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

“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 tenderhearted 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