The Puppet Crown, Harlod MacGrath [best new books to read .TXT] 📗

and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths at a sign from her. There was something in her heart which she had not yet analyzed. First of all, her crown; as to her heart, there was plenty of time in which to study that peculiar and unstable organ. The possibility of the prince's arriving in Bleiberg before her in no way disturbed her. Whenever her attack was made, failure would not attend it. She broke camp at two o'clock and took the road leisurely toward Bleiberg.

Thus, the two armies faced each other comparatively in the open. A battle hung in the air.

The king's forces came to an abrupt halt. Orderlies dashed to and fro. The artillery came rumbling and creaking to the front, wheeled, the guns unlimbered and ranged so as to enfilade the road. The infantry deployed to right and left while the cavalry swung into position on the flanks. All this was accomplished with the equanimity of dress parade. Maurice could not control his admiration. Madame, he thought, might win her crown, but at a pretty cost.

The Marshal and the staff posted themselves on the right breast of the hill, from whence, by the aid of binoculars, they could see the enemy. From time to time General Kronau nervously smoothed his beard, formed his lips into words, but did not utter them, and glanced slyly from the corner of his eye at the Marshal, who was intent on the enemy's approach. Maurice was trying with naked eye to pierce the forest and the rolling ground beyond, and waiting for the roar of the guns.

Orders had been issued for the gunners to get the range and commence firing; but as the gunners seemed over long in getting down to work, Maurice gazed around impatiently. The blood rushed into his heart. For this is what he saw: the infantry leaning indolently on their guns, their officers snipping the grasses with their swords; the cuirassiers hidden in the bulk of the native cavalry; artillerymen seated carelessly on the caissons, and the gunners smoking and leaning against the guns. All action was gone, as if by magic; nothing but a strange tableau remained! Moreover, a troop of native cavalry, which, for no apparent reason, had not joined the main body, had closed in on the general staff. Appalled by a sudden thought, Maurice touched the prince, who lowered his glasses and turned his head. Bewilderment widened his eyes, and the flush on his cheeks died away. He, too, saw.

"Devil's name!" the Marshal burst forth, "why don't the blockheads shoot? The enemy-" He stopped, his chin fell, for, as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on his face changed into a sickly purple, and the glasses slipped from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.

"Marshal," began General Kronau, "I respect your age and valiant services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you are prisoners."

For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced to his sides.

"Kronau . . . you?" he roared. "Betrayed! You despicable coward and traitor! You-" But speech forsook him, and he would have fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.

"Traitor?" echoed Kronau, coolly. "To what and to whom? I am serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept your oath?"

But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.

"I admit," went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, "that the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one."

The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who permitted them to strike him.

"God's witness," the prince cried furiously, "but your victory shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight hours."

"Perhaps," said Kronau, shrugging.

"It is already on the way."

"Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me, will never be given;" and he urged his horse down the slope.

The army of the duchess had now gained the open. The advance was composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on either side, and with great dash and splendor.

A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.

This was the incident upon which Madame the duchess relied.

With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene. The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at the cuirassiers; they at least had come to sell their lives honestly for their bread. Presently the two armies came together; all was confusion and cheers. Kronau approached the leader of the cavalry. . . . Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned toward the prince.

"Your Highness," he whispered, "I am going to make a dash for the road."

"Yes, yes!" replied the prince, intuitively. "My God, yes! Warn her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and God be with you, my friend! We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks as if he were dying."

The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuirassiers, had pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups. Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs. Quick as he was, two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.

While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau, drew his revolver.

"There goes a man," he cried, "who must not escape. He is so valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!" And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill and down the other side.

Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone hereafter; he knew too much.

The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising dust.


CHAPTER XXVI


A PAGE FROM TASSO

For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.

"Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one." But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. "The devil!" he laughed-as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!- -"The devil! how that man loves me!" He was confident that the white horse would never overtake the black.

On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip and frowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance between was lessening, slowly but certainly.

"Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. "Good boy!"

Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but still the white horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two hundred. The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless. Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.

Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell into the dust, but there was no other result. As Maurice pressed the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.

"My God, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"

Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the back. Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an accompanying numbness. Then he remembered his cuirass, which was of steel an eighth of an inch thick. It had saved his life. The needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that he had received no injury other than a shock. He passed the saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holding it. Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.

Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been a dead man. The white horse gained every moment. A dull fury grew into life in Maurice's heart. Instead of continuing the race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled. He made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of tactics. In the rush they passed each other and the steel hummed spitefully through space. Both wheeled again.

"Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, was proportionate to his rage. For the first time