passage. The door opened and shut 
again. The old woman waddled to the 
threshold of the kitchen. The passage and 
the shop were dark behind the closed 
shutters, but the figure by the girl's side 
was taller than Bauer's.

"Who's there?" cried Mother Holf sharply. 
"The shop's shut to-day: you can't come 
in."

"But I am in," came the answer, and 
Rudolf stepped towards her. The girl 
followed a pace behind, her hands clasped 
and her eyes alight with excitement. 
"Don't you know me?" asked Rudolf, 
standing opposite the old woman and 
smiling down on her.

There, in the dim light of the low-roofed 
passage, Mother Holf was fairly puzzled. 
She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; 
She knew that he was again in Ruritania, 
it was no surprise to her that he should be 
in Strelsau; but she did not know that 
Rupert had killed the king, and she had 
not seen the king close at hand since his 
illness and his beard impaired what had 
been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could 
not tell whether it were indeed the king 
who spoke to her or his counterfeit.

"Who are you?" she asked, curt and blunt 
in her confusion. The girl broke in with an 
amused laugh.

"Why, it's the--?" She paused. Perhaps the 
king's identity was a secret.

Rudolf nodded to her. "Tell her who I 
am," said he.

"Why, mother, it's the king," whispered 
Rosa, laughing and blushing. "The king, 
mother."

"Ay, if the king's alive, I'm the king," said 
Rudolf. I suppose he wanted to find out 
how much the old woman knew.

She made no answer, but stared up at his 
face. In her bewilderment she forgot to 
ask how he had learnt the signal that 
gained him admission.

"I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," 
Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at 
once."

The old woman was across his path in a 
moment, all defiant, arms akimbo.

"Nobody can see the count. He's not 
here," she blurted out.

"What, can't the king see him? Not even 
the king?"

"King!" she cried, peering at him. "Are 
you the king?"

Rosa burst out laughing.

"Mother, you must have seen the king a 
hundred times," she laughed.

"The king, or his ghost--what does it 
matter?" said Rudolf lightly.

The old woman drew back with an 
appearance of sudden alarm.

"His ghost? Is he?"

"His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry 
laugh. "Why, here's the king himself, 
mother. You don't look much like a ghost, 
sir."

Mother Holf's face was livid now, and her 
eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into 
her brain that something had happened to 
the king, and that this man had come 
because of it--this man who was indeed 
the image, and might have been the spirit, 
of the king. She leant against the door 
post, her broad bosom heaving under her 
scanty stuff gown. Yet still--was it not the 
king?

"God help us!" she muttered in fear and 
bewilderment.

"He helps us, never fear," said Rudolf 
Rassendyll. "Where is Count Rupert?"

The girl had caught alarm from her 
mother's agitation. "He's upstairs in the 
attic at the top of the house, sir," she 
whispered in frightened tones, with a 
glance that fled from her mother's terrified 
face to Rudolf's set eyes and steady smile.

What she said was enough for him. He 
slipped by the old woman and began to 
mount the stairs.

The two watched him, Mother Holf as 
though fascinated, the girl alarmed but 
still triumphant: she had done what the 
king bade her. Rudolf turned the corner of 
the first landing and disappeared from 
their sight. The old woman, swearing and 
muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, 
set her stew on the fire, and began to stir 
it, her eyes set on the flames and careless 
of the pot. The girl watched her mother 
for a moment, wondering how she could 
think of the stew, not guessing that she 
turned the spoon without a thought of 
what she did; then she began to crawl, 
quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in 
the track of Rudolf Rassendyll. She 
looked back once: the old woman stirred 
with a monotonous circular movement of 
her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double, 
skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of 
the king whom she was so proud to serve. 
He was on the top landing now, outside 
the door of a large attic where Rupert of 
Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his 
hand on the latch of the door; his other 
hand rested in the pocket of his coat. 
From the room no sound came; Rupert 
may have heard the step outside and stood 
motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the 
door and walked in. The girl darted 
breathlessly up the remaining steps, and, 
coming to the door, just as it swung back 
on the latch, crouched down by it, 
listening to what passed within, catching 
glimpses of forms and movements 
through the chinks of the crazy hinge and 
the crevices where the wood of the panel 
sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her 
absorbed gazing.

Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of 
ghosts; the men he killed lay still where 
they fell, and slept where they were 
buried. And he had no wonder at the sight 
of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more 
than that Rischenheim's errand had fallen 
out ill, at which he was not surprised, and 
that his old enemy was again in his path, 
at which (as I verily believe) he was more 
glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had 
been half-way between window and table; 
he came forward to the table now, and 
stood leaning the points of two fingers on 
the unpolished dirty-white deal.

"Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a 
gleam of his teeth and a toss of his curls, 
while his second hand, like Mr. 
Rassendyll's, rested in the pocket of his 
coat.

Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that 
in old days it went against the grain with 
him when Rupert called him a play-actor. 
He was a little older now, and his temper 
more difficult to stir.

"Yes, the play-actor," he answered, 
smiling. "With a shorter part this time, 
though."

"What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the 
king with a pasteboard crown?" asked 
Rupert, sitting down on the table. "Faith, 
we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you 
have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble 
man though I am) have given the other 
one a heavenly crown. What a brave 
show! But perhaps I tell you news?"

"No, I know what you've done."

"I take no credit. It was more the dog's 
doing than mine," said Rupert carelessly. 
"However, there it is, and dead he is, and 
there's an end of it. What's your business, 
play-actor?"

At the repetition of this last word, to her 
so mysterious, the girl outside pressed her 
eyes more eagerly to the chink and 
strained her ears to listen more 
sedulously. And what did the count mean 
by the "other one" and "a heavenly 
crown"?

"Why not call me king?" asked Rudolf.

"They call you that in Strelsau?"

"Those that know I'm here."

"And they are--?"

"Some few score."

"And thus," said Rupert, waving an arm 
towards the window, "the town is quiet 
and the flags fly?"

"You've been waiting to see them 
lowered?"

"A man likes to have some notice taken of 
what he has done," Rupert complained. 
"However, I can get them lowered when I 
will."

"By telling your news? Would that be 
good for yourself?"

"Forgive me--not that way. Since the king 
has two lives, it is but in nature that he 
should have two deaths."

"And when he has undergone the 
second?"

"I shall live at peace, my friend, on a 
certain source of income that I possess." 
He tapped his breast-pocket with a slight, 
defiant laugh. "In these days," said he, 
"even queens must be careful about their 
letters. We live in moral times."

"You don't share the responsibility for it," 
said Rudolf, smiling.

"I make my little protest. But what's your 
business, play-actor? For I think you're 
rather tiresome."

Rudolf grew grave. He advanced towards 
the table, and spoke in low, serious tones.

"My lord, you're alone in this matter now. 
Rischenheim is a prisoner; your rogue 
Bauer I encountered last night and broke 
his head."

"Ah, you did?"

"You have what you know of in your 
hands. If you yield, on my honor I will 
save your life."

"You don't desire my blood, then, most 
forgiving play-actor?"

"So much, that I daren't fail to offer you 
life," answered Rudolf Rassendyll. 
"Come, sir, your plan has failed: give up 
the letter."

Rupert looked at him thoughtfully.

"You'll see me safe off if I give it you?" 
he asked.

"I'll prevent your death. Yes, and I'll see 
you safe."

"Where to?"

"To a fortress, where a trustworthy 
gentleman will guard you."

"For how long, my dear friend?"

"I hope for many years, my dear Count."

"In fact, I suppose, as long as--?"

"Heaven leaves you to the world, Count. 
It's impossible to set you free."

"That's the offer, then?"

"The extreme limit of indulgence," 
answered Rudolf. Rupert burst into a 
laugh, half of defiance, yet touched with 
the ring of true amusement. Then he lit a 
cigarette and sat puffing and smiling.

"I should wrong you by straining your 
kindness so far," said he; and in wanton 
insolence, seeking again to show Mr. 
Rassendyll the mean esteem in which he 
held him, and the weariness his presence 
was, he raised his arms and stretched 
them above his head, as a man does in the 
fatigue of tedium. "Heigho!" he yawned.

But he had overshot the mark this time. 
With a sudden swift bound Rudolf was 
upon him; his hands gripped Rupert's 
wrists, and with his greater strength he 
bent back the count's pliant body till trunk 
and head lay flat on the table. Neither 
man spoke; their eyes met; each heard the 
other's breathing and felt the vapor of it 
on his face. The girl outside had seen the 
movement of Rudolf's figure, but her 
cranny did not serve her to show her the 
two where they were now; she knelt on 
her knees in ignorant suspense. Slowly 
and with a patient force Rudolf began to 
work his enemy's arms towards one 
another. Rupert had read his design in his 
eyes and resisted with tense muscles. It 
seemed as though his arms must crack; 
but at last they moved. Inch by inch they 
were driven closer; now the elbows 
almost touched; now the wrists joined in 
reluctant contact. The sweat broke out on 
the count's brow, and stood in large drops 
on Rudolf's. Now the wrists were side by 
side, and slowly the long sinewy fingers 
of Rudolf's right hand, that held one wrist 
already in their vise, began to creep round 
the other. The grip seemed to have half 
numbed Rupert's arms, and his struggles 
grew fainter. Round both wrists the 
sinewy fingers climbed and coiled; 
gradually and timidly the grasp of the 
other hand was relaxed and withdrawn. 
Would the one hold both? With a great 
spasm of effort Rupert put it to the proof.

The smile that bent Mr. Rassendyll's lips 
gave the answer. He could hold both, with 
one hand he could hold both: not for long, 
no, but for an instant. And then, in the 
instant, his left hand, free at last, shot to 
the breast of the count's coat. It was the 
same that he had worn at the hunting-
lodge, and was ragged and torn from the 
boar-hound's teeth. Rudolf tore it further 
open, and his hand dashed in.

"God's curse on you!" snarled Rupert of 
Hentzau.

But Mr. Rassendyll still smiled. Then he 
drew out a letter. A glance at it showed 
him the queen's seal. As he glanced 
Rupert made another effort. The one 
hand, wearied out, gave way, and Mr. 
Rassendyll had no more than time to 
spring away, holding his prize. The next 
moment he had his revolver in his hand--
none too soon, for Rupert of Hentzau's 
barrel faced him, and they stood thus, 
opposite to one another, with no more 
than three or four feet between the mouths 
of their weapons.

There is, indeed, much that may be said 
against Rupert of Hentzau, the truth about 
him well-nigh forbidding that charity of 
judgment which we are taught to observe 
towards all men. But neither I nor any 
man who knew him ever found in him a 
shrinking from danger or a fear of death. 
It was no feeling such as these, but rather 
a cool calculation of chances, that now 
stayed his hand. Even if he were 
victorious in the duel, and both did not 
die, yet the noise of the firearms would 
greatly decrease his chances of escape. 
Moreover, he was a noted swordsman, 
and conceived that he was Mr. 
Rassendyll's superior in that exercise. The 
steel offered him at once a better prospect 
for victory and more hope of a safe fight. 
So he did not pull his trigger, but, 
maintaining his aim the while, said:

"I'm not a street bully, and I don't excel in 
a rough-and-tumble. Will you fight now 
like a gentleman? There's a pair of blades 
in the case yonder."

Mr. Rassendyll, in his turn, was keenly 
alive to the peril that still hung over the 
queen. To kill Rupert would not save her 
if he himself also were shot and left dead, 
or so helpless that he could not destroy 
the letter; and while Rupert's revolver was 
at his heart he could not tear it up nor 
reach the fire that burnt on the other side 
of the room. Nor did he fear the result of a 
trial with steel, for he had kept himself in 
practice and improved his skill since the 
days when he came first to Strelsau.

"As you will," said he. "Provided we 
settle the matter here and now, the manner 
is the same to me."

"Put your revolver on the table, then, and 
I'll lay mine by the side of it."

"I beg your pardon," smiled Rudolf, "but 
you must lay yours down first."

"I'm to trust you, it seems, but you won't 
trust me!"

"Precisely. You know you can trust me; 
you know that I can't trust you."

A sudden flush swept over Rupert of 
Hentzau's face. There were moments 
when he saw, in the mirror of another's 
face or words, the estimation in which 
honorable men held him; and I believe 
that he hated Mr. Rassendyll most 
fiercely, not for thwarting his enterprise, 
but because he had more power than any 
other man to show him that picture. His 
brows knit in a frown, and his lips shut 
tight.

"Ay, but though you won't fire, you'll 
destroy the letter," he sneered. "I know 
your fine distinctions."

"Again I beg your pardon. You know very 
well that, although all Strelsau were at the 
door, I wouldn't touch the letter."

With an angry muttered oath Rupert flung 
his revolver on the table. Rudolf came 
forward and laid his by it. Then he took 
up both, and, crossing to the mantelpiece, 
laid them there; between there he placed 
the queen's letter. A bright blaze burnt in 
the grate; it needed but the slightest 
motion of his hand to set the letter beyond 
all danger. But he placed it carefully on 
the mantelpiece, and, with a slight smile 
on his face, turned to Rupert, saying: 
"Now shall we resume the bout that Fritz 
von Tarlenheim interrupted in the forest 
of Zenda?"

All this while they had been speaking in 
subdued accents, resolution in one, anger 
in the other, keeping the voice in an even, 
deliberate lowness. The girl outside 
caught only a word here and there; but 
now suddenly the flash of steel gleamed 
on her eyes through the crevice of the 
hinge. She gave a sudden gasp, and, 
pressing her face closer to the opening, 
listened and looked. For Rupert of 
Hentzau had taken the swords from their 
case and put them on the table. With a 
slight bow Rudolf took one, and the two 
assumed their positions. Suddenly Rupert 
lowered his point. The frown vanished 
from his face, and he spoke in his usual 
bantering tone.

"By the way," said he, "perhaps we're 
letting our feelings run away with us. 
Have you more of a mind now to be King 
of Ruritania? If so, I'm ready to be the 
most faithful of your subjects."

"You honor me, Count."

"Provided, of course, that I'm one of the 
most favored and the richest. Come, 
come, the fool is dead now; he lived like a 
fool and he died like a fool. The place is 
empty. A dead man has no rights and 
suffers no wrongs. Damn it, that's good 
law, isn't it? Take his place and his wife. 
You can pay my price then. Or are you 
still so virtuous? Faith, how little some 
men learn from the world they live in! If I 
had your chance!"

"Come, Count, you'd be the last man to 
trust Rupert of Hentzau."

"If I made it worth his while?"

"But he's a man who would take the pay 
and betray his associate."

Again Rupert flushed. When he next 
spoke his voice was hard, cold, and low.

"By God, Rudolf Rassendyll," said he, 
"I'll kill you here and now."

"I ask no better than that you should try."

"And then I'll proclaim that woman for 
what she is in all Strelsau." A smile came 
on his lips as he watched Rudolf's face.

"Guard yourself, my lord," said Mr. 
Rassendyll.

"Ay, for no better than--There, man, I'm 
ready for you." For Rudolf's blade had 
touched his in warning.

The steel jangled. The girl's pale face was 
at the crevice of the hinge. She heard the 
blades cross again and again. Then one 
would run up the other with a sharp, 
grating slither. At times she caught a 
glimpse of a figure in quick forward lunge 
or rapid wary withdrawal. Her brain was 
almost paralyzed.

Ignorant of the mind and heart of young 
Rupert, she could not conceive that he 
tried to kill the king. Yet the words she 
had caught sounded like the words of men 
quarreling, and she could not persuade 
herself that the gentlemen fenced only for 
pastime. They were not speaking now; but 
she heard their hard breathing and the 
movement of their unresting feet on the 
bare boards of the floor. Then a cry rang 
out, clear and merry with the fierce hope 
of triumph: "Nearly! nearly!"

She knew the voice for Rupert of 
Hentzau's, and it was the king who 
answered calmly, "Nearly isn't quite."

Again she listened. They seemed to have 
paused for a moment, for there was no 
sound, save of the hard breathing and 
deep-drawn pants of men who rest an 
instant in the midst of intense exertion. 
Then came again the clash and the 
slitherings; and one of them crossed into 
her view. She knew the tall figure and she 
saw the red hair: it was the king. 
Backward step by step he seemed to be 
driven, coming nearer and nearer to the 
door. At last there was no more than a 
foot between him and her; only the crazy 
panel prevented her putting out her hand 
to touch him. Again the voice of Rupert 
rang out in rich exultation, "I have you 
now! Say your prayers, King Rudolf!"

"Say your prayers!" Then they fought. It 
was earnest, not play. And it was the 
king--her king--her dear king, who was in 
great peril of his life. For an instant she 
knelt, still watching. Then with a low cry 
of terror she turned and ran headlong 
down the steep stairs. Her mind could not 
tell what to do, but her heart cried out that 
she must do something for her king. 
Reaching the ground floor, she ran with 
wide-open eyes into the kitchen. The stew 
was on the hob, the old woman still held 
the spoon, but she had ceased to stir and 
fallen into a chair.

"He's killing the king! He's killing the 
king!" cried Rosa, seizing her mother by 
the arm. "Mother, what shall we do? He's 
killing the king!"

The old woman looked up with dull eyes 
and a stupid, cunning smile.

"Let them alone," she said. "There's no 
king here."

"Yes, yes. He's upstairs in the count's 
room. They're fighting, he and the Count 
of Hentzau. Mother, Count Rupert will 
kill

"Let them alone. He the king? He's no 
king," muttered the old woman again.

For an instant Rosa stood looking down 
on her in helplessdespair. Then a light 
flashed into her eyes.

"I must call for help," she cried.

The old woman seemed to spring to 
sudden life. She jumped up and caught 
her daughter by the shoulder.

"No, no," she whispered in quick accents. 
"You--you don't know. Let them alone, 
you fool! It's not our business. Let them 
alone."

"Let me go, mother, let me go! Mother, I 
must help the king!"

"I'll not let you go," said Mother Holf.

But Rosa was young and strong; her heart 
was fired with terror for the king's danger.

"I must go," she cried; and she flung her 
mother's grasp off from her so that the old 
woman was thrown back into her chair, 
and the spoon fell from her hand and 
clattered on the tiles. But Rosa turned and 
fled down the passage and through the 
shop. The bolts delayed her trembling 
fingers for an instant. Then she flung the 
door wide. A new amazement filled her 
eyes at the sight of the eager crowd before 
the house. Then her eyes fell on me where 
I stood between the lieutenant and 
Rischenheim, and she uttered her wild 
cry, "Help! The king!"

With one bound I was by her side and in 
the house, while Bernenstein cried, 
"Quicker!" from behind.

---

CHAPTER XVIII--

THE TRIUMPH OF THE KING

THE things that men call presages, 
presentiments, and so forth, are, to my 
mind, for the most part idle nothings: 
sometimes it is only that probable events 
cast before them a natural shadow which 
superstitious fancy twists into a Heaven 
sent warning; oftener the same desire that 
gives conception works fulfilment, and 
the dreamer sees in the result of his own 
act and will a mysterious accomplishment 
independent of his effort. Yet when I 
observe thus calmly and with good sense 
on the matter to the Constable of Zenda, 
he shakes his head and answers, "But 
Rudolf Rassendyll knew from the first 
that he would come again to Strelsau and 
engage young Rupert point to point. Else 
why did he practise with the foils so as to 
be a better swordsman the second time 
than he was the first? Mayn't God do 
anything that Fritz von Tarlenheim can't 
understand? a pretty notion, on my life!" 
And he goes off grumbling.

Well, be it inspiration, or be it delusion--
and the difference stands often on a hair's 
breadth--I am glad that Rudolf had it. For 
if a man once grows rusty, it is everything 
short of impossible to put the fine polish 
on his skill again. Mr. Rassendyll had 
strength, will, coolness, and, of course, 
courage. None would have availed had 
not his eye been in perfect familiarity 
with its work, and his hand obeyed it as 
readily as the bolt slips in a well-oiled 
groove. As the thing stood, the lithe 
agility and unmatched dash of young 
Rupert but just missed being too much for 
him. He was in deadly peril when the girl 
Rosa ran down to bring him aid. His 
practised skill was able to maintain his 
defence. He sought to do no more, but 
endured Rupert's fiery attack and wily 
feints in an almost motionless stillness. 
Almost, I say; for the slight turns of wrist 
that seem nothing are everything, and 
served here to keep his skin whole and his 
life in him.

There was an instant--Rudolf saw it in his 
eyes and dwelt on it when he lightly 
painted the scene for me--when there 
dawned on Rupert of Hentzau the 
knowledge that he could not break down 
his enemy's guard. Surprise, chagrin, 
amusement, or something like it, seemed 
blended in his look. He could not make 
out how he was caught and checked in 
every effort, meeting, it seemed, a barrier 
of iron impregnable in rest. His quick 
brain grasped the lesson in an instant. If 
his skill were not the greater, the victory 
would not be his, for his endurance was 
the less. He was younger, and his frame 
was not so closely knit; pleasure had 
taken its tithe from him; perhaps a good 
cause goes for something. Even while he 
almost pressed Rudolf against the panel of 
the door, he seemed to know that his 
measure of success was full. But what the 
hand could not compass the head might 
contrive. In quickly conceived strategy he 
began to give pause in his attack, nay, he 
retreated a step or two. No scruples 
hampered his devices, no code of honor 
limited the means he would employ. 
Backing before his opponent, he seemed 
to Rudolf to be faint-hearted; he was 
baffled, but seemed despairing; he was 
weary, but played a more complete 
fatigue. Rudolf advanced, pressing and 
attacking, only to meet a defence as 
perfect as his own. They were in the 
middle of the room now, close by the 
table. Rupert, as though he had eyes in the 
back of his head, skirted round, avoiding 
it by a narrow inch. His breathing was 
quick and distressed, gasp tumbling over 
gasp, but still his eye was alert and his 
hand unerring. He had but a few moments' 
more effort left in him: it was enough if 
he could reach his goal and perpetrate the 
trick on which his mind, fertile in every 
base device, was set. For it was towards 
the mantelpiece that his retreat, seeming 
forced, in truth so deliberate, led him. 
There was the letter, there lay the 
revolvers. The time to think of risks was 
gone by; the time to boggle over what 
honor allowed or forbade had never come 
to Rupert of Hentzau. If he could not win 
by force and skill, he would win by guile 
and by treachery, to the test that he had 
himself invited. The revolvers lay on the 
mantelpiece: he meant to possess himself 
of one, if he could gain an instant in 
which to snatch it.

The device that he adopted was nicely 
chosen. It was too late to call a rest or ask 
breathing space: Mr. Rassendyll was not 
blind to the advantage he had won, and 
chivalry would have turned to folly had it 
allowed such indulgence. Rupert was hard 
by the mantelpiece now. The sweat was 
pouring from his face, and his breast 
seemed like to burst in the effort after 
breath; yet he had enough strength for his 
purpose. He must have slackened his hold 
on his weapon, for when Rudolf's blade 
next struck it, it flew from his hand, 
twirled out of a nerveless grasp, and slid 
along the floor. Rupert stood disarmed, 
and Rudolf motionless.

"Pick it up," said Mr. Rassendyll, never 
thinking there had been a trick.

"Ay, and you'll truss me while I do it."

"You young fool, don't you know me 
yet?" and Rudolf, lowering his blade, 
rested its point on the floor, while with his 
left hand he indicated Rupert's weapon. 
Yet something warned him: it may be 
there came a look in Rupert's eyes, 
perhaps of scorn for his enemy's 
simplicity, perhaps of pure triumph in the 
graceless knavery. Rudolf stood waiting.

"You swear you won't touch me while I 
pick it up?" asked Rupert, shrinking back 
a little, and thereby getting an inch or two 
nearer the mantelpiece.

"You have my promise: pick it up. I won't 
wait any longer."

"You won't kill me unarmed?" cried 
Rupert, in alarmed scandalized 
expostulation.

"No; but--"

The speech went unfinished, unless a 
sudden cry were its ending. And, as he 
cried, Rudolf Rassendyll, dropping his 
sword on the ground, sprang forward. For 
Rupert's hand had shot out behind him 
and was on the butt of one of the 
revolvers. The whole trick flashed on 
Rudolf, and he sprang, flinging his long 
arms round Rupert. But Rupert had the 
revolver in his hand.

In all likelihood the two neither heard nor 
heeded, though it seemed to me that the 
creaks and groans of the old stairs were 
loud enough to wake the dead. For now 
Rosa had given the alarm, Bernenstein 
and I--or I and Bernenstein (for I was 
first, and, therefore, may put myself first)-
-had rushed up. Hard behind us came 
Rischenheim, and hot on his heels a score 
of fellows, pushing and shouldering and 
trampling. We in front had a fair start, and 
gained the stairs unimpeded; Rischenheim 
was caught up in the ruck and gulfed in 
the stormy, tossing group that struggled 
for first footing on the steps. Yet, soon 
they were after us, and we heard them 
reach the first landing as we sped up to 
the last. There was a confused din through 
all the house, and it seemed now to echo 
muffled and vague through the walls from 
the street without. I was conscious of it, 
although I paid no heed to anything but 
reaching the room where the king--where 
Rudolf--was. Now I was there, 
Bernenstein hanging to my heels. The 
door did not hold us a second. I was in, he 
after me. He slammed the door and set his 
back against it, just as the rush of feet 
flooded the highest flight of stairs. And at 
the moment a revolver shot rang clear and 
loud.

The lieutenant and I stood still, he against 
the door, I a pace farther into the room. 
The sight we saw was enough to arrest us 
with its strange interest. The smoke of the 
shot was curling about, but neither man 
seemed wounded. The revolver was in 
Rupert's hand, and its muzzle smoked. 
But Rupert was jammed against the wall, 
just by the side of the mantelpiece. With 
one hand Rudolf had pinned his left arm 
to the wainscoting higher than his head, 
with the other he held his right wrist. I 
drew slowly nearer: if Rudolf were 
unarmed, I could fairly enforce a truce 
and put them on an equality; yet, though 
Rudolf was unarmed, I did nothing. The 
sight of his face stopped me. He was very 
pale and his lips were set, but it was his 
eyes that caught my gaze, for they were 
glad and merciless. I had never seen him 
look thus before. I turned from him to 
young Hentzau's face. Rupert's teeth were 
biting his under lip, the sweat dropped, 
and the veins swelled large and blue on 
his forehead; his eyes were set on Rudolf 
Rassendyll. Fascinated, I drew nearer. 
Then I saw what passed. Inch by inch 
Rupert's arm curved, the elbow bent, the 
hand that had pointed almost straight from 
him and at Mr. Rassendyll pointed now 
away from both towards the window. But 
its motion did not stop; it followed the 
line of a circle: now it was on Rupert's 
arm; still it moved, and quicker now, for 
the power of resistance grew less. Rupert 
was beaten; he felt it and knew it, and I 
read the knowledge in his eyes. I stepped 
up to Rudolf Rassendyll. He heard or felt 
me, and turned his eyes for an instant. I 
do not know what my face said, but he 
shook his head and turned back to Rupert. 
The revolver, held still in the man's own 
hand, was at his heart. The motion ceased, 
the point was reached.

I looked again at Rupert. Now his face 
was easier; there was a slight smile on his 
lips; he flung back his comely head and 
rested thus against the wainscoting; his 
eyes asked a question of Rudolf 
Rassendyll. I turned my gaze to where the 
answer was to come, for Rudolf made 
none in words. By the swiftest of 
movements he shifted his grasp from 
Rupert's wrist and pounced on his hand. 
Now his forefinger rested on Rupert's and 
Rupert's was on the trigger. I am no soft-
heart, but I laid a hand on his shoulder. 
He took no heed; I dared do no more. 
Rupert glanced at me. I caught his look, 
but what could I say to him? Again my 
eyes were riveted on Rudolf's finger. Now 
it was crooked round Rupert's, seeming 
like a man who strangles another.

I will not say more. He smiled to the last; 
his proud head, which had never bent for 
shame, did not bend for fear. There was a 
sudden tightening in the pressure of that 
crooked forefinger, a flash, a noise. He 
was held up against the wall for an instant 
by Rudolf's hand; when that was removed 
he sank, a heap that looked all head and 
knees.

But hot on the sound of the discharge 
came a shout and an oath from 
Bernenstein. He was hurled away from 
the door, and through it burst 
Rischenheim and the whole score after 
him. They were jostling one another and 
crying out to know what passed and 
where the king was. High over all the 
voices, coming from the back of the 
throng, I heard the cry of the girl Rosa. 
But as soon as they were in the room, the 
same spell that had fastened Bernenstein 
and me to inactivity imposed its numbing 
power on them also. Only Rischenheim 
gave a sudden sob and ran forward to 
where his cousin lay. The rest stood 
staring. For a moment Rudolf eyed them. 
Then, without a word, he turned his back. 
He put out the right hand with which he 
had just killed Rupert of Hentzau, and 
took the letter from the mantelpiece. He 
glanced at the envelope, then he opened 
the letter. The handwriting banished any 
last doubt he had; he tore the letter across, 
and again in four pieces, and yet again in 
smaller fragments. Then he sprinkled the 
morsels of paper into the blaze of the fire. 
I believe that every eye in the room 
followed them and watched till they 
curled and crinkled into black, wafery 
ashes. Thus, at last the queen's letter was 
safe.

When he had thus set the seal on his task 
he turned round to us again. He paid no 
heed to Rischenheim, who was crouching 
down by the body of Rupert; but he 
looked at Bernenstein and me, and then at 
the people behind us. He waited a 
moment before he spoke; then his 
utterance was not only calm but also very 
slow, so that he seemed to be choosing his 
words carefully.

"Gentlemen," said he, "a full account of 
this matter will be rendered by myself in 
due time. For the present it must suffice to 
say that this gentleman who lies here dead 
sought an interview with me on private 
business. I came here to find him, 
desiring, as he professed, to desire, 
privacy. And here he tried to kill me. The 
result of his attempt you see."

I bowed low, Bernenstein did the like, and 
all the rest followed our example.

"A full account shall be given," said 
Rudolf. "Now let all leave me, except the 
Count of Tarlenheim and Lieutenant von 
Bernenstein."

Most unwillingly, with gaping mouths 
and wonder-struck eyes, the throng filed 
out of the door. Rischenheim rose to his 
feet.

"You stay, if you like," said Rudolf, and 
the count knelt again by his kinsman.

Seeing the rough bedsteads by the wall of 
the attic, I touched Rischenheim on the 
shoulder and pointed to one of them. 
Together we lifted Rupert of Hentzau. 
The revolver was still in his hand, but 
Bernenstein disengaged it from his grasp. 
Then Rischenheim and I laid him down, 
disposing his body decently and spreading 
over it his riding cloak, still spotted with 
the mud gathered on his midnight 
expedition to the hunting-lodge. His face 
looked much as before the shot was fired; 
in death, as in life, he was the handsomest 
fellow in all Ruritania. I wager that many 
tender hearts ached and many bright eyes 
were dimmed for him when the news of 
his guilt and death went forth. There are 
ladies still in Strelsau who wear his 
trinkets in an ashamed devotion that 
cannot forget. Well, even I, who had 
every good cause to hate and scorn him, 
set the hair smooth on his brow; while 
Rischenheim was sobbing like a child, 
and young Bernenstein rested his head on 
his arm as he leant on the mantelpiece, 
and would not look at the dead. Rudolf 
alone seemed not to heed him or think of 
him. His eyes had lost their unnatural look 
of joy, and were now calm and tranquil. 
He took his own revolver from the 
mantelpiece and put it in his pocket, 
laying Rupert's neatly where his had been. 
Then he turned to me and said:

"Come, let us go to the queen and tell her 
that the letter is beyond reach of hurt."

Moved by some impulse, I walked to the 
window and put my head out. I was seen 
from below, and a great shout greeted me. 
The crowd before the doors grew every 
moment; the people flocking from all 
quarters would soon multiply it a hundred 
fold; for such news as had been carried 
from the attic by twenty wondering 
tongues spreads like a forest-fire. It would 
be through Strelsau in a few minutes, 
through the kingdom in an hour, through 
Europe in but little longer. Rupert was 
dead and the letter was safe, but what 
were we to tell that great concourse 
concerning their king? A queer feeling of 
helpless perplexity came over me and 
found vent in a foolish laugh. Bernenstein 
was by my side; he also looked out, and 
turned again with an eager face.

"You'll have a royal progress to your 
palace," said he to Rudolf Rassendyll.

Mr. Rassendyll made no answer, but, 
coming to me, took my arm. We went out, 
leaving Rischenheim by the body. I did 
not think of him; Bernenstein probably 
thought that he would keep his pledge 
given to the queen, for he followed us 
immediately and without demur. There 
was nobody outside the door. The house 
was very quiet, and the tumult from the 
street reached us only in a muffled roar. 
But when we came to the foot of the stairs 
we found the two women. Mother Holf 
stood on the threshold of the kitchen, 
looking amazed and terrified. Rosa was 
clinging to her; but as soon as Rudolf 
came in sight, the girl sprang forward and 
flung herself on her knees before him, 
pouring out incoherent thanks to Heaven 
for his safety. He bent down and spoke to 
her in a whisper; she looked up with a 
flush of pride on her face. He seemed to 
hesitate a moment; he glanced at his 
hands, but he wore no ring save that 
which the queen had given him long ago. 
Then he disengaged his chain and took his 
gold watch from his pocket. Turning it 
over, he showed me the monogram, R. R.

"Rudolfus Rex," he whispered with a 
whimsical smile, and pressed the watch 
into the girl's hand, saying: "Keep this to 
remind you of me."

She laughed and sobbed as she caught it 
with one hand, while with the other she 
held his.

"You must let go," he said gently. "I have 
much to do."

I took her by the arm and induced her to 
rise. Rudolf, released, passed on to where 
the old woman stood. He spoke to her in a 
stern, distinct voice.

"I don't know," he said, "how far you are 
a party to the plot that was hatched in 
your house. For the present I am content 
not to know, for it is no pleasure to me to 
detect disloyalty or to punish an old 
woman. But take care! The first word you 
speak, the first act you do against me, the 
king, will bring its certain and swift 
punishment. If you trouble me, I won't 
spare you. In spite of traitors I am still 
king in Strelsau."

He paused, looking hard in her face. Her 
lip quivered and her eyes fell.

"Yes," he repeated, "I am king in Strelsau. 
Keep your hands out of mischief and your 
tongue quiet."

She made no answer. He passed on. I was 
following, but as I went by her the old 
woman clutched my arm. "In God's name, 
who is he?" she whispered.

"Are you mad?" I asked, lifting my 
brows. "Don't you know the king when he 
speaks to you? And you'd best remember 
what he said. He has servants who'll do 
his orders."

She let me go and fell back a step. Young 
Bernenstein smiled at her; he at least 
found more pleasure than anxiety in our 
position. Thus, then, we left them: the old 
woman terrified, amazed, doubtful; the 
girl with ruddy cheeks and shining eyes, 
clasping in her two hands the keepsake 
that the king himself had given her.

Bernenstein had more presence of mind 
than I. He ran forward, got in front of 
both of us, and flung the door open. Then, 
bowing very low, he stood aside to let 
Rudolf pass. The street was full from end 
to end now, and a mighty shout of 
welcome rose from thousands of throats. 
Hats and handkerchiefs were waved in 
mad exultation and triumphant loyalty. 
The tidings of the king's escape had 
flashed through the city, and all were 
there to do him honor. They had seized 
some gentleman's landau and taken out 
the horses. The carriage stood now before 
the doors of the house. Rudolf had waited 
a moment on the threshold, lifting his hat 
once or twice; his face was perfectly 
calm, and I saw no trembling in his hands. 
In an instant a dozen arms took gentle 
hold of him and impelled him forward. He 
mounted into the carriage; Bernenstein 
and I followed, with bare heads, and sat 
on the back seat, facing him. The people 
were round as thick as bees, and it seemed 
as though we could not move without 
crushing somebody. Yet presently the 
wheels turned, and they began to drag us 
away at a slow walk. Rudolf kept raising 
his hat, bowing now to right, now to left. 
But once, as he turned, his eyes met ours. 
In spite of what was behind and what was 
in front, we all three smiled.

"I wish they'd go a little quicker," said 
Rudolf in a whisper, as he conquered his 
smile and turned again to acknowledge 
the loyal greetings of his subjects.

But what did they know of any need for 
haste? They did not know what stood on 
the turn of the next few hours, nor the 
momentous question that pressed for 
instant decision. So far from hurrying, 
they lengthened our ride by many pauses; 
they kept us before the cathedral, while 
some ran and got the joy bells set ringing; 
we were stopped to receive improvised 
bouquets from the hands of pretty girls 
and impetuous hand-shakings from 
enthusiastic loyalists. Through it all 
Rudolf kept his composure, and seemed 
to play his part with native kingliness. I 
heard Bernenstein whisper, "By God, we 
must stick to it!"

At last we came in sight of the palace. 
Here also there was a great stir. Many 
officers and soldiers were about. I saw the 
chancellor's carriage standing near the 
portico, and a dozen other handsome 
equipages were waiting till they could 
approach. Our human horses drew us 
slowly up to the entrance. Helsing was on 
the steps, and ran down to the carriage, 
greeting the king with passionate fervor. 
The shouts of the crowd grew louder still.

But suddenly a stillness fell on them; it 
lasted but an instant, and was the prelude 
to a deafening roar. I was looking at 
Rudolf and saw his head turn suddenly 
and his eyes grow bright. I looked where 
his eyes had gone. There, on the top step 
of the broad marble flight, stood the 
queen, pale as the marble itself, stretching 
out her hands towards Rudolf. The people 
had seen her: she it was whom this last 
rapturous cheer greeted. My wife stood 
close behind her, and farther back others 
of her ladies. Bernenstein and I sprang 
out. With a last salute to the people 
Rudolf followed us. He walked up to the 
highest step but one, and there fell on one 
knee and kissed the queen's hand. I was 
by him, and when he looked up in her 
face I heard him say:

"All's well. He's dead, and the letter 
burnt."

She raised him with her hand. Her lips 
moved, but it seemed as though she could 
find no words to speak. She put her arm 
through his, and thus they stood for an 
instant, fronting all Strelsau. Again the 
cheers rang out, and young Bernenstein 
sprang forward, waving his helmet and 
crying like a man possessed, "God save 
the king!" I was carried away by his 
enthusiasm and followed his lead. All the 
people took up the cry with boundless 
fervor, and thus we all, high and low in 
Strelsau, that afternoon hailed Mr. 
Rassendyll for our king. There had been 
no such zeal since Henry the Lion came 
back from his wars, a hundred and fifty 
years ago.

"And yet," observed old Helsing at my 
elbow, "agitators say that there is no 
enthusiasm for the house of Elphberg!" 
He took a pinch of snuff in scornful 
satisfaction.

Young Bernenstein interrupted his 
cheering with a short laugh, but fell to his 
task again in a moment. I had recovered 
my senses by now, and stood punting, 
looking down on the crowd. It was 
growing dusk and the faces became 
blurred into a white sea. Yet suddenly I 
seemed to discern one glaring up at me 
from the middle of the crowd--the pale 
face of a man with a bandage about his 
head. I caught Bernenstein's arm and 
whispered, "Bauer," pointing with my 
finger where the face was. But, even as I 
pointed, it was gone; though it seemed 
impossible for a man to move in that 
press, yet it was gone. It had come like a 
cynic's warning across the scene of mock 
triumph, and went swiftly as it had come, 
leaving behind it a reminder of our peril. I 
felt suddenly sick at heart, and almost 
cried out to the people to have done with 
their silly shouting.

At last we got away. The plea of fatigue 
met all visitors who made their way to the 
door and sought to offer their 
congratulations; it could not disperse the 
crowd that hung persistently and 
contentedly about, ringing us in the palace 
with a living fence. We still heard their 
jests and cheers when we were alone in 
the small saloon that opens on the 
gardens. My wife and I had come here at 
Rudolf's request; Bernenstein had 
assumed the duty of guarding the door. 
Evening was now falling fast, and it grew 
dark. The garden was quiet; the distant 
noise of the crowd threw its stillness into 
greater relief. Rudolf told us there the 
story of his struggle with Rupert of 
Hentzau in the attic of the old house, 
dwelling on it as lightly as he could. The 
queen stood by his chair--she would not 
let him rise; when he finished by telling 
how he had burnt her letter, she stooped 
suddenly and kissed him off the brow. 
Then she looked straight across at Helga, 
almost defiantly; but Helga ran to her and 
caught her in her arms.

Rudolf Rassendyll sat with his head 
resting on his hand. He looked up once at 
the two women; then he caught my eye, 
and beckoned me to come to him. I 
approached him, but for several moments 
he did not speak. Again he motioned to 
me, and, resting my hand on the arm of 
his chair, I bent my head close down to 
his. He glanced again at the queen, 
seeming afraid that she would hear what 
he wished to say.

"Fritz," he whispered at last, "as soon as 
it's fairly dark I must get away. 
Bernenstein will come with me. You must 
stay here."

"Where can you go?"

"To the lodge. I must meet Sapt and 
arrange matters with him."

I did not understand what plan he had in 
his head, or what scheme he could 
contrive. But at the moment my mind was 
not directed to such matters; it was set on 
the sight before my eyes.

"And the queen?" I whispered in answer 
to him.

Low as my voice was, she heard it. She 
turned to us with a sudden, startled 
movement, still holding Helga's hand. Her 
eyes searched our faces, and she knew in 
an instant of what we had been speaking. 
A little longer still she stood, gazing at us. 
Then she suddenly sprang forward and 
threw herself on her knees before Rudolf, 
her hands uplifted and resting on his 
shoulders. She forgot our presence, and 
everything in the world, save her great 
dread of losing him again.

"Not again, Rudolf, my darling! Not 
again! Rudolf, I can't bear it again."

Then she dropped her head on his knees 
and sobbed.

He raised his hand and gently stroked the 
gleaming hair. But he did not look at her. 
He gazed out at the garden, which grew 
dark and dreary in the gathering gloom. 
His lips were tight set and his face pale 
and drawn.

I watched him for a moment, then I drew 
my wife away, and we sat down at a table 
some way off. From outside still came the 
cheers and tumult of the joyful, excited 
crowd. Within there was no sound but the 
queen's stifled sobbing. Rudolf caressed 
her shining hair and gazed into the night 
with sad, set eyes. She raised her head and 
looked into his face.

"You'll break my heart," she said.

---

CHAPTER XIX--

FOR OUR LOVE AND HER HONOR

RUPERT of Hentzau was dead! That was 
the thought which, among all our 
perplexities, came back to me, carrying 
with it a wonderful relief. To those who 
have not learnt in fighting against him the 
height of his audacity and the reach of his 
designs, it may well seem incredible that 
his death should breed comfort at a 
moment when the future was still so dark 
and uncertain. Yet to me it was so great a 
thing that I could hardly bring myself to 
the conviction that we had done with him. 
True, he was dead; but could he not strike 
a blow at us even from beyond the gulf?

Such were the half-superstitious thoughts 
that forced their way into my mind as I 
stood looking out on the crowd which 
obstinately encircled the front of the 
palace. I was alone; Rudolf was with the 
queen, my wife was resting, Bernenstein 
had sat down to a meal for which I could 
find no appetite. By an effort I freed 
myself from my fancies and tried to 
concentrate my brain on the facts of our 
position. We were ringed round with 
difficulties. To solve them was beyond 
my power; but I knew where my wish and 
longing lay. I had no desire to find means 
by which Rudolf Rassendyll should 
escape unknown from Strelsau; the king, 
although dead, be again in death the king, 
and the queen be left desolate on her 
mournful and solitary throne. It might be 
that a brain more astute than mine could 
bring all this to pass. My imagination 
would have none of it, but dwelt lovingly 
on the reign of him who was now king in 
Strelsau, declaring that to give the 
kingdom such a ruler would be a splendid 
fraud, and prove a stroke so bold as to 
defy detection. Against it stood only the 
suspicions of Mother Holf--fear or money 
would close her lips--and the knowledge 
of Bauer; Bauer's mouth also could be 
shut, ay, and should be before we were 
many days older. My reverie led me far; I 
saw the future years unroll before me in 
the fair record of a great king's 
sovereignty. It seemed to me that by the 
violence and bloodshed we had passed 
through, fate, for once penitent, was but 
righting the mistake made when Rudolf 
was not born a king.

For a long while I stood thus, musing and 
dreaming; I was roused by the sound of 
the door opening and closing; turning, I 
saw the queen. She was alone, and came 
towards me with timid steps. She looked 
out for a moment on the square and the 
people, but drew back suddenly in 
apparent fear lest they should see her. 
Then she sat down and turned her face 
towards mine. I read in her eyes 
something of the conflict of emotions 
which possessed her; she seemed at once 
to deprecate my disapproval and to ask 
my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle 
to her fault and kind to her happiness; 
self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the 
golden gleam of it strayed through. I 
looked eagerly at her; this would not have 
been her bearing had she come from a last 
farewell; for the radiance was there, 
however much dimmed by sorrow and by 
fearfulness.

"Fritz," she began softly, "I am wicked--
so wicked. Won't God punish me for my 
gladness?"

I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, 
though I can understand it well enough 
now.

"Gladness?" I cried in a low voice. "Then 
you've persuaded him?"

She smiled at me for an instant.

"I mean, you've agreed ?" I stammered.

Her eyes again sought mine, and she said 
in a whisper: "Some day, not now. Oh, 
not now. Now would be too much. But 
some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too 
hardly with me, I--I shall be his, Fritz."

I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I 
wanted him king; she did not care what he 
was, so that he was hers, so that he should 
not leave her.

"He'll take the throne," I cried 
triumphantly.

"No, no, no. Not the throne. He's going 
away."

"Going away!" I could not keep the 
dismay out of my voice.

"Yes, now. But not--not for ever. It will 
be long--oh, so long--but I can bear it, if I 
know that at last!" She stopped, still 
looking up at me with eyes that implored 
pardon and sympathy.

"I don't understand," said I, bluntly, and, I 
fear, gruffly, also.

"You were right," she said: "I did 
persuade him. He wanted to go away 
again as he went before. Ought I to have 
let him? Yes, yes! But I couldn't. Fritz, 
hadn't I done enough? You don't know 
what I've endured. And I must endure 
more still. For he will go now, and the 
time will be very long. But, at last, we 
shall be together. There is pity in God; we 
shall be together at last."

"If he goes now, how can he come back?"

"He will not come back; I shall go to him. 
I shall give up the throne and go to him, 
some day, when I can be spared from 
here, when I've done my--my work."

I was aghast at this shattering of my 
vision, yet I could not be hard to her. I 
said nothing, but took her hand and 
pressed it.

"You wanted him to be king?" she 
whispered.

"With all my heart, madam," said I.

"He wouldn't, Fritz. No, and I shouldn't 
dare to do that, either."

I fell back on the practical difficulties. 
"But how can he go?" I asked.

"I don't know. But he knows; he has a 
plan."

We fell again into silence; her eyes grew 
more calm, and seemed to look forward in 
patient hope to the time when her 
happiness should come to her. I felt like a 
man suddenly robbed of the exaltation of 
wine and sunk to dull apathy. "I don't see 
how he can go," I said sullenly.

She did not answer me. A moment later 
the door again opened. Rudolf came in, 
followed by Bernenstein. Both wore 
riding boots and cloaks. I saw on 
Bernenstein's face just such a look of 
disappointment as I knew must be on 
mine. Rudolf seemed calm and even 
happy. He walked straight up to the 
queen.

"The horses will be ready in a few 
minutes," he said gently. Then, turning to 
me, he asked, "You know what we're 
going to do, Fritz?"

"Not I, sire," I answered, sulkily.

"Not I, sire!" he repeated, in a half-merry, 
half-sad mockery. Then he came between 
Bernenstein and me and passed his arms 
through ours. "You two villains!" he said. 
"You two unscrupulous villains! Here you 
are, as rough as bears, because I won't be 
a thief! Why have I killed young Rupert 
and left you rogues alive?"

I felt the friendly pressure of his hand on 
my arm. I could not answer him. With 
every word from his lips and every 
moment of his presence my sorrow grew 
keener that he would not stay. 
Bernenstein looked across at me and 
shrugged his shoulders despairingly. 
Rudolf gave a little laugh.

"You won't forgive me for not being as 
great a rogue, won't you?" he asked.

Well, I found nothing to say, but I took 
my arm out of his and clasped his hand. 
He gripped mine hard.

"That's old Fritz!" he said; and he caught 
hold of Bernenstein's hand, which the 
lieutenant yielded with some reluctance. 
"Now for the plan," said he. "Bernenstein 
and I set out at once for the lodge--yes, 
publicly, as publicly as we can. I shall 
ride right through the people there, 
showing myself to as many as will look at 
me, and letting it be known to everybody 
where I'm going. We shall get there quite 
early to-morrow, before it's light. There 
we shall find what you know. We shall 
find Sapt, too, and he'll put the finishing 
touches to our plan for us. Hullo, what's 
that?"

There was a sudden fresh shouting from 
the large crowd that still lingered outside 
the palace. I ran to the window, and saw a 
commotion in the midst of them. I flung 
the sash up. Then I heard a well-known, 
loud, strident voice: "Make way, you 
rascals, make way."

I turned round again, full of excitement.

"It's Sapt himself!" I said. "He's riding 
like mad through the crowd, and your 
servant's just behind him."

"My God, what's happened? Why have 
they left the lodge?" cried Bernenstein.

The queen looked up in startled alarm, 
and, rising to her feet, came and passed 
her arm through Rudolf's. Thus we all 
stood, listening to the people good-
naturedly cheering Sapt, whom they had 
recognized, and bantering James, whom 
they took for a servant of the constable's.

The minutes seemed very long as we 
waited in utter perplexity, almost in 
consternation. The same thought was in 
the mind of all of us, silently imparted by 
one to another in the glances we 
exchanged. What could have brought 
them from their guard of the great secret, 
save its discovery? They would never 
have left their post while the fulfilment of 
their trust was possible. By some mishap, 
some unforeseen chance, the king's body 
must have been discovered. Then the 
king's death was known, and the news of 
it might any moment astonish and 
bewilder the city.

At last the door was flung open, and a 
servant announced the Constable of 
Zenda. Sapt was covered with dust and 
mud, and James, who entered close on his 
heels, was in no better plight. Evidently 
they had ridden hard and furiously; indeed 
they were still panting. Sapt, with a most 
perfunctory bow to the queen, came 
straight to where Rudolf stood.

"Is he dead?" he asked, without preface.

"Yes, Rupert is dead," answered Mr. 
Rassendyll: "I killed him."

"And the letter?"

"I burnt it."

"And Rischenheim?"

The queen struck in.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim will 
say and do nothing against me," she said.

Sapt lifted his brows a little. "Well, and 
Bauer?" he asked.

"Bauer's at large," I answered.

"Hum! Well, it's only Bauer" said the 
constable, seeming tolerably well pleased. 
Then his eyes fell on Rudolf and 
Bernenstein. He stretched out his hand 
and pointed to their riding-boots. 
"Whither away so late at night?" he asked.

"First together to the lodge, to find you, 
then I alone to the frontier," said Mr. 
Rassendyll.

"One thing at a time. The frontier will 
wait. What does your Majesty want with 
me at the lodge?"

"I want so to contrive that I shall be no 
longer your Majesty," said Rudolf.

Sapt flung himself into a chair and took 
off his gloves.

"Come, tell me what has happened to-day 
in Strelsau," he said.

We gave a short and hurried account. He 
listened with few signs of approval or 
disapproval, but I thought I saw a gleam 
in his eyes when I described how all the 
city had hailed Rudolf as its king and the 
queen received him as her husband before 
the eyes of all. Again the hope and vision, 
shattered by Rudolf's calm resolution, 
inspired me. Sapt said little, but he had 
the air of a man with some news in 
reserve. He seemed to be comparing what 
we told him with something already 
known to him but unknown to us. The 
little servant stood all the while in 
respectful stillness by the door; but I 
could see by a glance at his alert face that 
he followed the whole scene with keen 
attention.

At the end of the story, Rudolf turned to 
Sapt. "And your secret--is it safe?" he 
asked.

"Ay, it's safe enough!"

"Nobody has seen what you had to hide?"

"No; and nobody knows that the king is 
dead," answered Sapt.

"Then what brings you here?"

"Why, the same thing that was about to 
bring you to the lodge: the need of a 
meeting between yourself and me, sire."

"But the lodge--is it left unguarded?"

"The lodge is safe enough," said Colonel 
Sapt.

Unquestionably there was a secret, a new 
secret, hidden behind the curt words and 
brusque manner. I could restrain myself 
no longer, and sprang forward, saying: 
"What is it? Tell us, Constable!"

He looked at me, then glanced at Mr. 
Rassendyll.

"I should like to hear your plan first," he 
said to Rudolf. "How do you mean to 
account for your presence alive in the city 
to-day, when the king has lain dead in the 
shooting-box since last night?"

We drew close together as Rudolf began 
his answer. Sapt alone lay back in his 
chair. The queen also had resumed her 
seat; she seemed to pay little heed to what 
we said. I think that she was still 
engrossed with the struggle and tumult in 
her own soul. The sin of which she 
accused herself, and the joy to which her 
whole being sprang in a greeting which 
would not be abashed, were at strife 
between themselves, but joined hands to 
exclude from her mind any other thought.

"In an hour I must be gone from here," 
began Rudolf.

"If you wish that, it's easy," observed 
Colonel Sapt.

"Come, Sapt, be reasonable," smiled Mr. 
Rassendyll. "Early to-morrow, we--you 
and I--"

"Oh, I also?" asked the colonel.

"Yes; you, Bernenstein, and I will be at 
the lodge."

"That's not impossible, though I have had 
nearly enough riding."

Rudolf fixed his eyes firmly on Sapt's.

"You see," he said, "the king reaches his 
hunting-lodge early in the morning."

"I follow you, sire."

"And what happens there, Sapt? Does he 
shoot himself accidentally?"

"Well, that happens sometimes."

"Or does an assassin kill him?"

"Eh, but you've made the best assassin 
unavailable."

Even at this moment I could not help 
smiling at the old fellow's surly wit and 
Rudolf's amused tolerance of it.

"Or does his faithful attendant, Herbert, 
shoot him?"

"What, make poor Herbert a murderer!"

"Oh, no! By accident--and then, in 
remorse, kill himself."

"That's very pretty. But doctors have 
awkward views as to when a man can 
have shot himself."

"My good Constable, doctors have palms 
as well as ideas. If you fill the one you 
supply the other."

"I think," said Sapt, "that both the plans 
are good. Suppose we choose the latter, 
what then?"

"Why, then, by to-morrow at midday the 
news flashes through Ruritania--yes, and 
through Europe--that the king, 
miraculously preserved to-day--"

"Praise be to God!" interjected Colonel 
Sapt; and young Bernenstein laughed.

"Has met a tragic end."

"It will occasion great grief," said Sapt.

"Meanwhile, I am safe over the frontier."

"Oh, you are quite safe?"

"Absolutely. And in the afternoon of to-
morrow, you and Bernenstein will set out 
for Strelsau, bringing with you the body 
of the king." And Rudolf, after a pause, 
whispered, "You must shave his face. 
And if the doctors want to talk about how 
long he's been dead, why, they have, as I 
say, palms."

Sapt sat silent for a while, apparently 
considering the scheme. It was risky 
enough in all conscience, but success had 
made Rudolf bold, and he had learnt how 
slow suspicion is if a deception be bold 
enough. It is only likely frauds that are 
detected.

"Well, what do you say?" asked Mr. 
Rassendyll. I observed that he said 
nothing to Sapt of what the queen and he 
had determined to do afterwards.

Sapt wrinkled his forehead. I saw him 
glance at James, and the slightest, briefest 
smile showed on James's face.

"It's dangerous, of course," pursued 
Rudolf. "But I believe that when they see 
the king's body--"

"That's the point," interrupted Sapt. "They 
can't see the king's body."

Rudolf looked at him with some surprise. 
Then speaking in a low voice, lest the 
queen should hear and be distressed, he 
went on: "You must prepare it, you know. 
Bring it here in a shell; only a few 
officials need see the face."

Sapt rose to his feet and stood facing Mr. 
Rassendyll.

"The plan's a pretty one, but it breaks 
down at one point," said he in a strange 
voice, even harsher than his was wont to 
be. I was on fire with excitement, for I 
would have staked my life now that he 
had some strange tidings for us. "There is 
no body," said he.

Even Mr. Rassendyll's composure gave 
way. He sprang forward, catching Sapt by 
the arm.

"No body? What do you mean?" he 
exclaimed.

Sapt cast another glance at James, and 
then began in an even, mechanical voice, 
as though he were reading a lesson he had 
learnt, or playing a part that habit made 
familiar:

"That poor fellow Herbert carelessly left a 
candle burning where the oil and the 
wood were kept," he said. "This 
afternoon, about six, James and I lay 
down for a nap after our meal. At about 
seven James came to my side and roused 
me. My room was full of smoke. The 
lodge was ablaze. I darted out of bed: the 
fire had made too much headway; we 
could not hope to quench it; we had but 
one thought!" He suddenly paused, and 
looked at James.

"But one thought, to save our 
companion," said James gravely.

"But one thought, to save our companion. 
We rushed to the door of the room where 
he was. I opened the door and tried to 
enter. It was certain death. James tried, 
but fell back. Again I rushed in. James 
pulled me back: it was but another death. 
We had to save ourselves. We gained the 
open air. The lodge was a sheet of flame. 
We could do nothing but stand watching, 
till the swiftly burning wood blackened to 
ashes and the flames died down. As we 
watched we knew that all in the cottage 
must be dead. What could we do? At last 
James started off in the hope of getting 
help. He found a party of charcoal-
burners, and they came with him. The 
flames were burnt down now; and we and 
they approached the charred ruins. 
Everything was in ashes. But"--he 
lowered his voice--"we found what 
seemed to be the body of Boris the hound; 
in another room was a charred corpse, 
whose hunting-horn, melted to a molten 
mass, told us that it had been Herbert the 
forester. And there was another corpse, 
almost shapeless, utterly unrecognizable. 
We saw it; the charcoal-burners saw it. 
Then more peasants came round, drawn 
by the sight of the flames. None could tell 
who it was; only I and James knew. And 
we mounted our horses and have ridden 
here to tell the king."

Sapt finished his lesson or his story. A 
sob burst from the queen, and she hid her 
face in her hands. Bernenstein and I, 
amazed at this strange tale, scarcely 
understanding whether it were jest or 
earnest, stood staring stupidly at Sapt. 
Then I, overcome by the strange thing, 
turned half-foolish by the bizarre 
mingling of comedy and impressiveness 
in Sapt's rendering of it, plucked him by 
the sleeve, and asked, with something 
between a laugh and a gasp:

"Who had that other corpse been, 
Constable?"

He turned his small, keen eyes on me in 
persistent gravity and unflinching 
effrontery.

"A Mr. Rassendyll, a friend of the king's, 
who with his servant James was awaiting 
his Majesty's return from Strelsau. His 
servant here is ready to start for England, 
to tell Mr. Rassendyll's relatives the 
news."

The queen had begun to listen before 
now; her eyes were fixed on Sapt, and she 
had stretched out one arm to him, as if 
imploring him to read her his riddle. But a 
few words had in truth declared his device 
plainly enough in all its simplicity. Rudolf 
Rassendyll was dead, his body burnt to a 
cinder, and the king was alive, whole, and 
on his throne in Strelsau. Thus had Sapt 
caught from James, the servant, the 
infection of his madness, and had fulfilled 
in action the strange imagination which 
the little man had unfolded to him in order 
to pass their idle hours at the lodge.

Suddenly Mr. Rassendyll spoke in clear, 
short tones.

"This is all a lie, Sapt," said he, and his 
lips curled in contemptuous amusement.

"It's no lie that the lodge is burnt, and the 
bodies in it, and that half a hundred of the 
peasants know it, and that no man could 
tell the body for the king's. As for the rest, 
it is a lie. But I think the truth in it is 
enough to serve."

The two men stood facing one another 
with defiant eyes. Rudolf had caught the 
meaning of the great and audacious trick 
which Sapt and his companion had 
played. It was impossible now to bring the 
king's body to Strelsau; it seemed no less 
impossible to declare that the man burnt 
in the lodge was the king. Thus Sapt had 
forced Rudolf's hand; he had been 
inspired by the same vision as we, and 
endowed with more unshrinking boldness. 
But when I saw how Rudolf looked at 
him, I did not know but that they would 
go from the queen's presence set on a 
deadly quarrel. Mr. Rassendyll, however, 
mastered his temper.

"You're all bent on having me a rascal," 
he said coldly. "Fritz and Bernenstein 
here urge me; you, Sapt, try to force me. 
James, there, is in the plot, for all I 
know."

"I suggested it, sir," said James, not 
defiantly or with disrespect, but as if in 
simple dutiful obedience to his master's 
implied question.

"As I thought--all of you! Well, I won't be 
forced. I see now that there's no way out 
of this affair, save one. That one I'll 
follow."

We none of us spoke, but waited till he 
should be pleased to continue.

"Of the queen's letter I need say nothing 
and will say nothing," he pursued. "But I 
will tell them that I'm not the king, but 
Rudolf Rassendyll, and that I played the 
king only in order to serve the queen and 
punish Rupert of Hentzau. That will 
serve, and it will cut this net of Sapt's 
from about my limbs."

He spoke firmly and coldly; so that when 
I looked at him I was amazed to see how 
his lips twitched and that his forehead was 
moist with sweat. Then I understood what 
a sudden, swift, and fearful struggle he 
had suffered, and how the great 
temptation had wrung and tortured him 
before he, victorious, had set the thing 
behind him. I went to him and clasped his 
hand: this action of mine seemed to soften 
him.

"Sapt, Sapt," he said, "you almost made a 
rogue of me."

Sapt did not respond to his gentler mood. 
He had been pacing angrily up and down 
the room. Now he stopped abruptly before 
Rudolf, and pointed with his finger at the 
queen.

"I make a rogue of you?" he exclaimed. 
"And what do you make of our queen, 
whom we all serve? What does this truth 
that you'll tell make of her? Haven't I 
heard how she greeted you before all 
Strelsau as her husband and her love? 
Will they believe that she didn't know her 
husband? Ay, you may show yourself, 
you may say they didn't know you. Will 
they believe she didn't? Was the king's 
ring on your finger? Where is it? And 
how comes Mr. Rassendyll to be at Fritz 
von Tarlenheim's for hours with the 
queen, when the king is at his hunting 
lodge? A king has died already, and two 
men besides, to save a word against her. 
And you--you'll be the man to set every 
tongue in Strelsau talking, and every 
finger pointing in suspicion at her?

Rudolf made no answer. When Sapt had 
first uttered the queen's name, he had 
drawn near and let his hand fall over the 
back of her chair. She put hers up to meet 
it, and so they remained. But I saw that 
Rudolf's face had gone very pale.

"And we, your friends?" pursued Sapt. 
"For we've stood by you as we've stood 
by the queen, by God we have--Fritz, and 
young Bernenstein here, and I. If this 
truth's told, who'll believe that we were 
loyal to the king, that we didn't know, that 
we weren't accomplices in the tricking of 
the king--maybe, in his murder? Ah, 
Rudolf Rassendyll, God preserve me from 
a conscience that won't let me be true to 
the woman I love, or to the friends who 
love me!"

I had never seen the old fellow so moved; 
he carried me with him, as he carried 
Bernenstein. I know now that we were too 
ready to be convinced; rather that, borne 
along by our passionate desire, we needed 
no convincing at all. His excited appeal 
seemed to us an argument. At least the 
danger to the queen, on which he dwelt, 
was real and true and great.

Then a sudden change came over him. He 
caught Rudolf's hand and spoke to him 
again in a low, broken voice, an unwonted 
softness transforming his harsh tones.

"Lad," he said, "don't say no. Here's the 
finest lady alive sick for her lover, and the 
finest country in the world sick for its true 
king, and the best friends--ay, by Heaven, 
the best friends--man ever had, sick to call 
you master. I know nothing about your 
conscience; but this I know: the king's 
dead, and the place is empty; and I don't 
see what Almighty God sent you here for 
unless it was to fill it. Come, lad--for our 
love and her honor! While he was alive I'd 
have killed you sooner than let you take 
it. He's dead. Now--for our love and her 
honor, lad!"

I do not know what thoughts passed in 
Mr. Rassendyll's mind. His face was set 
and rigid. He made no sign when Sapt 
finished, but stood as he was, motionless, 
for a long while. Then he slowly bent his 
head and looked down into the queen's 
eyes. For a while she sat looking back 
into his. Then, carried away by the wild 
hope of immediate joy, and by her love 
for him and her pride in the place he was 
offered, she sprang up and threw herself 
at his feet, crying:

"Yes, yes! For my sake, Rudolf--for my 
sake!"

"Are you, too, against me, my queen?" he 
murmured caressing her ruddy hair.

---

CHAPTER XX--

THE DECISION OF HEAVEN

WE. were half mad that night, Sapt and 
Bernenstein and I.

The thing seemed to have got into our 
blood and to have become part of 
ourselves. For us it was inevitable--nay, it 
was done. Sapt busied himself in 
preparing the account of the fire at the 
hunting-lodge; it was to be communicated 
to the journals, and it told with much 
circumstantiality how Rudolf Rassendyll 
had come to visit the king, with James his 
servant, and, the king being summoned 
unexpectedly to the capital, had been 
awaiting his Majesty's return when he met 
his fate. There was a short history of 
Rudolf, a glancing reference to his family, 
a dignified expression of condolence with 
his relatives, to whom the king was 
sending messages of deepest regret by the 
hands of Mr. Rassendyll's servant. At 
another table young Bernenstein was 
drawing up, under the constable's 
direction, a narrative of Rupert of 
Hentzau's attempt on the king's life and 
the king's courage in defending himself. 
The count, eager to return (so it ran), had 
persuaded the king to meet him by 
declaring that he held a state-document of 
great importance and of a most secret 
nature; the king, with his habitual 
fearlessness, had gone alone, but only to 
refuse with scorn Count Rupert's terms. 
Enraged at this unfavorable reception, the 
audacious criminal had made a sudden 
attack on the king, with what issue all 
knew. He had met his own death, while 
the king, perceiving from a glance at the 
document that it compromised well-
known persons, had, with the nobility 
which marked him, destroyed it unread 
before the eyes of those who were rushing 
in to his rescue. I supplied suggestions 
and improvements; and, engrossed in 
contriving how to blind curious eyes, we 
forgot the real and permanent difficulties 
of the thing we had resolved upon. For us 
they did not exist; Sapt met every 
objection by declaring that the thing had 
been done once and could be done again. 
Bernenstein and I were not behind him in 
confidence.

We would guard the secret with brain and 
hand and life, even as we had guarded and 
kept the secret of the queen's letter, which 
would now go with Rupert of Hentzau to 
his grave. Bauer we could catch and 
silence: nay, who would listen to such a 
tale from such a man? Rischenheim was 
ours; the old woman would keep her 
doubts between her teeth for her own 
sake. To his own land and his own people 
Rudolf must be dead while the King of 
Ruritania would stand before all Europe 
recognized, unquestioned, unassailed. 
True, he must marry the queen again; Sapt 
was ready with the means, and would hear 
nothing of the difficulty and risk in 
finding a hand perform the necessary 
ceremony. If we quailed in our courage: 
we had but to look at the alternative, and 
find recompense the perils of what we 
meant to undertake by a consideration the 
desperate risk involved in abandoning it. 
Persuaded the substitution of Rudolf for 
the king was the only thing would serve 
our turn, we asked no longer whether it 
possible, but sought only the means to 
make it safe and safe.

But Rudolf himself had not spoken. Sapt's 
appeal and the queen's imploring cry had 
shaken but not overcome him; he had 
wavered, but he was not won. Yet there 
was no talk of impossibility or peril in his 
mouth, any more than in ours: those were 
not what gave him pause. The score on 
which he hesitated was whether the thing 
should be done, not whether it could; our 
appeals were not to brace a failing 
courage, but cajole a sturdy sense of 
honor which found the imposture 
distasteful so soon as it seemed to serve a 
personal end. To serve the king he had 
played the king in old days, but he did not 
love to play the king when the profit of it 
was to be his own. Hence he was 
unmoved till his care for the fair fame of 
the queen and the love of his friends 
joined to buffet his resolution.

Then he faltered; but he had not fallen. 
Yet Colonel Sapt did all as though he had 
given his assent, and watched the last 
hours in which his flight from Strelsau 
was possible go quickly by with more 
than equanimity. Why hurry Rudolf's 
resolven? Every moment shut him closer 
in the trap of an inevitable choice. With 
every hour that he was called the king, it 
became more impossible for him to bear 
any other name all his days. Therefore 
Sapt let Mr. Rassendyll doubt and 
struggle, while he himself wrote his story 
and laid his long-headed plans. And now 
and then James, the little servant, came in 
and went out, sedate and smug, but with a 
quiet satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He 
had made a story for a pastime, and it was 
being translated into history. He at least 
would bear his part in it unflinchingly.

Before now the queen had left us, 
persuaded to lie down and try to rest till 
the matter should be settled. Stilled by 
Rudolf's gentle rebuke, she had urged him 
no more in words, but there was an 
entreaty in her eyes stronger than any 
spoken prayer, and a piteousness in the 
lingering of her hand in his harder to 
resist than ten thousand sad petitions. At 
last he had led her from the room and 
commended her to Helga's care. Then, 
returning to us, he stood silent a little 
while. We also were silent, Sapt sitting 
and looking up at him with his brows knit 
and his teeth restlessly chewing the 
moustache on his lip.

"Well, lad?" he said at last, briefly putting 
the great question. Rudolf walked to the 
window and seemed to lose himself for a 
moment in the contemplation of the quiet 
night. There were no more than a few 
stragglers in the street now; the moon 
shone white and clear on the empty 
square.

"I should like to walk up and down 
outside and think it over," he said, turning 
to us; and, as Bernenstein sprang up to 
accompany him, he added, "No. Alone."

"Yes, do," said old Sapt, with a glance at 
the clock, whose hands were now hard on 
two o'clock. "Take your time, lad, take 
your time."

Rudolf looked at him and broke into a 
smile.

"I'm not your dupe, old Sapt," said he, 
shaking his head. "Trust me, if I decide to 
get away, I'll get away, be it what o'clock 
it will."

"Yes, confound you!" grinned Colonel 
Sapt.

So he left us, and then came that long 
time of scheming and planning, and most 
persistent eye-shutting, in which 
occupations an hour wore its life away. 
Rudolf had not passed out of the porch, 
and we supposed that he had betaken 
himself to the gardens, there to fight his 
battle. Old Sapt, having done his work, 
suddenly turned talkative.

"That moon there," he said, pointing his 
square, thick forefinger at the window, "is 
a mighty untrustworthy lady. I've known 
her wake a villain's conscience before 
now."

"I've known her send a lover's to sleep," 
laughed young Bernenstein, rising from 
his table, stretching himself, and lighting 
a cigar.

"Ay, she's apt to take a man out of what 
he is," pursued old Sapt. "Set a quiet man 
near her, and he dreams of battle; an 
ambitious fellow, after ten minutes of her, 
will ask nothing better than to muse all his 
life away. I don't trust her, Fritz; I wish 
the night were dark."

"What will she do to Rudolf Rassendyll?" 
I asked, falling in with the old fellow's 
whimsical mood.

"He will see the queen's face in hers," 
cried Bernenstein.

"He may see God's," said Sapt; and he 
shook himself as though an unwelcome 
thought had found its way to his mind and 
lips.

A pause fell on us, born of the colonel's 
last remark. We looked one another in the 
face. At last Sapt brought his hand down 
on the table with a bang.

"I'll not go back," he said sullenly, almost 
fiercely.

"Nor I," said Bernenstein, drawing 
himself up. "Nor you, Tarlenheim?"

"No, I also go on," I answered. Then 
again there was a moment's silence.

"She may make a man soft as a sponge," 
reflected Sapt, starting again, "or hard as a 
bar of steel. I should feel safer if the night 
were dark. I've looked at her often from 
my tent and from bare ground, and I know 
her. She got me a decoration, and once 
she came near to making me turn tail. 
Have nothing to do with her, young 
Bernenstein."

"I'll keep my eyes for beauties nearer at 
hand," said Bernenstein, whose volatile 
temper soon threw off a serious mood.

"There's a chance for you, now Rupert of 
Hentzau's gone," said Sapt grimly.

As he spoke there was a knock at the 
door. When it opened James entered.

"The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim begs 
to be allowed to speak with the king," said 
James.

"We expect his Majesty every moment. 
Beg the count to enter," Sapt answered; 
and, when Rischenheim came in, he went 
on, motioning the count to a chair: "We 
are talking, my lord, of the influence of 
the moon on the careers of men."

"What are you going to do? What have 
you decided?" burst out Rischenheim 
impatiently.

"We decide nothing," answered Sapt.

"Then what has Mr.--what has the king 
decided?"

"The king decides nothing, my lord. She 
decides," and the old fellow pointed again 
through the window towards the moon. 
"At this moment she makes or unmakes a 
king; but I can't tell you which. What of 
your cousin?"

"You know that my cousin's dead."

"Yes, I know that. What of him, though?"

"Sir," said Rischenheim with some 
dignity, "since he is dead, let him rest in 
peace. It is not for us to judge him."

"He may well wish it were. For, by 
Heaven, I believe I should let the rogue 
off," said Colonel Sapt, "and I don't think 
his Judge will."

"God forgive him, I loved him," said 
Rischenheim. "Yes, and many have loved 
him. His servants loved him, sir."

"Friend Bauer, for example?"

"Yes, Bauer loved him. Where is Bauer?"

"I hope he's gone to hell with his loved 
master," grunted Sapt, but he had the 
grace to lower his voice and shield his 
mouth with his hand, so that Rischenheim 
did not hear.

"We don't know where he is," I answered.

"I am come," said Rischenheim, "to put 
my services in all respects at the queen's 
disposal."

"And at the king's?" asked Sapt.

"At the king's? But the king is dead."

"Therefore 'Long live the king!'" struck in 
young Bernenstein.

"If there should be a king--" began Sapt.

"You'll do that?" interrupted Rischenheim 
in breathless agitation.

"She is deciding," said Colonel Sapt, and 
again he pointed to the moon.

"But she's a plaguey long time about it," 
remarked Lieutenant von Bernenstein.

Rischenheim sat silent for a moment. His 
face was pale, and when he spoke his 
voice trembled. But his words were 
resolute enough.

"I gave my honor to the queen, and even 
in that I will serve her if she commands 
me."

Bernenstein sprang forward and caught 
him by the hand. "That's what I like," said 
he, "and damn the moon, colonel!" His 
sentence was hardly out of his mouth 
when the door opened, and to our 
astonishment the queen entered. Helga 
was just behind her; her clasped hands 
and frightened eyes seemed to protest that 
their coming was against her will. The 
queen was clad in a long white robe, and 
her hair hung on her shoulders, being but 
loosely bound with a ribbon. Her air 
showed great agitation, and without any 
greeting or notice of the rest she walked 
quickly across the room to me.

"The dream, Fritz," she said. "It has come 
again. Helga persuaded me to lie down, 
and I was very tired, so at last I fell 
asleep. Then it came. I saw him, Fritz--I 
saw him as plainly as I see you. They all 
called him king, as they did to-day; but 
they did not cheer. They were quiet, and 
looked at him with sad faces. I could not 
hear what they said; they spoke in hushed 
voices. I heard nothing more than 'the 
king, the king,' and he seemed to hear not 
even that. He lay still.; he was lying on 
something, something covered with 
hanging stuff, I couldn't see what it was; 
yes, quite still. His face was so pale, and 
he didn't hear them say 'the king.' Fritz, 
Fritz, he looked as if he were dead! 
Where is he? Where have you let him 
go?"

She turned from me and her eyes flashed 
over the rest. "Where is he? Why aren't 
you with him?" she demanded, with a 
sudden change of tone; "why aren't you 
round him? You should be between him 
and danger, ready to give your lives for 
his. Indeed, gentlemen, you take your 
duty lightly."

It might be that there was little reason in 
her words. There appeared to be no 
danger threatening him, and after all he 
was not our king, much as we desired to 
make him such. Yet we did not think of 
any such matter. We were abashed before 
her reproof and took her indignation as 
deserved. We hung our heads, and Sapt's 
shame betrayed itself in the dogged 
sullenness of his answer.

"He has chosen to go walking, madam, 
and to go alone. He ordered us--I say, he 
ordered us not to come. Surely we are 
right to obey him?" The sarcastic 
inflection of his voice conveyed his 
opinion of the queen's extravagance.

"Obey him? Yes. You couldn't go with 
him if he forbade you. But you should 
follow him; you should keep him in 
sight."

This much she spoke in proud tones and 
with a disdainful manner, but then came a 
sudden return to her former bearing. She 
held out her hands towards me, wailing:

"Fritz, where is he? Is he safe? Find him 
for me, Fritz; find him."

"I'll find him for you if he's above ground, 
madam," I cried, for her appeal touched 
me to the heart.

"He's no farther off than the gardens," 
grumbled old Sapt, still resentful of the 
queen's reproof and scornful of the 
woman's agitation. He was also out of 
temper with Rudolf himself, because the 
moon took so long in deciding whether 
she would make or unmake a king.

"The gardens!" she cried. "Then let us 
look for him. Oh, you've let him walk in 
the gardens alone?"

"What should harm the fellow?" muttered 
Sapt.

She did not hear him, for she had swept 
out of the room. Helga went with her, and 
we all followed, Sapt behind the rest of 
us, still very surly. I heard him grumbling 
away as we ran downstairs, and, having 
passed along the great corridor, came to 
the small saloon that opened on the 
gardens. There were no servants about, 
but we encountered a night-watchman, 
and Bernenstein snatched the lantern from 
the astonished man's hand.

Save for the dim light thus furnished, the 
room was dark. But outside the windows 
the moon streamed brightly down on the 
broad gravel walk, on the formal flower-
beds, and the great trees in the gardens. 
The queen made straight for the window. 
I followed her, and, having flung the 
window open, stood by her. The air was 
sweet, and the breeze struck with grateful 
coolness on my face. I saw that Sapt had 
come near and stood on the other side of 
the queen. My wife and the others were 
behind, looking out where our shoulders 
left space.

There, in the bright moonlight, on the far 
side of the broad terrace, close by the line 
of tall trees that fringed its edge, we saw 
Rudolf Rassendyll pacing slowly up and 
down, with his hands behind his back and 
his eyes fixed on the arbiter of his fate, on 
her who was to make him a king or send 
him a fugitive from Strelsau.

"There he is, madam," said Sapt. "Safe 
enough!"

The queen did not answer. Sapt said no 
more, and of the rest of us none spoke. 
We stood watching him as he struggled 
with his great issue; a greater surely has 
seldom fallen to the lot of any man born 
in a private station. Yet I could read little 
of it on the face that the rays of white 
light displayed so clearly, although they 
turned his healthy tints to a dull gray, and 
gave unnatural sharpness to his features 
against the deep background of black 
foliage.

I heard the queen's quick breathing, but 
there was scarcely another sound. I saw 
her clutch her gown and pull it away a 
little from her throat; save for that none in 
the group moved. The lantern's light was 
too dim to force notice from Mr. 
Rassendyll. Unconscious of our presence, 
he wrestled with fate that night in the 
gardens.

Suddenly the faintest exclamation came 
from Sapt. He put his hand back and 
beckoned to Bernenstein. The young man 
handed his lantern to the constable, who 
set it close to the side of the window-
frame. The queen, absolutely engrossed in 
her lover, saw nothing, but I perceived 
what had caught Sapt's attention. There 
were scores on the paint and indentations 
in the wood, just at the edge of the panel 
and near the lock. I glanced at Sapt, who 
nodded his head. It looked very much as 
though somebody had tried to force the 
door that night, employing a knife which 
had dented the woodwork and scratched 
the paint. The least thing was enough to 
alarm us, standing where we stood, and 
the constable's face was full of suspicion. 
Who had sought an entrance? It could be 
no trained and practised housebreaker; he 
would have had better tools.

But now our attention was again diverted. 
Rudolf stopped short. He still looked for a 
moment at the sky, then his glance 
dropped to the ground at his feet. A 
second later he jerked his head--it was 
bare, and I saw the dark red hair stir with 
the movement--like a man who has settled 
something which caused him a puzzle. In 
an instant we knew, by the quick intuition 
of contagious emotion, that the question 
had found its answer. He was by now 
king or a fugitive. The Lady of the Skies 
had given her decision. The thrill ran 
through us; I felt the queen draw herself 
together at my side; I felt the muscles of 
Rischenheim's arm which rested against 
my shoulder grow rigid and taut. Sapt's 
face was full of eagerness, and he gnawed 
his moustache silently. We gathered 
closer to one another. At last we could 
bear the suspense no longer. With one 
look at the queen and another at me, Sapt 
stepped on to the gravel. He would go and 
learn the answer; thus the unendurable 
strain that had stretched us like tortured 
men on a rack would be relieved. The 
queen did not answer his glance, nor even 
seem to see that he had moved. Her eyes 
were still all for Mr. Rassendyll, her 
thoughts buried in his; for her happiness 
was in his hands and lay poised on the 
issue of that decision whose 
momentousness held him for a moment 
motionless on the path. Often I seem to 
see him as he stood there, tall, straight, 
and stately, the king a man's fancy paints 
when he reads of great monarchs who 
flourished long ago in the springtime of 
the world.

Sapt's step crunched on the gravel. Rudolf 
heard it and turned his head. He saw Sapt, 
and he saw me also behind Sapt. He 
smiled composedly and brightly, but he 
did not move from where he was. He held 
out both hands towards the constable and 
caught him in their double grasp, still 
smiling down in his face. I was no nearer 
to reading his decision, though I saw that 
he had reached a resolution that was 
immovable and gave peace to his soul. If 
he meant to go on he would go on now, 
on to the end, without a backward look or 
a falter of his foot; if he had chosen the 
other way, he would depart without a 
murmur or a hesitation. The queen's quick 
breathing had ceased, she seemed like a 
statue; but Rischenheim moved 
impatiently, as though he could no longer 
endure the waiting.

Sapt's voice came harsh and grating.

"Well?" he cried. "Which is it to be--
backward or forward?" Rudolf pressed his 
hands and looked into his eyes. The 
answer asked but a word from him. The 
queen caught my arm; her rigid limbs 
seemed to give way, and she would have 
fallen if I had not supported her. At the 
same instant a man sprang out of the dark 
line of tall trees, directly behind Mr. 
Rassendyll. Bernenstein uttered a loud 
startled cry and rushed forward, pushing 
the queen herself violently out of his path. 
His hand flew to his side, and he ripped 
the heavy cavalry sword that belonged to 
his uniform of the Cuirassiers of the 
Guard from its sheath. I saw it flash in the 
moonlight, but its flash was quenched in a 
brighter short blaze. A shot rang out 
through the quiet gardens. Mr. Rassendyll 
did not loose his hold of Sapt's hands, but 
he sank slowly on to his knees. Sapt 
seemed paralyzed.

Again Bernenstein cried out. It was a 
name this time. "Bauer! By God, Bauer!" 
he cried.

In an instant he was across the path and 
by the trees. The assassin fired again, but 
now he missed. We saw the great sword 
flash high above Bernenstein's head and 
heard it whistle through the air. It crashed 
on the crown of Bauer's head, and he fell 
like a log to the ground with his skull 
split. The queen's hold on me relaxed; she 
sank into Rischenheim's arms. I ran 
forward and knelt by Mr. Rassendyll. He 
still held Sapt's hands, and by their help 
buoyed himself up. But when he saw me 
he let go of them and sank back against 
me, his head resting on my chest. He 
moved his lips, but seemed unable to 
speak. He was shot through the back. 
Bauer had avenged the master whom he 
loved, and was gone to meet him.

There was a sudden stir from inside the 
palace. Shutters were flung back and 
windows thrown open. The group we 
made stood clean-cut, plainly visible in 
the moonlight. A moment later there was 
a rush of eager feet, and we were 
surrounded by officers and servants. 
Bernenstein stood by me now, leaning on 
his sword; Sapt had not uttered a word; 
his face was distorted with horror and 
bitterness. Rudolf's eyes were closed and 
his head lay back against me.

"A man has shot the king," said I, in bald, 
stupid explanation.

All at once I found James, Mr. 
Rassendyll's servant, by me.

"I have sent for doctors, my lord," he said. 
"Come, let us carry him in."

He, Sapt and I lifted Rudolf and bore him 
across the gravel terrace and into the little 
saloon. We passed the queen. She was 
leaning on Rischenheim's arm, and held 
my wife's hand. We laid Rudolf down on 
a couch. Outside I heard Bernenstein say, 
"Pick up that fellow and carry him 
somewhere out of sight." Then he also 
came in, followed by a crowd. He sent 
them all to the door, and we were left 
alone, waiting for the surgeon. The queen 
came up, Rischenheim still supporting 
her. "Rudolf! Rudolf!" she whispered, 
very softly.

He opened his eyes, and his lips bent in a 
smile. She flung herself on her knees and 
kissed his hand passionately. "The 
surgeon will be here directly," said I.

Rudolf's eyes had been on the queen. As I 
spoke he looked up at me, smiled again, 
and shook his head. I turned away.

When the surgeon came Sapt and I 
assisted him in his examination. The 
queen had been led away, and we were 
alone. The examination was very short. 
Then we carried Rudolf to a bed; the 
nearest chanced to be in Bernenstein's 
room; there we laid him, and there all that 
could be done for him was done. All this 
time we had asked no questions of the 
surgeon, and he had given no information. 
We knew too well to ask: we had all seen 
men die before now, and the look on the 
face was familiar to us. Two or three 
more doctors, the most eminent in 
Strelsau, came now, having been hastily 
summoned. It was their right to be called; 
but, for all the good they were, they might 
have been left to sleep the night out in 
their beds. They drew together in a little 
group at the end of the room and talked 
for a few minutes in low tones. James 
lifted his master's head and gave him a 
drink of water. Rudolf swallowed it with 
difficulty. Then I saw him feebly press 
James's hand, for the little man's face was 
full of sorrow. As his master smiled the 
servant mustered a smile in answer. I 
crossed over to the doctors. "Well, 
gentlemen?" I asked.

They looked at one another, then the 
greatest of them said gravely:

"The king may live an hour, Count Fritz. 
Should you not send for a priest?"

I went straight back to Rudolf Rassendyll. 
His eyes greeted me and questioned me. 
He was a man, and I played no silly tricks 
with him. I bent down and said: "An hour, 
they think, Rudolf."

He made one restless movement, whether 
of pain or protest I do not know. Then he 
spoke, very low, slowly, and with 
difficulty.

"Then they can go," he said; and when I 
spoke of a priest he shook his head.

I went back to them and asked if anything 
more could be done. The answer was 
nothing; but I could not prevail further 
than to get all save one sent into an 
adjoining room; he who remained seated 
himself at a table some way off. Rudolf's 
eyes had closed again; old Sapt, who had 
not once spoken since the shot was fired, 
raised a haggard face to mine.

"We'd better fetch her to him," he said 
hoarsely. I nodded my head.

Sapt went while I stayed by him. 
Bernenstein came to him, bent down, and 
kissed his hand. The young fellow, who 
had borne himself with such reckless 
courage and dash throughout the affair, 
was quite unmanned now, and the tears 
were rolling down his face. I could have 
been much in the same plight, but I would 
not before Mr. Rassendyll. He smiled at 
Bernenstein. Then he said to me:

"Is she coming, Fritz?"

"Yes, she's coming, sire," I answered.

He noticed the style of my address; a faint 
amused gleam shot into his languid eyes.

"Well, for an hour, then," he murmured, 
and lay back on his pillows.

She came, dry-eyed, calm, and queenly. 
We all drew back, and she knelt down by 
his bed, holding his hand in her two 
hands. Presently the hand stirred; she let it 
go; then, knowing well what he wanted, 
she raised it herself and placed it on her 
head, while she bowed her face to the bed. 
His hand wandered for the last time over 
the gleaming hair that he had loved so 
well. She rose, passed her arm about his 
shoulders, and kissed his lips. Her face 
rested close to his, and he seemed to 
speak to her, but we could not have heard 
the words even if we would. So they 
remained for a long while.

The doctor came and felt his pulse, 
retreating afterwards with close-shut lips. 
We drew a little nearer, for we knew that 
he would not be long with us now. 
Suddenly strength seemed to come upon 
him. He raised himself in his bed, and 
spoke in distinct tones.

"God has decided," he said. "I've tried to 
do the right thing through it all. Sapt, and 
Bernenstein, and you, old Fritz, shake my 
hand. No, don't kiss it. We've done with 
pretence now."

We shook his hand as he bade us. Then he 
took the queen's hand. Again she knew his 
mind, and moved it to his lips. "In life and 
in death, my sweet queen," he murmured. 
And thus he fell asleep.

---

CHAPTER XXI--

THE COMING OF THE DREAM

THERE IS little need, and I have little 
heart, to dwell on what followed the death 
of Mr. Rassendyll. The plans we had laid 
to secure his tenure of the throne, in case 
he had accepted it, served well in the 
event of his death. Bauer's lips were for 
ever sealed; the old woman was too 
scared and appalled to hint even to her 
gossips of the suspicions she entertained. 
Rischenheim was loyal to the pledge he 
had given to the queen. The ashes of the 
hunting-lodge held their secret fast, and 
none suspected when the charred body 
which was called Rudolf Rassendyll's was 
laid to quiet rest in the graveyard of the 
town of Zenda, hard by the tomb of 
Herbert the forester. For we had from the 
first rejected any idea of bringing the 
king's body to Strelsau and setting it in the 
place of Mr. Rassendyll's. The difficulties 
of such an undertaking were almost 
insuperable; in our hearts we did not 
desire to conquer them. As a king Rudolf 
Rassendyll had died, as a king let him lie. 
As a king he lay in his palace at Strelsau, 
while the news of his murder at the hands 
of a confederate of Rupert of Hentzau 
went forth to startle and appall the world. 
At a mighty price our task had been made 
easy; many might have doubted the 
living, none questioned the dead; 
suspicions which might have gathered 
round a throne died away at the gate of a 
vault. The king was dead. Who would ask 
if it were in truth the king who lay in state 
in the great hall of the palace, or whether 
the humble grave at Zenda held the bones 
of the last male Elphberg? In the silence 
of the grave all murmurs and questionings 
were hushed.

Throughout the day people had been 
passing and repassing through the great 
hall. There, on a stately bier surmounted 
by a crown and the drooping folds of the 
royal banner, lay Rudolf Rassendyll. The 
highest officer guarded him; in the 
cathedral the archbishop said a mass for 
his soul. He had lain there three days; the 
evening of the third had come, and early 
on the morrow he was to be buried. There 
is a little gallery in the hall, that looks 
down on the spot where the bier stood; 
here was I on this evening, and with me 
Queen Flavia. We were alone together, 
and together we saw beneath us the calm 
face of the dead man. He was clad in the 
white uniform in which he had been 
crowned; the ribbon of the Red Rose was 
across his breast. His hand held a true red 
rose, fresh and fragrant; Flavia herself had 
set it there, that even in death he might 
not miss the chosen token of her love. I 
had not spoken to her, nor she to me, 
since. we came there. We watched the 
pomp round him, and the circles of people 
that came to bring a wreath for him or to 
look upon his face. I saw a girl come and 
kneel long at the bier's foot. She rose and 
went away sobbing, leaving a little circlet 
of flowers. It was Rosa Holf. I saw 
women come and go weeping, and men 
bite their lips as they passed by. 
Rischenheim came, pale-faced and 
troubled; and while all came and went, 
there, immovable, with drawn sword, in 
military stiffness, old Sapt stood at the 
head of the bier, his eyes set steadily in 
front of him, and his body never stirring 
from hour to hour through the long day.

A distant faint hum of voices reached us. 
The queen laid her hand on my arm.

"It is the dream, Fritz," she said. "Hark! 
They speak of the king; they speak in low 
voices and with grief, but they call him 
king. It's what I saw in the dream. But he 
does not hear nor heed. No, he can't hear 
nor heed even when I call him my king."

A sudden impulse came on me, and I 
turned to her, asking:

"What had he decided, madam? Would he 
have been king?" She started a little.

"He didn't tell me," she answered, "and I 
didn't think of it while he spoke to me."

"Of what then did he speak, madam?"

"Only of his love--of nothing but his love, 
Fritz," she answered.

Well, I take it that when a man comes to 
die, love is more to him than a kingdom: 
it may be, if we could see truly, that it is 
more to him even while he lives.

"Of nothing but his great love for me, 
Fritz," she said again. "And my love 
brought him to his death."

"He wouldn't have had it otherwise," said 
I.

"No," she whispered; and she leant over 
the parapet of the gallery, stretching out 
her arms to him. But he lay still and quiet, 
not hearing and not heeding what she 
murmured, "My king! my king!" It was 
even as it had been in the dream.

That night James, the servant, took leave 
of his dead master and of us. He carried to 
England by word of mouth--for we dared 
write nothing down--the truth concerning 
the King of Ruritania and Mr. Rassendyll. 
It was to be told to the Earl of Burlesdon, 
Rudolf's brother, under a pledge of 
secrecy; and to this day the earl is the 
only man besides ourselves who knows 
the story. His errand done, James returned 
in order to enter the queen's service, in 
which he still is; and he told us that when 
Lord Burlesdon had heard the story he sat 
silent for a great while, and then said:

"He did well. Some day I will visit his 
grave. Tell her Majesty that there is still a 
Rassendyll, if she has need of one."

The offer was such as should come from a 
man of Rudolf's name, yet I trust that the 
queen needs no further service than such 
as it is our humble duty and dear delight 
to render her. It is our part to strive to 
lighten the burden that she bears, and by 
our love to assuage her undying grief. For 
she reigns now in Ruritania alone, the last 
of all the Elphbergs; and her only joy is to 
talk of Mr. Rassendyll with those few 
who knew him, her only hope that she 
may some day be with him again.

In great pomp we laid him to his rest in 
the vault of the kings of Ruritania in the 
Cathedral of Strelsau. There he lies 
among the princes of the House of 
Elphberg. I think that if there be indeed 
any consciousness among the dead, or any 
knowledge of what passes in the world 
they have left, they should be proud to 
call him brother. There rises in memory of 
him a stately monument, and people point 
it out to one another as the memorial of 
King Rudolf. I go often to the spot, and 
recall in thought all that passed when he 
came the first time to Zenda, and again on 
his second coming. For I mourn him as a 
man mourns a trusted leader and a loved 
comrade, and I should have asked no 
better than to be allowed to serve him all 
my days. Yet I serve the queen, and in 
that I do most truly serve her lover.

Times change for all of us. The roaring 
flood of youth goes by, and the stream of 
life sinks to a quiet flow. Sapt is an old 
man now; soon my sons will be grown up, 
men enough themselves to serve Queen 
Flavia. Yet the memory of Rudolf 
Rassendyll is fresh to me as on the day he 
died, and the vision of the death of Rupert 
of Hentzau dances often before my eyes. 
It may be that some day the whole story 
shall be told, and men shall judge of it for 
themselves. To me it seems now as 
though all had ended well. I must not be 
misunderstood: my heart is still sore for 
the loss of him. But we saved the queen's 
fair fame, and to Rudolf himself the fatal 
stroke came as a relief from a choice too 
difficult: on the one side lay what 
impaired his own honor, on the other what 
threatened hers. As I think on this my 
anger at his death is less, though my grief 
cannot be. To this day I know not how he 
chose; no, and I don't know how he 
should have chosen. Yet he had chosen, 
for his face was calm and clear.

Come, I have thought so much of him that 
I will go now and stand before his 
monument, taking with me my last-born 
son, a little lad of ten. He is not too young 
to desire to serve the queen, and not too 
young to learn to love and reverence him 
who sleeps there in the vault and was in 
his life the noblest gentleman I have 
known.

I will take the boy with me and tell him 
what I may of brave King Rudolf, how he 
fought and how he loved, and how he 
held the queen's honor and his own above 
all things in this world. The boy is not too 
young to learn such lessons from the life 
of Mr. Rassendyll. And while we stand 
there I will turn again into his native 
tongue--for, alas, the young rogue loves 
his toy soldiers better than his Latin!--the 
inscription that the queen wrote with her 
own hand, directing that it should be 
inscribed in that stately tongue over the 
tomb in which her life lies buried.

"To Rudolf, who reigned lately in this 
city, and reigns for ever in her heart.--
QUEEN FLAVIA."

I told him the meaning, and he spelt the 
big words over in his childish voice; at 
first he stumbled, but the second time he 
had it right, and recited with a little touch 
of awe in his fresh young tones:

RUDOLFO

Qui in hac civitate nuper regnavit

In corde ipsius in aeternum regnat

FLAVIA REGINA.

I felt his hand tremble in mine, and he 
looked up in my face. "God save the 
Queen, father," said he.



[End.]
