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