The Prisoner of Zenda - Anthony Hope (uplifting novels .txt) 📗

at a run, Sapt and Fritz following me.

“Thrust, thrust!” cried Rupert again, and a loud groan following told that he himself was not behindhand.

“I’m done, Rupert!” cried a voice. “They’re three to one. Save yourself!”

I ran on, holding my cudgel in my hand. Suddenly a horse came towards me. A man was on it, leaning over his shoulder.

“Are you cooked too, Krafstein?” he cried.

There was no answer.

I sprang to the horse’s head. It was Rupert Hentzau.

“At last!” I cried.

For we seemed to have him. He had only his sword in his hand. My men were hot upon him; Sapt and Fritz were running up. I had outstripped them; but if they got close enough to fire, he must die or surrender.

“At last!” I cried.

“It’s the play-actor!” cried he, slashing at my cudgel. He cut it clean in two; and, judging discretion better than death, I ducked my head and (I blush to tell it) scampered for my life. The devil was in Rupert Hentzau; for he put spurs to his horse, and I, turning to look, saw him ride, full gallop, to the edge of the moat and leap in, while the shots of our party fell thick round him like hail. With one gleam of moonlight we should have riddled him with balls; but, in the darkness, he won to the corner of the castle, and vanished from our sight.

“The deuce take him!” grinned Sapt.

“It’s a pity,” said I, “that he’s a villain. Whom have we got?”

We had Lauengram and Krafstein: they lay stiff and dead; and, concealment being no longer possible, we flung them, with Max, into the moat; and, drawing together in a compact body, rode off down the hill. And, in our midst, went the bodies of three gallant gentlemen. Thus we travelled home, heavy at heart for the death of our friends, sore uneasy concerning the king, and cut to the quick that young Rupert had played yet another winning hand with us.

For my own part, I was vexed and angry that I had killed no man in open fight, but only stabbed a knave in his sleep. And I did not love to hear Rupert call me a play-actor.

XV I Talk with a Tempter

Ruritania is not England, or the quarrel between Duke Michael and myself could not have gone on, with the extraordinary incidents which marked it, without more public notice being directed to it. Duels were frequent among all the upper classes, and private quarrels between great men kept the old habit of spreading to their friends and dependents. Nevertheless, after the affray which I have just related, such reports began to circulate that I felt it necessary to be on my guard. The death of the gentlemen involved could not be hidden from their relatives. I issued a stern order, declaring that dueling had attained unprecedented licence (the chancellor drew up the document for me, and very well he did it), and forbidding it save in the gravest cases. I sent a public and stately apology to Michael, and he returned a deferential and courteous reply to me; for our one point of union was⁠—and it underlay all our differences and induced an unwilling harmony between our actions⁠—that we could neither of us afford to throw our cards on the table. He, as well as I, was a “play-actor,” and, hating one another, we combined to dupe public opinion. Unfortunately, however, the necessity for concealment involved the necessity of delay: the king might die in his prison, or even be spirited off somewhere else; it could not be helped. For a little while I was compelled to observe a truce, and my only consolation was that Flavia most warmly approved of my edict against dueling; and, when I expressed delight at having won her favour, prayed me, if her favour were any motive to me, to prohibit the practice altogether.

“Wait till we are married,” said I, smiling.

Not the least peculiar result of the truce and of the secrecy which dictated it was that the town of Zenda became in the daytime⁠—I would not have trusted far to its protection by night⁠—a sort of neutral zone, where both parties could safely go; and I, riding down one day with Flavia and Sapt, had an encounter with an acquaintance, which presented a ludicrous side, but was at the same time embarrassing. As I rode along, I met a dignified-looking person driving in a two-horsed carriage. He stopped his horses, got out, and approached me, bowing low. I recognized the head of the Strelsau Police.

“Your Majesty’s ordinance as to dueling is receiving our best attention,” he assured me.

If the best attention involved his presence in Zenda, I determined at once to dispense with it.

“Is that what brings you to Zenda, prefect?” I asked.

“Why no, sire; I am here because I desired to oblige the British ambassador.”

“What’s the British ambassador doing dans cette galere?” said I, carelessly.

“A young countryman of his, sire⁠—a man of some position⁠—is missing. His friends have not heard from him for two months, and there is reason to believe that he was last seen in Zenda.”

Flavia was paying little attention. I dared not look at Sapt.

“What reason?”

“A friend of his in Paris⁠—a certain M. Featherly⁠—has given us information which makes it possible that he came here, and the officials of the railway recollect his name on some luggage.”

“What was his name?”

“Rassendyll, sire,” he answered; and I saw that the name meant nothing to him. But, glancing at Flavia, he lowered his voice, as he went on: “It is thought that he may have followed a lady here. Has your Majesty heard of a certain Mme. de Mauban?”

“Why, yes,” said I, my eye involuntarily travelling towards the castle.

“She arrived in Ruritania about the same time as this Rassendyll.”

I caught the prefect’s glance; he was regarding me with enquiry writ large on his face.

“Sapt,” said I, “I must speak a word to the prefect. Will you ride on