Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the reading list TXT) 📗

“We can see enough with a match,” he answered. “Here, this is what I fell over.”

Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the passage.

“A dead man?” I guessed instantly.

“Why, no,” said Sapt, striking a light: “a dead dog, Fritz.” An exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same instant Sapt muttered, “Ay, there’s a lamp,” and, stretching up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage.

“It’s Boris, the boar-hound,” said I, still in a whisper, although there was no sign of any listeners.

I knew the dog well; he was the king’s favorite, and always accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king’s, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast’s head. There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to the dog’s right shoulder, which was shattered by another ball.

“And see here,” said the constable. “Have a pull at this.”

I looked where his hand now was. In the dog’s mouth was a piece of gray cloth, and on the piece of gray cloth was a horn coat-button. I took hold of the cloth and pulled. Boris held on even in death. Sapt drew his sword, and, inserting the point of it between the dog’s teeth, parted them enough for me to draw out the piece of cloth.

“You’d better put it in your pocket,” said the constable. “Now come along;” and, holding the lamp in one hand and his sword (which he did not resheathe) in the other, he stepped over the body of the boar-hound, and I followed him.

We were now in front of the door of the room where Rudolf Rassendyll had supped with us on the day of his first coming to Ruritania, and whence he had set out to be crowned in Strelsau. On the right of it was the room where the king slept, and farther along in the same direction the kitchen and the cellars. The officer or officers in attendance on the king used to sleep on the other side of the dining-room.

“We must explore, I suppose,” said Sapt. In spite of his outward calmness, I caught in his voice the ring of excitement rising and ill-repressed. But at this moment we heard from the passage on our left (as we faced the door) a low moan, and then a dragging sound, as if a man were crawling along the floor, painfully trailing his limbs after him. Sapt held the lamp in that direction, and we saw Herbert the forester, pale-faced and wide-eyed, raised from the ground on his two hands, while his legs stretched behind him and his stomach rested on the flags.

“Who is it?” he said in a faint voice.

“Why, man, you know us,” said the constable, stepping up to him. “What’s happened here?”

The poor fellow was very faint, and, I think, wandered a little in his brain.

“I’ve got it, sir,” he murmured; “I’ve got it, fair and straight. No more hunting for me, sir. I’ve got it here in the stomach. Oh, my God!” He let his head fall with a thud on the floor.

I ran and raised him. Kneeling on one knee, I propped his head against my leg.

“Tell us about it,” commanded Sapt in a curt, crisp voice while I got the man into the easiest position that I could contrive.

In slow, struggling tones he began his story, repeating here, omitting there, often confusing the order of his narrative, oftener still arresting it while he waited for fresh strength. Yet we were not impatient, but heard without a thought of time. I looked round once at a sound, and found that James, anxious about us, had stolen along the passage and joined us. Sapt took no notice of him, nor of anything save the words that dropped in irregular utterance from the stricken man’s lips. Here is the story, a strange instance of the turning of a great event on a small cause.

The king had eaten a little supper, and, having gone to his bedroom, had stretched himself on the bed and fallen asleep without undressing. Herbert was clearing the dining-table and performing similar duties, when suddenly (thus he told it) he found a man standing beside him. He did not know (he was new to the king’s service) who the unexpected visitor was, but he was of middle height, dark, handsome, and “looked a gentleman all over.” He was dressed in a shooting-tunic, and a revolver was thrust through the belt of it. One hand rested on the belt, while the other held a small square box.

“Tell the king I am here. He expects me,” said the stranger. Herbert, alarmed at the suddenness and silence of the stranger’s approach, and guiltily conscious of having left the door unbolted, drew back. He was unarmed, but, being a stout fellow, was prepared to defend his master as best he could. Rupert—beyond doubt it was Rupert—laughed lightly, saying again, “Man, he expects me. Go and tell him,” and sat himself on the table, swinging his leg. Herbert, influenced by the visitor’s air of command, began to retreat towards the bedroom, keeping his face towards Rupert.

“If the king asks more, tell him I have the packet and the letter,” said Rupert. The man bowed and passed into the bedroom. The king was asleep; when roused he seemed to know nothing of letter or packet, and to expect no visitor. Herbert’s ready fears revived; he whispered that the stranger carried a revolver. Whatever the king’s faults might be—and God forbid that I should speak hardly of him whom fate used so hardly—he was no coward. He sprang from his bed; at the same moment the great boar-hound uncoiled himself and came from beneath, yawning and fawning. But in an instant the beast caught the scent of a stranger: his ears pricked and he gave a low growl, as he looked up in his master’s face. Then Rupert of Hentzau, weary perhaps of waiting, perhaps only doubtful whether his message would be properly delivered, appeared in the doorway.

The king was unarmed, and Herbert in no better plight; their hunting weapons were in the adjoining room, and Rupert seemed to bar the way. I have said that the king was no coward, yet I think, that the sight of Rupert, bringing back the memory of his torments in the dungeon, half cowed him; for he shrank back crying, “You!” The hound, in subtle understanding of his master’s movement, growled angrily.

“You expected me, sire?” said Rupert with a bow; but he smiled. I know that the sight of the king’s alarm pleased him. To inspire terror was his delight, and it does not come to every man to strike fear into the heart of a king and an Elphberg. It had come more than once to Rupert of Hentzau.

“No,” muttered the king. Then, recovering his composure a little, he said angrily, “How dare you come here?”

“You didn’t expect me?” cried Rupert, and in an instant the thought of a