Sophy of Kravonia: A Novel

"Your business with me, please?"

"I have it in command from his Majesty to escort you to Slavna – to the Palace and into his presence. The King himself will then acquaint you with his wishes."

"You're a strange messenger to send."

"That's a point to put to my superior officer, Colonel Stafnitz, who sent me, Baroness."

Sophy pointed at his men. "You ride strongly supported!"

"Again the Colonel's orders, Baroness. I confess the precautions seemed to me excessive. I had no doubt you would willingly obey his Majesty's commands. Here, by-the-way, is the written order." He produced the order the King had signed before his death.

Sophy had been thinking. Neither her courage nor her cunning forsook her. She waved the document away. "I can take your word, Captain? You're making no mistake to-day? – I really am Baroness Dobrava – not somebody else with whom you have a feud?" She laughed at him gayly and went on: "Well, I'm ready. I'm dressed for a ride – and I'll ride with you immediately. In two minutes we'll be off." She saw a groom in the road staring at the troopers, and called to him to bring her a horse.

This prompt obedience by no means suited Mistitch's book. It forced him either to show his hand or to ride off with Sophy, leaving the Prince to his devices – and, in a little while, to his revenge.

"I mustn't hurry you. You have some preparations – ?"

"None," said Sophy. Her horse was led out into the road.

"You'll at least desire to acquaint his Royal Highness – ?"

"Not at all necessary. Baron von Hollbrandt can do that later on."

Mistitch looked puzzled. Sophy smiled; her intuition had been right. The attack on her was a feint, her arrest a blind; the Prince was the real object of the move. She stepped down towards Mistitch.

"I see my horse is ready. We can start at once, Captain," she said.

"I'm instructed to express to the Prince regret that it should be necessary – "

"The regret will be conveyed to him. Come, Captain!"

But Mistitch barred her way.

"His Royal Highness is in the Castle?" he asked. His voice grew angry now; he feared the great stroke had failed; he saw that Sophy played with him. How would he and his escort look riding back to Slavna with nothing to show for their journey save the capture of one unresisting woman – a woman whom they dared not harm while the Prince remained free, and might become all-powerful?

"If he had been, you'd have known it by now, I think," smiled Sophy. "No, the Prince isn't at the Castle."

"I'll see that for myself!" Mistitch cried, taking a step forward.

With a low laugh Sophy drew aside, passed him, and ran down the causeway. In an instant she darted between the ranks of Mistitch's men and reached her horse. The groom mounted her. She looked up to Mistitch and called to him gayly:

"Now for Slavna, Captain! And hurry, or you'll be left behind!"

Her wit was too quick for him. Max von Hollbrandt burst out laughing; Peter Vassip grinned.

"What are you waiting for, Captain?" asked Max. "Your prisoner's only too anxious to go with you, you see!"

"I'll search the Castle first!" he cried in a rage which made him forget his part.

Peter Vassip sprang forward and barred the way. Mistitch raised his mighty arm. But Sophy's voice rang out gayly:

"Nonsense, Peter! There's nothing to conceal. Let the Captain pass!"

Her words stopped Mistitch – he feared a trap. Max saw it and mocked him. "Don't be afraid, Captain – take fifty men in with you. The garrison consists of a lady in bed, an old man, and five female servants."

Sophy heard and laughed. Even the troopers began to laugh now. Mistitch stood on the top of the causeway, irresolute, baffled, furious.

But behind his stupidity lay the cunning astuteness of Stafnitz, the ingenious bit of devilry. Mistitch's name availed where his brain could not. For the moment the Prince made little of the Crown which had become his; when he heard Zerkovitch's news, his overpowering thought was that the woman he loved might be exposed to the power and the insults of Mistitch. Sophy was playing a skilful game for him, but he did not know it.

"I hear something," said Peter Vassip again, whispering to Max von Hollbrandt.

Yes, there was the galloping of horses on the Volseni road!

Colonel Stafnitz had not miscalculated.

Now Mistitch heard the sound. His heavy face brightened. He ran down the causeway, loudly ordering his men to mount. He was no longer at a loss. He had his cue now – the cue Stafnitz had given him.

XVIII

TO THE FAITHFUL CITY

The King had died yesterday – yet none had told his heir! Mistitch had set out for Dobrava with fifty men to wait for the King – who was dead! The dead King would never go to Dobrava – and no messenger came to the new King at Praslok!

Zerkovitch's news was enough to raise the anger of a King – and Sergius blazed with it. But more potent still was his wrathful fear as he thought of Sophy at Praslok, in the power of Captain Hercules.

He had his guard of twenty mounted men with him. With these he at once set forth, bidding Lukovitch collect all the men he could and follow him as speedily as possible. If Mistitch had really gone to Dobrava, then he would find him there and have the truth out of him. But if, as the Prince hardly doubted, he was making for Praslok, there was time to intercept him, time to carry off Sophy and the other inmates of the Castle, send them back to safety within the walls of Volseni, and himself ride on to meet Mistitch with his mind at ease.

Relying on Zerkovitch's information, he assumed that the troopers had not started from Slavna till seven in the morning. They had started at six. He reckoned also on Zerkovitch's statement, that they were but fifty strong. They were a hundred. Yet, had he known the truth, he could not have used more haste – and he would not have waited for another man! He stayed to tell no man in Volseni the news about his father – except Lukovitch. But as his twenty rode out of the gate behind him, he turned his head to Zerkovitch, who trotted beside him – for Zerkovitch neither could nor would rest till the game was played – and said: "Tell them that the King is dead, and that I reign." Zerkovitch whispered the news to the man next him, and it ran along the line. A low, stern cheer, hardly more than a murmured assurance of loyalty and service, came from the lips of the men in sheepskins.

Mistitch saw them coming, and turned to his troop; he had time for a little speech – and Stafnitz had taught him what to say: "Men, you are servants of the King, and of the King only. Not even the Prince of Slavna can command you against the King's orders. The King's orders are that we take Baroness Dobrava to Slavna, no matter who resists. If need be, these orders stand even against the Prince."

Stafnitz's soldiers – the men he petted, the men who had felt the Prince's stern hand – were only too glad to hear it. To strike for the King and yet against the hated Prince – it was a luxury, a happy and unlooked-for harmonizing of their duty and their pleasure. Their answering cheer was loud and fierce.

It struck harsh on the ears of the advancing Prince. His face grew hard and strained as he heard the shouts and saw the solid body of men across his path, barring access to his own castle. And within a yard or two of their ranks, by the side of the road, sat the figure which he knew so well and so well loved.

Now Mistitch played his card – that move in the game which Sophy's cool submission to his demand had for the moment thwarted, but to which the Prince's headlong anger and fear now gave an opening – the opening which Stafnitz had from the first foreseen. It would need little to make the fiery Prince forget prudence when he was face to face with Mistitch. It was not a safe game for Mistitch personally – both Stafnitz and he knew that. But Captain Hercules was confident. He would not be caught twice by the Volseni trick of sword! The satisfaction of his revenge, and the unstinted rewards that his Colonel offered, made it worth his while to accept the risk, and rendered it grateful to his heart.

Sophy sat smiling. She would fain have averted the encounter, and had shaped her manœuvres to that end. It was not to be so, it seemed. Now, she did not doubt Monseigneur's success. But she wished that Zerkovitch had not reached Volseni so quickly, that the Prince had stayed behind his walls till his plans were ready; and that she was going a prisoner to Slavna to see the King, trusting to her face, her tongue, her courage, and the star of her own fortune. Never had her buoyant self-confidence run higher.

On the top of the causeway, Max von Hollbrandt looked to his revolver, Peter Vassip loosened his knife in its leather sheath. A window above the gate opened, and Marie Zerkovitch's frightened face looked out. The women-servants jostled old Vassip in the doorway. The grooms stood outside the stables. No one moved – only the Prince's little troop came on. When they were fifty yards away, Mistitch cried to his men: "Draw swords!" and himself pricked his horse with his spur and rode up to where Sophy was.

Mistitch drew his horse up parallel to Sophy's, head to tail, on her right side, between her and the approaching force. With the instinct of hatred she shrank away from him; it had all been foreseen and rehearsed in Stafnitz's mind! Mistitch cried loudly: "In the King's name, Baroness Dobrava!" He leaned from the saddle and caught her right wrist in his huge hand: he had the justification that, at his first attempt to touch her, Sophy's hand had flown to her little revolver and held it now. Mistitch crushed her wrist – the revolver fell to the ground. Sophy gave one cry of pain. Mistitch dropped her wrist and reached his arm about her waist. He was pulling her from her horse, while again he cried out: "In the King's name! On guard!"

It was a high jump from the top of the causeway, but two men took it side by side – Max von Hollbrandt, revolver in hand, Peter Vassip with knife unsheathed.

As they leaped, another shout rang out: "Long live King Sergius!"

The Prince rode his fastest, but faster still rode Zerkovitch. He outpaced the Prince and rode right in among Mistitch's men, crying loudly again and again, unceasingly: "The King is dead! The King is dead! The King is dead!"