The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the read aloud family .txt) 📕

a second later with a yell, for a bullet had grazed my finger and I felt the blood. Old Sapt turned round in the saddle. Someone fired again, but they had no rifles, and we were out of range. Sapt fell to laughing.

“That’s one to me and two to you, with decent luck,” said he. “Little Josef will have company.”

“Ay, they’ll be a partie carree,” said I. My blood was up, and I rejoiced to have killed them.

“Well, a pleasant night’s work to the rest!” said he. “I wonder if they noticed you?”

“The big fellow did; as I stuck him I heard him cry, ‘The King!’”

“Good! good! Oh, we’ll give Black Michael some work before we’ve done!”

Pausing an instant, we made a bandage for my wounded finger, which was bleeding freely and ached severely, the bone being much bruised. Then we rode on, asking of our good horses all that was in them. The excitement of the fight and of our great resolve died away, and we rode in gloomy silence. Day broke clear and cold. We found a farmer just up, and made him give us sustenance for ourselves and our horses. I, feigning a toothache, muffled my face closely. Then ahead again, till Strelsau lay before us. It was eight o’clock or nearing nine, and the gates were all open, as they always were save when the duke’s caprice or intrigues shut them. We rode in by the same way as we had come out the evening before, all four of us—the men and the horses—wearied and jaded. The streets were even quieter than when we had gone: everyone was sleeping off last night’s revelry, and we met hardly a soul till we reached the little gate of the Palace. There Sapt’s old groom was waiting for us.

“Is all well, sir?” he asked.

“All’s well,” said Sapt, and the man, coming to me, took my hand to kiss.

“The King’s hurt!” he cried.

“It’s nothing,” said I, as I dismounted; “I caught my finger in the door.”

“Remember—silence!” said Sapt. “Ah! but, my good Freyler, I do not need to tell you that!”

The old fellow shrugged his shoulders.

“All young men like to ride abroad now and again, why not the King?” said he; and Sapt’s laugh left his opinion of my motives undisturbed.

“You should always trust a man,” observed Sapt, fitting the key in the lock, “just as far as you must.”

We went in and reached the dressing-room. Flinging open the door, we saw Fritz von Tarlenheim stretched, fully dressed, on the sofa. He seemed to have been sleeping, but our entry woke him. He leapt to his feet, gave one glance at me, and with a joyful cry, threw himself on his knees before me.

“Thank God, sire! thank God, you’re safe!” he cried, stretching his hand up to catch hold of mine.

I confess that I was moved. This King, whatever his faults, made people love him. For a moment I could not bear to speak or break the poor fellow’s illusion. But tough old Sapt had no such feeling. He slapped his hand on his thigh delightedly.

“Bravo, lad!” cried he. “We shall do!”

Fritz looked up in bewilderment. I held out my hand.

“You’re wounded, sire!” he exclaimed.

“It’s only a scratch,” said I, “but—” I paused.

He rose to his feet with a bewildered air. Holding my hand, he looked me up and down, and down and up. Then suddenly he dropped my hand and reeled back.

“Where’s the King? Where’s the King?” he cried.

“Hush, you fool!” hissed Sapt. “Not so loud! Here’s the King!”

A knock sounded on the door. Sapt seized me by the hand.

“Here, quick, to the bedroom! Off with your cap and boots. Get into bed. Cover everything up.”

I did as I was bid. A moment later Sapt looked in, nodded, grinned, and introduced an extremely smart and deferential young gentleman, who came up to my bedside, bowing again and again, and informed me that he was of the household of the Princess Flavia, and that her Royal Highness had sent him especially to enquire how the King’s health was after the fatigues which his Majesty had undergone yesterday.

“My best thanks, sir, to my cousin,” said I; “and tell her Royal Highness that I was never better in my life.”

“The King,” added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for its own sake), “has slept without a break all night.”

The young gentleman (he reminded me of “Osric” in Hamlet) bowed himself out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim’s pale face recalled us to reality—though, in faith, the farce had to be reality for us now.

“Is the King dead?” he whispered.

“Please God, no,” said I. “But he’s in the hands of Black Michael!”