The Puppet Crown Part 60

"Devil's name!" the Marshal burst forth, "why don't the blockheads shoot? The enemy--" He stopped, his chin fell, for, as he turned, a single glance explained all to him. The red on his face changed into a sickly purple, and the gla.s.ses slipped from his hands and broke into pieces on the stony ground.

"Marshal," began General Kronau, "I respect your age and valiant services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you are prisoners."

For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had been realized. Suddenly a hoa.r.s.e oath issued from his lips, he dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced to his sides.

"Kronau... you?" he roared. "Betrayed! You despicable coward and traitor! You--" But speech forsook him, and he would have fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.

"Traitor?" echoed Kronau, coolly. "To what and to whom? I am serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept your oath?"

But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.

"I admit," went on the General, not wholly unembarra.s.sed, "that the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is preferable to the needless loss of human life. The d.u.c.h.ess was to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one."

The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who permitted them to strike him.

"G.o.d's witness," the prince cried furiously, "but your victory shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight hours."

"Perhaps," said Kronau, shrugging.

"It is already on the way."

"Your Highness forgets that Carnavia belongs to the confederation, and that the king, your father, dare not send you troops without the consent of the emperor, which, believe me, will never be given;" and he urged his horse down the slope.

The army of the d.u.c.h.ess had now gained the open. The advance was composed of cavalry, which came along the road with wings on either side, and with great dash and splendor.

A noisy cheer arose, to be faintly echoed by the oncoming avalanche of white horses and dazzling blue uniforms.

This was the incident upon which Madame the d.u.c.h.ess relied.

With rage and chagrin in his heart, Maurice viewed the scene. The knell of the Osians had been struck. He gazed forlornly at the cuira.s.siers; they at least had come to sell their lives honestly for their bread.

Presently the two armies came together; all was confusion and cheers.

Kronau approached the leader of the cavalry.... Maurice was greatly disturbed. He leaned toward the prince.

"Your Highness," he whispered, "I am going to make a dash for the road."

"Yes, yes!" replied the prince, intuitively. "My G.o.d, yes! Warn her to fly, so that she will not be compelled to witness this cursed woman's triumph. Save her that humiliation. Go, and G.o.d be with you, my friend!

We are all dishonored. The Marshal looks as if he were dying."

The native troopers, in their eagerness to witness the meeting between Kronau and the former Colonel of the cuira.s.siers, had pushed forward. A dozen, however, had hemmed in the Marshal, the prince and Maurice. But these were standing in their stirrups. Maurice gradually brought his horse about so that presently he was facing north. Directly in front of him was an opening. He grasped his saber firmly and pressed the spurs.

Quick as he was, two sabers barred his way, but he beat them aside, went diagonally down the hill, over the stone wall and into the road.

While he was maneuvering for this dash, one man had been eying him with satisfaction. As the black horse suddenly sank from view behind the hill, Beauvais, to the astonishment of Kronau, drew his revolver.

"There goes a man," he cried, "who must not escape. He is so valuable that I shall permit no one but myself to bring him back!" And the splendid white animal under him bounded up the hill and down the other side.

Beauvais had a well-defined purpose in following alone. He was determined that one Maurice Carewe should not bother anyone hereafter; he knew too much.

The white horse and the black faded away in the blur of rising dust.

CHAPTER XXVI. A PAGE FROM Ta.s.sO

For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured all behind. He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number of pursuers. He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms. The road presently described a semi-circle, pa.s.sing through a meager orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.

"Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one." But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. "The devil!" he laughed--as one of Ta.s.so's heroes might have laughed!--"The devil! how that man loves me!" He was confident that the white horse would never overtake the black.

On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip and frowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance between was lessening, slowly but certainly.

"Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. "Good boy!"

Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but still the white horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two hundred. The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless. Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a stream of fire ga.s.sed along his cheek, and something warm trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.

Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell into the dust, but there was no other result.

As Maurice pressed the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.

"My G.o.d, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"

Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the back. Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an accompanying numbness. Then he remembered his cuira.s.s, which was of steel an eighth of an inch thick.

It had saved his life. The needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that he had received no injury other than a shock. He pa.s.sed the saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holding it. Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.

Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been a dead man. The white horse gained every moment. A dull fury grew into life in Maurice's heart. Instead of continuing the race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled. He made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of tactics. In the rush they pa.s.sed each other and the steel hummed spitefully through s.p.a.ce. Both wheeled again.

"Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, was proportionate to his rage. For the first time in his life the l.u.s.t to kill seized him.

"It shall be yours, d.a.m.n you!" replied Beauvais.

"The Austrian amba.s.sador has your history; kill me or not, you are lost." Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.

Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point of Maurice's saber. He had only his life to lose, but it had suddenly become precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life, but all that made life worth living. His onslaught was terrible. Besides, he was fighting against odds; he wore no steel protector. Maurice wore his only a moment longer. A cut in the side severed the lacings, and the sagging of the cuira.s.s greatly handicapped him. He pressed the spurs and dashed away, while Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur. Maurice, by this maneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the c.u.mbersome steel.

What he lost in protection, he gained in lightness and freedom. Shortly Beauvais was at him again. The time for banter had pa.s.sed; they fought grimly and silently. The end for one was death. Beauvais knew that if his antagonist escaped this time the life he longed for, the power and honor it promised, would never be his. On his side, Maurice was equally determined to live.

The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit. Sometimes they carried their masters several yards apart, only to come smashing together again.

The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed. Afar in the field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to the sheds.

Master and mistress had long since taken flight.

The duel went on. Maurice was growing tired. By and by he began to rely solely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais played for the point; the moment the s.p.a.ce widened he took to the edge. He saw what Maurice felt--the weakening, and he indulged in a cruel smile. They came close; he made as though to give the point. Maurice, thinking to antic.i.p.ate, reached. Quick as light Beauvais raised his blade and brought it down with crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups.

The blow missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped within a hair of the great artery that runs underneath.

The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again Maurice beheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly the black horse snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once. Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it. A b.l.o.o.d.y foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he swayed, and finally tumbled into the road--dead.

As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own there pa.s.sed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.

Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated... He was dead, and the fact that he was a prince did not matter.

It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying.... No; he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber.