The Prisoner of Zenda, Anthony Hope [best inspirational books txt] 📗

And Sapt bit his moustache.

Suddenly Fritz von Tarlenheim laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Let us go and make the attempt,” said he.

“I mean you to go⁠—don’t be afraid,” said I.

“Aye, but do you stay here, and take care of the princess.”

A gleam came into old Sapt’s eye.

“We should have Michael one way or the other then,” he chuckled; “whereas if you go and are killed with the king, what will become of those of us who are left?”

“They will serve Queen Flavia,” said I, “and I would to God I could be one of them.”

A pause followed. Old Sapt broke it by saying sadly, yet with an unmeant drollery that set Fritz and me laughing:

“Why didn’t old Rudolf the Third marry your⁠—great-grandmother, was it?”

“Come,” said I, “it is the king we are thinking about.”

“It is true,” said Fritz.

“Moreover,” I went on, “I have been an impostor for the profit of another, but I will not be one for my own; and if the king is not alive and on his throne before the day of betrothal comes, I will tell the truth, come what may.”

“You shall go, lad,” said Sapt.

Here is the plan I had made. A strong party under Sapt’s command was to steal up to the door of the château. If discovered prematurely, they were to kill anyone who found them⁠—with their swords, for I wanted no noise of firing. If all went well, they would be at the door when Johann opened it. They were to rush in and secure the servants if their mere presence and the use of the king’s name were not enough. At the same moment⁠—and on this hinged the plan⁠—a woman’s cry was to ring out loud and shrill from Antoinette de Mauban’s chamber. Again and again she was to cry: “Help, help! Michael, help!” and then to utter the name of young Rupert Hentzau. Then, as we hoped, Michael, in fury, would rush out of his apartments opposite, and fall alive into the hands of Sapt. Still the cries would go on; and my men would let down the drawbridge; and it would be strange if Rupert, hearing his name thus taken in vain, did not descend from where he slept and seek to cross. De Gautet might or might not come with him: that must be left to chance.

And when Rupert set his foot on the drawbridge? There was my part: for I was minded for another swim in the moat; and, lest I should grow weary, I had resolved to take with me a small wooden ladder, on which I could rest my arms in the water⁠—and my feet when I left it. I would rear it against the wall just by the bridge; and when the bridge was across, I would stealthily creep on to it⁠—and then if Rupert or De Gautet crossed in safety, it would be my misfortune, not my fault. They dead, two men only would remain; and for them we must trust to the confusion we had created and to a sudden rush. We should have the keys of the door that led to the all-important rooms. Perhaps they would rush out. If they stood by their orders, then the king’s life hung on the swiftness with which we could force the outer door; and I thanked God that not Rupert Hentzau watched, but Detchard. For though Detchard was a cool man, relentless, and no coward, he had neither the dash nor the recklessness of Rupert. Moreover, he, if any one of them, really loved Black Michael, and it might be that he would leave Bersonin to guard the king, and rush across the bridge to take part in the affray on the other side.

So I planned⁠—desperately. And, that our enemy might be the better lulled to security, I gave orders that our residence should be brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, as though we were engaged in revelry; and should so be kept all night, with music playing and people moving to and fro. Strakencz would be there, and he was to conceal our departure, if he could, from Flavia. And if we came not again by the morning, he was to march, openly and in force to the castle, and demand the person of the king; if Black Michael were not there, as I did not think he would be, the marshal would take Flavia with him, as swiftly as he could, to Strelsau, and there proclaim Black Michael’s treachery and the probable death of the king, and rally all that there was honest and true round the banner of the princess. And, to say truth, this was what I thought most likely to happen. For I had great doubts whether either the king or Black Michael or I had more than a day to live. Well, if Black Michael died, and if I, the play-actor, slew Rupert Hentzau with my own hand, and then died myself, it might be that Fate would deal as lightly with Ruritania as could be hoped, notwithstanding that she demanded the life of the king⁠—and to her dealing thus with me, I was in no temper to make objection.

It was late when we rose from conference, and I betook me to the princess’s apartments. She was pensive that evening; yet, when I left her, she flung her arms about me and grew, for an instant, bashfully radiant as she slipped a ring on my finger. I was wearing the king’s ring; but I had also on my little finger a plain band of gold engraved with the motto of our family: Nil Quae Feci. This I took off and put on her, and signed to her to let me go. And she, understanding, stood away and watched me with dimmed eyes.

“Wear that ring, even though you wear another when you are queen,” I said.

“Whatever else I wear, this I will wear till I die and after,” said she, as she kissed