CHAPTER XIV.

THE _JUDENHETZE_.

The hours of that Sunday passed pleasantly enough by the side of the lake in the valley. The charcoal-burner donned his best clothes and started for church, going not to Ortojuk, but to a village on the nearer bank of the river, and Fräulein von Staubach found ample employment in putting the hut tidy and making preparations for dinner, interlarding these occupations with disparaging remarks on their host’s style of housekeeping, addressed to the Queen, who was acting as her assistant. Cyril, who had been peremptorily refused a share in their labours, lay upon the grass and watched them, keeping at the same time a vigilant eye on the little King, who was amusing himself at the water’s edge, and came to him now and then to propound conundrums in physics and natural history.

When the Queen had finished her household tasks she fetched the child away, and sat down with him under a tree at the farther side of the clearing. She produced a book from her pocket, and Cyril gathered that she was telling the King a Bible story and teaching him texts. Presently Fräulein von Staubach joined her, and they read verses alternately out of the Bible and repeated German hymns aloud. Cyril understood perfectly well the timid glance which the Queen cast at him; she felt that it would only be right to ask him to join them, but she was afraid of his sarcasm. The idea pleased him, for it was evident that she had no inkling of the power she possessed over him, and moreover, he much preferred to watch her from this distance “playing at being in Church,” as the little King, with no intention of being profane, designated her occupation. She was very pleasant to look at as she sat there, holding fast one of the child’s chubby hands lest his active little body should escape whither his mind had already gone, to the birds and squirrels in the woods, and Cyril, as he watched her, fell into a day-dream. Suppose that some unimaginable turn of affairs should prevent their returning to what the Queen called “everyday life,” and keep them imprisoned in the forest, how pleasant it would be! He saw himself returning after a hard day’s hunting or woodcutting to this glen (not to the charcoal-burner’s hut, it may well be understood, or at least to a glorified edition of it), and welcomed by Ernestine--this new and friendly Ernestine. He scarcely glanced, even in his dream, at the possibility of marrying her, for it seemed that it would be happiness enough to be permitted to live near her and enjoy her society, provided that her mood did not change. But at the thought his lip curled. If there was anything in past experience, she would be scolding and upbraiding him to-morrow as though she had never called him her friend to-day, nor sworn endless gratitude to him. Such was life! and after this return to hard reality Cyril’s day-dream passed imperceptibly into a real dream, from which he only awoke to find that the little King had been putting beech-nuts (uncomfortable three-cornered things) down his collar, and that the Queen was scolding the child for being so naughty.

Recalled to the prose of life in this practical manner, Cyril returned good for evil by taking his youthful tormentor to look for a squirrel’s nest, an unavailing search that lasted until old Minics returned, overflowing with the gossip gathered from his acquaintances outside the church. It was the general belief that the King and his abductors must have crossed the river, although nothing had come to light as to the means by which the crossing had been accomplished, and search was being made for them all along the stream, and also on the road which they had left to reach the glen. From this it was evident that not only was it unsafe to return to the river in the hope of proceeding by boat; but it was also advisable to start as early as possible on the morrow, lest the search should extend even to their place of refuge.

Shortly after sunrise on the Monday morning, therefore, the wanderers took the road again. Minics accompanied them for some miles, in order to make sure that they were in the right way, as he said; but in reality, as Cyril shrewdly suspected, because he could scarcely bring himself to part from the strangers who had brought so much variety into his lonely life. This feeling was entirely reciprocated by King Michael, who displayed a willingness to return with the charcoal-burner to the “place where all the squirrels were,” which rather wounded his mother. When he was carried off at last on Cyril’s shoulder, he kept his face turned persistently backwards until Minics was out of sight, and continued to wave his hand and blow him kisses as often as the old man looked round. It was not until a further view of his friend had become absolutely hopeless that the King consented to adopt a position more agreeable to the person who had the honour of carrying him, and Cyril was able to address the Queen.

“Do you dislike leaving the wood as much as his Majesty, madame?”

“Very nearly as much,” she said, with a sigh. “I think that when next the doctors order us into the country, I shall make the Court camp out in the woods, instead of hiring houses.”

“It would be quite Arcadian,” observed Cyril, meditatively. “I can imagine Baroness Paula and the other maids of honour enjoying it immensely as long as the weather was fine, with Parisian shepherdess costumes and high-heeled shoes, and gilt crooks with bows of ribbon on them--but the elder ladies, madame! It would be sheer cruelty. Think of Baroness von Hilfenstein!”

“I don’t want the Baroness or any of them,” said the Queen, hastily. “Of course I was thinking of merely the party we have here to-day. Any one else would spoil it--except poor M. Paschics. What do you think they will do to him?”

To this question, asked for the twentieth time, Cyril could only give the stereotyped reply that Minics believed that his cousin had been sent back to Tatarjé, there to be examined by the heads of the conspiracy, and that if all went well it might be possible to rescue him in the course of a day or two. But this reminder of their past and present perils checked any tendency to further trivial conversation, and they marched on for the most part in silence.

Throughout the day’s journey over these sparsely wooded uplands they scarcely caught sight of a single person, and in only one case were they themselves seen, when they met a goatherd who consented to sell them a cupful of milk for the child. Cyril had succeeded in obtaining from old Minics a further supply of piastres in exchange for gold, and the transaction aroused no suspicion. Their frugal mid-day meal was eaten on the roadside near a stream, and a long rough walk followed--so long that the Queen was flagging visibly, and King Michael asking plaintively for his tea, before they reached the brow of the hill beneath which lay Karajevo, with a lofty mountain, its summit still covered with the winter’s snow, and its lower slopes clad with thick forest, towering above it on the other side. Over the city hovered a cloud which Cyril pronounced to be smoke.

“Evidently there has been a fire,” he said. “I only hope that the Bishop’s palace has not been burnt out, just as we want to test his hospitality. Well, we are nearly safe now; but we will not relax our precautions until we have claimed the Bishop’s protection. We will take our Thracian names again, and speak nothing but Thracian. You, madame, must be dumb, I fear, once more.”

They went on down the hill, but before they had reached its foot Cyril stopped again.

“I don’t like the look of this,” he said. “There is certainly something wrong, for there are houses on fire in two or three parts of the town, and the people seem to be moving about in crowds. We will make inquiries at the gate before we go in.”

But the gate proved to be deserted and falling into decay, and Cyril, noticing a small inn just inside the walls, thought that it would be a good place for inquiry. Telling the two women to sit down on the stone bench in front, he went indoors and asked for a glass of rye-beer. The woman who was serving looked at him apprehensively when he entered, and was obviously relieved to hear that he was a stranger.

“Is there anything wrong in the town?” he asked, as he sipped his beer. “It looks as though the Roumis had been making a raid.”

“Oh dear no! we have nothing of that sort nowadays,” replied the hostess hastily. “It is only that the townspeople have been expelling the Jews.”

“The Jews! Why, what have they done?”

“They have kidnapped the King, haven’t you heard? They want to make him a Jew, and they knew that their wicked spells would have no power over him if he was once made an Orthodox Christian, so they carried him off--to kill him and use his blood in their horrible rites, I daresay,” she added, with unconscious inconsistency.

“Dreadful!” said Cyril. “But what has that to do with Karajevo?”

“Oh, when the news came, the people rushed at once to attack the Jewish quarter. They set it on fire and drove the Jews out, and one or two got killed--but it was their own fault. They would not say where their treasures were hidden. And the Bishop actually took their part--well, our Popa Vladimir says he is half a Jew himself--and let them put their goods in his courtyard for safety. It wasn’t likely that the people would stand that, was it? and they broke open the gates and drove the Bishop out----”

“How long ago was this, and where did the Bishop go?” asked Cyril, in great anxiety.

“Oh, that was this morning, and the Bishop went up the mountain with two or three priests and servants, to take refuge with his brother, Prince Mirkovics, no doubt. How could he think of protecting the creatures, when the proclamation said that the wretches who had stolen the King ought all to be killed, and every one knew that it was the Jews who had done it?”

“There will be a few little pickings still left, I daresay,” said Cyril, who had had time to collect his thoughts. “At any rate, I think we will not go farther to-night--if you can provide us with a lodging, that is. We can’t pay much, but I can sleep in the loft if you can let the women have a room.”

“We can certainly take you in,” said the hostess with some contempt. “You don’t want a private sitting-room, I suppose? Your wife and the other woman had better come inside. Oh, there are the people coming down the street again! They are all drunk now, and what they will be when they have had more brandy, St Gabriel only knows!”

The aspect of the approaching mob was certainly not reassuring. Its component parts appeared to belong to the lowest rabble of the town, and in their equipment bloodstained weapons contrasted painfully with the gay stuffs and embroideries with which some of them were decorated. Cyril stepped to the door of the inn, where the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach, terrified by the wild shouting and wilder singing, were beginning to meditate flight.

“Stay where you are,” he whispered hastily, “and don’t look more frightened than you can help. They may not notice you.”

He had barely time to utter the words before the crowd poured past him into the house, clamouring for brandy. While the hostess was satisfying their demands, they had time to observe the stranger.

“Who are you?” demanded a big fellow in a butcher’s apron.

“A pilgrim coming from Tatarjé, and looking for a night’s lodging,” returned Cyril.

“Are those women with you? How are we to know you are not Jews?”

“Do Jews generally go on pilgrimage to St Gabriel’s tomb?”

“How should I tell? I know nothing about Jews. But we are not going to have them in Karajevo, at any rate. Come, we must get this settled.”

“Here is your brandy, gentlemen,” said the hostess anxiously. “Don’t disturb the poor people. The young woman looks dead tired.”

“Musht be sure they’re not Jewsh,” said a young man, with tipsy gravity. “Can’t have the plashe defiled again, jusht when we’ve turned them all out. Are you Jewsh, you women?”

He addressed himself to the Queen, who shook her head and pointed to her tongue. The action appeared to arouse suspicion.

“Dumb?” said the butcher. “There was a Jew dumb to-day, but I cured him with a red-hot steel. It cast the dumb devil out of him, so Popa Vladimir said.”

“She is no more a Jew than you are,” said Cyril.

“Of course not,” said the hostess. “Here’s an easy way of settling it, gentlemen. Let the poor people kiss the blessed _icon_ of St Peter which I will take down for you--no Jew would do that--and do you leave them alone, and come back to your brandy.”

The suggestion was hailed with acclamations, and the blessed _icon_, a smoke-begrimed painting on a board, promptly handed to Cyril. He kissed it immediately, and the butcher held it to the lips of King Michael. He drew back fretfully, and his mother pushed it away. A murmur rose from the mob, and the self-appointed inquisitor offered the _icon_ to the Queen, who rejected it so vigorously that it fell from his hand to the ground. Cyril called to her angrily to kiss it; but she shook her head obstinately, and stood facing the crowd with gleaming eyes and heaving breast.

“She is a Jewess!” was the cry, as the butcher picked up the _icon_ reverently.

“Not a bit of it,” said Cyril, brushing the dust off it with the sleeve of his coat. “She doesn’t understand.”

“You make her undershtand, if she’sh your wife,” said the tipsy man.

“Why didn’t you ask me at first? You have frightened her and made her angry, and now she won’t do it for me.”

“It is quite clear that the woman is either a Jewess or possessed with a devil,” said the butcher solemnly. A murmur of assent greeted him, and he turned to Cyril. “You can stay here, young man; but the girl and her brat must go. We won’t have them in our town.”

“Then I shall go too,” said Cyril, warned by a whisper from the hostess, “Get her away before they begin to ill-treat her. They are nasty to-night.” Beckoning to the women to follow him, he pushed his way through the crowd and out at the gate, this sudden movement taking the enemy by surprise. One or two started in pursuit, however; but the brandy they had found in the Jewish spirit-shops interfered with their walking powers, and they considered it wiser to remain at the gate and hurl stones and pieces of rubbish after the fugitives. It was difficult to maintain the semblance of dignity when walking as fast as possible, and trying not to duck too precipitately in order to avoid the missiles thus despatched; but the Queen achieved the feat, and entered the forest with the lofty mien of a martyr, carrying her boy as easily as if indignation had driven away all fatigue.

“I am sorry you thought it well to destroy your chances of obtaining a night’s rest, madame,” said Cyril, selecting a path which led in the direction of the mountain, when they were out of sight and earshot of the city.

“I am sorry you thought it well to kiss the _icon_, Count.”

“I am not a Jew, madame. I should call myself a Christian if I was asked, I suppose.”

“You know very well it was not that. To kiss the _icon_ meant that you belonged to the Orthodox Church. And it was to save my boy from that that we have gone through so much. But at least I have kept him from such a step as you chose to take.”

“My conscience, like my life, is at your service, madame.”

“But mine is not at yours!” she cried, turning on him. “Understand that, Count, if you please. But we will not discuss the subject. I do not wish to appear ungrateful.”

“Count!” came from Fräulein von Staubach in an awful whisper, as she clutched Cyril’s arm, “pray do not speak German. I believe we are followed. Several times I am certain that I have heard something moving among the bushes.”

“It may be some of the Jews, who have taken refuge here,” said Cyril reassuringly. “At any rate, it cannot be any one in pursuit of us, for those fellows were much too drunk to come, and there is no one in authority to organise a chase, even if we had been recognised, which we were not. Very likely it is some poor wretch who is as much afraid of us as we of him.” He raised his voice, and called out loudly in Thracian, “Who are you? Is there any one there?” but no answer came. “You see, it must have been an animal,” he said.

“A wolf!” gasped Fräulein von Staubach.

“A wolf won’t think of attacking us if we keep together. Besides, I have the knife and a revolver if he should prove aggressive. Allow me to relieve you of his Majesty, madame. We may have a good deal farther to go yet.”

They went on and on into the depths of the wood, much to the disgust of Fräulein von Staubach, who expressed her objections loudly; but the Queen, conscious that the farther journey was consequent upon her own action, said nothing, and plodded on valiantly. At length a red light became visible among the trees in front, and Cyril turned into a narrow path which led towards it.

“It cannot be a house,” he said; “but it may be a woodcutters’ camp, and they would probably give us shelter for the night.”

But as they approached the light, a figure burst from the bushes in front of them, and ran headlong towards the glow.

“What did I tell you?” cried Fräulein von Staubach, catching Cyril’s arm again. “It is a man, and we are lost!”

“Come on,” said Cyril coolly, and he led the way after the flying figure, which had burst into a circle of people sitting round a large fire with a cry of “Strangers! Christians!” There was an instant commotion, knives were drawn and hatchets brandished; but the appearance of Cyril and the two women on the edge of the clearing allayed the tumult. They were not formidable foes, and a venerable old man with a long beard, who seemed to be the chief of the party, advanced to meet them. As for Cyril, he had no doubt of the identity of the people on whom he had chanced. The long black _kaftans_ and greasy ringlets of the men, the fuzzy wigs and occasional gleaming jewels of the women, showed them to be the Jews expelled that day from Karajevo.

“I tracked them all the way from the town. The man talked to the dark woman in a strange tongue!” cried the youth who had announced the approach of the new arrivals, and who stood breathless before the old Rabbi.

“Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked the old man of Cyril in Thracian.

“We are travellers who were refused a night’s lodging in the town. Will you allow us to join your company for the night?”

“But why were you refused lodging? You are not beggars?”

“No; they wanted to make us kiss one of their _icons_, and she,” pointing to the Queen, “refused. She is a foreigner.”

“But you do not belong to us?”

“No; but I will pay you five piastres--ten--if you will let us build a shelter for ourselves near you, and use your fire.”

“I saw them driven out of the town with stones and curses!” cried the youth, and a consultation took place between the Rabbi and two other old men. Cyril heard the words “Spies!” pass between them, to which the Rabbi seemed to demur, only to be silenced by one of his fellow-counsellors--

“If they are not spies, they must be criminals, and when they are found to have sojourned for the night with us, we shall be in a worse plight than ever.”

“Unless you can show us any stronger reason for your staying with us,” said the Rabbi at last to Cyril, and as he spoke he clinked imaginary coins from one hand into the other, “we cannot receive you into our camp.”

Cyril reflected for a moment, then decided not to be tempted into injudicious confidences. None knew better than he that among the Jews, as among people of other nationalities, good and bad are mixed together, and it was, to say the least, unlikely that every member of this banished community should be of the former description. To be robbed and murdered in the hours of darkness, or to be detained in the morning that their hosts might win favour by betraying them, would be for the little group of fugitives worse than going on farther that night, tired as they were.

“If what I have offered you is not enough,” he said sullenly, “we can’t pay any more. How far is the next village?”

“There are no more on this side of the mountains. The nearest house is the hotel on the top of the pass; but it has not yet been opened for the summer, and only the proprietor and one old servant live there.”

“And how are we to find our way to it?” asked Cyril. “Look here, if you will send some one with us as a guide, we will pay him the ten piastres, and trust to the innkeeper’s charity to let us lie down in some outhouse for the night.”

“I will go!” cried the youth who had tracked them. “There must be something wrong about them,” he added in a low voice, which was still quite audible to Cyril, “for them to be willing to camp with us at all, and see how quiet they are--not in the least like other Christians. Let me see what they do.”

“And art thou to be murdered and left in the snow for the sake of the ten piastres?” cried a black-wigged dame who had pressed into the group. “Thou shalt not go with the strangers, Nathan.”

“I will leave five piastres with you,” said Cyril to the Rabbi, wondering whether it would have proved more effective if he had blustered and demanded hospitality, instead of entreating it; “the rest I will give to the young man when he has brought us safely to the inn.”

“That is fair,” said the Rabbi, breaking in upon the renewed protests of Nathan’s mother. “Find the lantern for thy son, woman, instead of talking. He can take care of himself.”

The lantern, which happened to have been snatched up by some one in the hurry of flight as the object nearest at hand, was found and lighted, and Nathan led the way out of the clearing. As Cyril followed him, the little King’s eye fell on a sweet cake with which one of the Jewesses was feeding her baby, and he stretched out his hands hungrily. “Please give me some too,” he entreated.

“The poor child is starving!” cried the woman, breaking off half the cake, and handing it to him over Cyril’s shoulder.

“God bless you!” said the Queen, earnestly, laying her hand on the Jewess’s arm; “I will never forget what you have done to-night.”

And she passed on, leaving the women wondering over the German words, which the Rabbi had not caught sufficiently to interpret. The path up which Nathan was leading his party was rough and steep, and the light of the lantern was not of much use to any one but himself; but the rest followed him without a murmur, although their weary limbs almost refused to carry them up the rugged ascent. When the forest ended abruptly, however, and they found themselves on the bare mountain-side, the Queen gave way at last. She had tripped over a stone, and only saved herself by catching at Cyril; and when she released his arm, her strength failed her.

“I can’t go any farther,” she said, sitting down on the ground. “Go on, and leave me here.”

“Nonsense, madame!” said Cyril sharply. “Take the child,” he added to Fräulein von Staubach, “and give the rugs to the Jew boy.”

“I did not come here to carry your parcels,” protested the indignant Nathan.

“Do as you are told!” said Cyril, and, to his own intense astonishment, Nathan obeyed meekly. “Come, madame, take my arm,” and he raised the Queen from the ground. “I presume you do not wish to be seized with rheumatism as a consequence of this adventure; but you don’t appear to have noticed that it is raining.”

If the Queen had not noticed the rain under the shade of the trees, it was very evident in the open, and she allowed herself to be helped on a little farther. Then she stopped again, half-crying--

“Please let me go. I cannot walk another step.”

“You must,” was Cyril’s reply. “If you stay here you will freeze to death. We have nearly reached the snow, and the rain is changing to sleet. Surely you must feel how cold it is getting.”

She set her teeth and struggled on. They reached the snow before long--merely a thin sprinkling at first, just enough to make the path slippery; but this soon gave place to the partially melted snow of the winter, into the wet yielding masses of which the unwary traveller sank if he missed his foothold on the narrow track, trampled into hardness by his predecessors. Cyril dragged the Queen on with stern determination, wondering at each step that she did not fall, and scarcely surprised when at last her arm slipped from his, and she sank down on the snow.

“I know you are going to say that I shall die if I stay here,” she sobbed, pushing him away as he attempted to raise her. “That is just what I want.”

“For shame, madame! The Queen of Thracia a coward!” came in Cyril’s most sarcastic tones. “Look at Fräulein von Staubach, how bravely she keeps up. Will you be outdone by your _dame d’honneur_?”

“How dare you!” she cried angrily, but accepting his proffered help. “And you call yourself a gentleman!”

“Is it forbidden to a gentleman to interfere when he sees a woman trying to commit suicide?” he asked coolly. “If I can make her angry with me, and get her to argue, it will help us on,” he thought.

“You are unkind--cruel!” panted the Queen. “You won’t let me rest, although I can’t walk a step without agony. Have you no pity?”

“Madame, I pity you from my heart, but I dare not let you rest here. I cannot think only of the suffering woman; it is my duty to save the Queen.”

A gasping sob was the only answer; but he had felt her half withdraw her arm from his when he spoke of pitying her, and he went on stoutly--

“Courage, madame! You cannot afford to lie down and die here in the snow. For the kingdom’s sake, for your son’s sake, hold out a little longer. Be brave--for my sake.”

He expected an outburst of indignation; but something in his tone stirred the Queen’s curiosity, for she lifted her tired eyes to his, and asked, “Why for your sake, Count?”

“What do you imagine my feelings would be if I had brought you here to die in the snow, madame? I should be worse than a murderer.”

“You expect me to consider you, when you have no consideration for me,” she said, half-smiling, half-pouting, looking for the moment like her old self.

“If it would relieve your feelings to abuse me a little more, madame, pray do so.”

But this time the bait did not take. “I can scarcely keep my eyes open,” she complained, “and I can’t talk. I forget what I want to say before the words reach my lips.”

The cold was evidently benumbing her faculties, and Cyril became seriously alarmed. He continued to talk as he dragged her on, doing everything in his power to force an answer from her, keeping her awake by the sheer strength of his will, as in the case of a sufferer from some narcotic poison, until he felt both her hands clutching feebly at his arm.

“I would keep up if I could. I really can’t,” she murmured, as her head fell against his shoulder. Then her clasp relaxed, and she slid down on the snow at his feet, overcome by the deadly sleep, or rather stupor, brought on by intense cold. The rest of the party were so far in advance that it was of no use to call upon them for help. Cyril tried to lift the Queen’s senseless form; but, tired and numbed as he was, the dead-weight was too much for him. At last he passed his arm round her waist, and succeeded in raising her from the ground, and thus, half-carrying and half-dragging her, resumed the ascent. A few minutes later he came suddenly upon Fräulein von Staubach and Nathan, whom he could not see in the darkness and the falling snow until he was close upon them, standing despairingly in front of a high gate.

“It is locked,” the Jew was saying, “and the house is some way from it. The innkeeper cannot hear us, and if he could, he would not come down to open it.”

“Then climb over and wake him up,” said Cyril peremptorily. “Make any noise you like--break the windows if necessary--to make him come here and let us in. I will settle with him afterwards.”

Under ordinary conditions, Nathan would have pronounced the gate impossible to climb; but now he made a valiant effort, and succeeded in gaining the top. To fall over on the other side was comparatively easy, and when the obstacle had thus been effectually, if ungracefully, surmounted, he ran up the path to the house.

“What is the matter with her Majesty?” asked Fräulein von Staubach anxiously of Cyril, as they stood waiting before the gate.

“I think she has fainted. I have had almost to carry her the last part of the way.”

“_Lieber Himmel_! she will die if we cannot restore her quickly. Could you not break the gate open, Count?”

Placing the Queen in a sheltered corner, Cyril examined the gate. The lock was new, but the wood was somewhat worm-eaten. Retreating a step or two, he burst it open with a kick, delivered with a strength that surprised himself, and he and Fräulein von Staubach together dragged the Queen inside, just as Nathan ran down the path with several keys jingling in his hand.

“You have got in? Ah, but he will be angry, the swine of an innkeeper! He says he won’t have wandering peasants taking shelter in his house; but if you like to spend the night in the porter’s lodge, which is empty, he does not mind. Here’s the key.”

“But can we get fire and food?” cried Cyril. “The brute! he shan’t escape like this. I will get what we want, if I have to take it.”

The youth paused, much impressed, as he fitted one of the keys into the doorway of the little house, and looked at Cyril. “There is wood in the shed,” he replied. “The innkeeper’s servant whispered it to me, when her master’s back was turned, and said that she would be down here herself in a moment. She was only waiting to bring some soup with her.”

“Excellent woman!” said Cyril, forcing the door open with his knee. Fireless as it was, the house gave a sensation of sudden warmth, in its shelter from the wind and contrast with the cold outside, and he hastened to bring in the Queen and lay her on the rough plank settle which occupied three sides of the room. Sending Nathan to forage for wood, he helped Fräulein von Staubach to disencumber herself of the shawl which she had wrapped round herself and the little King, and laid the child on the settle, only half awake, and protesting fretfully against such treatment. While they were unfastening the rugs, which Fräulein von Staubach proceeded to heap upon the Queen, Nathan returned with the wood, and Cyril swept from the hearth the snow which had drifted in through the hole which served as a chimney, and arranged a goodly pile. The youth had had the forethought to bring some shavings to serve as kindling, much to Cyril’s relief, for the remains of a box of wax vestas in his pocket were all the matches the party possessed. While he was engaged in the task of lighting the fire by their means, a sudden question from Fräulein von Staubach startled him.

“Count, is eau de Cologne poisonous?”

“Not that I know of,” he answered, without looking round. “Have you taken some?”

“No; but if it is not harmful I am going to give some to the Queen. I’m sure there is spirit in it, and she must have something.”

“For pity’s sake don’t! It wouldn’t improve matters to poison her. Wait!” for Fräulein von Staubach was actually pouring out the liquid into a thimble, the only drinking-vessel available.

“What are you giving the poor thing?” cried a voice in Thracian, and an elderly woman burst in upon them like a beneficent tornado. In one hand was a steaming jug, in the other a great loaf of black bread, both sheltered from the snow by her shawl. “Don’t give her that nasty-smelling stuff,” she added briskly, depositing her load on the settle, “and you oughtn’t to have her here by this fire. Bring her in here,” and she produced a key and opened the door into an inner room. “The porter’s wife is my sister, and I have kept the place looked after for her myself. Carry your wife in, young man, and put her on the bed, and then bring in the child and the soup. Send the Jew boy to the well for some water--he knows where it is--and put on the pot to boil. And get some of those rugs of yours dried and warmed.”

She closed the inner door peremptorily on herself and Fräulein von Staubach, and Cyril was left to obey her last commands. Nathan proved to be much more expert in fixing up the great pot over the fire than he was, and he was holding up the rugs to the blaze to dry when the door opened again, and Fräulein von Staubach came out, wearing an expression of the most unflinching resolution, and took him by the arm.

“You must come in and speak to the Queen,” she said. “She is still unconscious.”

“But what good will it do if I speak to her?” asked Cyril in astonishment. “Surely it would be better for her to sleep off her fatigue?”

“It is not sleep--it is a kind of fainting-fit,” she returned, “and unless she is restored to consciousness she will slip away, merely through fatigue and want of food. You forget that she has had nothing to eat since noon, and it is now past nine o’clock. She must be made to take something.”

“But if you have tried in vain to persuade her Majesty, surely it is clear that nothing I could say would move her?”

“I do not wish to answer questions, Count. I want you to come with me at once.”

Yielding to her importunity, Cyril followed her into the inner room, feeling more foolish than he had ever done before in his life, and also more bashful. The thought of Baroness von Hilfenstein persisted in presenting itself to him, and he felt that in such a case as this, the mistress of the robes would unhesitatingly have condemned the Queen to death, rather than countenance so grievous a breach of etiquette. But when he was inside the room, he forgot all at once his misgivings and his self-consciousness. The old Thracian woman, who was undressing the little King, alleviating the hardships of the process by administering morsels of bread dipped in soup, nodded with evident satisfaction when she saw him.

“It is well,” she said. “Speak to her, and bring her back. Sometimes the voice of a loved one has power to recall the soul from the very gates of death.”

Scarcely noticing the remark, which was couched in the semi-poetical strain common among the Thracians, Cyril bent over the Queen. She was lying on the bed just as he had left her, covered with blankets which the old woman had brought out, her wet lustreless hair streaming over the coarse pillow. Her face was white and set, her teeth locked, and for the moment he thought that she was really dead.

“Speak to her,” commanded Fräulein von Staubach, as he looked up with dread in his eyes.

“Madame!” he said softly, “madame! I entreat your Majesty----”

“Fool!” hissed Fräulein von Staubach, gripping him by the shoulder, “will you let her die before your eyes? Speak to her by her name.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, Cyril knelt down at the bedside, and took the hand which was lying clenched upon the coverlet into his.

“Ernestine!” he cried, bending over her, “Ernestine, speak to me!”

“Ah, he loves his wife--that young man,” murmured the old woman, rising and watching the scene curiously; “and--holy Peter!--she has heard him!” as by the dim light of the lantern she saw a sudden quiver cross the white face. But Cyril had forgotten the presence of any onlookers.

“Ernestine!” he cried again, watching eagerly for a repetition of the sign of life, but it was not repeated. Instead, the Queen opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on his face, and met his with an expression that startled him and stirred his heart to its depths, then closed again with a smile. Cyril could neither move nor speak; but Fräulein von Staubach, for once most unsentimentally practical, thrust the jug of soup and a spoon into his hands.

“Give it to her,” she whispered. “She must take something.”

The Queen’s eyes opened again, but only to reject the soup with a look of disgust. This time, however, Cyril was equal to his duty.

“You will take it from me?” he said, and succeeded in administering several spoonfuls before Fräulein von Staubach snatched the jug from his hands, and in a peremptory whisper ordered him away.

“She is coming back to her senses,” she said, and as he rose, Cyril saw that the Queen’s eyes were following him with a look in which a shade of fear and perplexity was blended with the loving confidence which had revealed to him so much. He felt as though he had committed sacrilege--as though a rude hand had raised a veil and shown him something that he had no right to see, and he went back into the outer room like a man in a dream, and stood looking into the fire.

“Good heavens!” he said to himself helplessly, “good heavens!” Then after a pause. “It only needed this. What a complication! Of all the cursed luck which this wretched business has brought us, this is the very worst. Who could have dreamt that she would take it into her head to care for me? I shall have to cut Thracia, of course. I declare, if it wasn’t for leaving her in danger, I would make myself scarce to-night. What in the world is to be done?”

Here he met the gaze of Nathan, who was regarding him with great interest from the other side of the hearth, and awoke from his meditations to be thankful that the youth knew no English. In the perturbation of his mind it was a relief to remember that there was a practical matter still to be settled.

“What do you intend to do, Nathan?” he asked. “You don’t think of going back to your people to-night, I suppose? A shake-down on the settle here would be more comfortable than the snow.”

“Oh, I shall get back all right,” was the confident reply. “I know the way, and the wind is going down. But the kind gentleman won’t forget the money?”

No, Cyril had not forgotten; but it was necessary to check the impulse which moved him to give the youth a gold piece instead of the five piastres which were owing to him. Assuming the reluctant air of the thrifty peasant, Cyril counted out the sum, and added three piastres and a few smaller coins, which he pushed across to Nathan. “Those are for yourself,” he said. “You see that I am not ungrateful.”

The Jew looked up with something like a twinkle in his eye. “And when the kind gentleman comes to his own again, he will not forget poor Nathan?” he said, in the cringing whine of his race.

“I think you must be making some mistake about me, Nathan,” said Cyril; but Nathan only laughed incredulously as he took his cap and stick, asked for the lantern, and departed. Presently the old servant passed through the room, and informing Cyril that his wife had taken some more soup, and was now sleeping quietly, she also went home. Cyril was left alone, and his thoughts, as he lay down on his improvised couch, were scarcely more reassuring than they had been two nights ago in the forest. When at last he fell asleep, he was tormented by a dream which recurred several times, so that all night he seemed to be carrying the Queen in his arms up a steep snow mountain, which, as often as he reached the top, changed into a great throne of ice, on which sat Ernestine far above him, gazing down with that look of love and trust which he had surprised in her unconscious eyes, but unapproachable. At last she bent towards him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and the touch at least was real; but, alas! it was Fräulein von Staubach who was waking him in broad daylight.

“Is anything the matter? How is the Queen?” he asked, jumping up.

“Her Majesty is much refreshed by her night’s rest,” returned Fräulein von Staubach primly, but with some signs of confusion. “I merely wished to warn you, Count, that she was troubled by a peculiar dream last night, which had to do with yourself. She thought that you came into the room and held her hand in yours, and addressed her by name. Of course you see at once that it is only in the Queen’s weak state that she could imagine such an idea was anything but a dream.”

“Of course,” returned Cyril. “Dreams are strange things, Fräulein.”