CHAPTER XV.

“WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD.”

“You make me absolutely miserable, madame,” Fräulein von Staubach was protesting vigorously. “Count, I am sure you will agree with me that her Majesty ought not to leave her bed. Pray exercise your influence----”

“What has Count Mortimer to do with it?” asked the Queen, as she hobbled into the outer room on her bandaged feet. “He is not my private physician. Your influence is never exerted on the side of laziness, is it, Count?”

She spoke quickly, and with a little hardness in her voice, doing her best not to look at Cyril. He knew that she was trying to assure herself of the purely imaginary character of the events of her dream, and that she found it difficult to do so; but, thanks to Fräulein von Staubach’s warning, he was able to meet her without betraying any self-consciousness. The situation had even a touch of piquancy for him, as he arranged a comfortable seat for her near the fire, and brought out the remains of the last night’s loaf, which formed the only breakfast available; but when he found her eyes fixed on him in mingled confusion and anxiety, he did his best to set her at her ease by diverting her mind to other topics.

“Indeed, Fräulein,” he replied, “I cannot say that I am sorry her Majesty is well enough to rise. You must remember that we are not out of danger yet, and for all we know there may be another day’s tramping before us.”

“More walking, Count?” asked the Queen in dismay.

“It will be all downhill to-day, madame, at any rate.”

“Ah, I am afraid you found me very troublesome last night--but that is just what I thought you at the time. I have a vague impression,” she added, turning to Fräulein von Staubach, “that Count Mortimer was helping me up the mountain, and that he insisted on talking when I wanted to be quiet. I know that he enunciated the most outrageous doctrines, for I felt he was trying to see how far he could go without making me contradict him, and I took a perverse pleasure in remaining silent.”

“I congratulate you on your skill in concealing your feelings, madame,” said Cyril, with a bow. “I did you the injustice of imagining that you were nearly asleep.”

“Oh no, I was not asleep then,” she replied hurriedly, blushing as she spoke; “but I fear that your thinking so proves that it must have been difficult to get me up the hill. Did you find me very heavy?”

“I could wish that you had been heavier, madame. The greater the weight the greater the honour, in such a case.”

“That is a double-barrelled insult, Count. Do you imply that my weight was great, or that the honour was small?”

“Madame, there is some one coming,” interrupted Fräulein von Staubach, who had been listening with evident displeasure to this exchange of _badinage_; and almost as she spoke the door opened, and the old servant entered.

“You are up, then?” she said, surveying the party cheerfully. “I am glad of that, for all morning I have been afraid that the master would come and rouse you up and turn you out. It’s much better to get your breakfast quietly before starting. I have brought you another loaf, by the way, and a pair of soft slippers for your wife, poor soul!” she added to Cyril, who felt for once devoutly thankful that the Queen did not understand Thracian. “I saw that her feet were all cut and blistered last night.”

“You see, Sophie, it is a good thing that I got up, if we are to be turned out,” said the Queen to Fräulein von Staubach, when the gift had been duly tried on, and the old woman thanked with great heartiness, much to her disgust.

“There, there!” she said. “I suppose one may give away a pair of old slippers without being supposed to have done anything great. I don’t know whether it makes any difference to you, young man; but when I looked down at Karajevo just now, I saw a crowd streaming out of the gate and coming towards the mountain. I haven’t an idea who you may be; but you know best whether you are in any danger.”

“Many thanks,” said Cyril. “Can you add to your kindness by telling us the nearest way to Prince Mirkovics’s castle from here?”

“Why, what a pity you weren’t here yesterday, so as to travel in the good Bishop’s company! He passed here about noon, with just two or three priests and people, and gave me his blessing as kindly as you please. Which way did he go? Why, he took the path down the mountains, of course. It winds a good deal; you can see it again down there,” she had drawn Cyril to the door, and was pointing down the rocky slope, “and when you reach the bottom, you have to go on past the waterfall, where the river comes down from the mountains, and keep on along the bank for three or four miles, until you get to the bridge. When you have crossed that, you are in Prince Mirkovics’s country, and if you go straight on you must come to the castle before very long.”

“But all this will take a long time,” said Cyril, in dismay, thinking of the pursuit which was in all probability already on foot, and of the Queen’s difficulty in walking; “is there no place where we could find shelter before reaching the castle?”

“Shelter means a hiding-place, I suppose?” said the old woman shrewdly. “No, don’t be afraid; I won’t tell tales. Well, there may be one, and there may not. When you come to the falls, you will see a tumbledown old house built beside them. It was a saw-mill once, but it doesn’t work now. Old Giorgei who lives there is mad, but you won’t find it out unless you start him upon politics. His two sons took part in that conspiracy years ago, when the English King (our Carlino, you know) was driven out, and they were both killed. The eldest, who worked the saw-mill, was killed in the fighting, and the other, a soldier in garrison at Tatarjé, though he escaped at the time, was taken and shot afterwards. But if you don’t mention politics or Drakovics, the old man will be all right, though there’s no saying what he will do if you stir him up. Holy Peter! there’s the master coming, and what will he say to me? You keep him in talk, there’s a good young man, while I get back to the house.”

“Tell the women to get ready to start,” Cyril called after her as she scurried back into the room, and he went forward to meet the elderly man who was approaching--a lean, bow-legged individual, with small eyes and a quavering voice, who cried out angrily as he came in sight of the broken gate--

“What does this mean, fellow? How dare you destroy my property in this way?”

“You forget that it was contrary to the law for the gate to be locked yesterday evening,” returned Cyril. “Inns are supposed to be open night and day. However,” he added, remembering, as the old man grew purple with rage, that it was not advisable to make enemies, “I am willing to pay for the damage, since you sent down the key for us after all. Ten piastres will buy the wood and pay a carpenter for making you a much better gate than this one, and I will add five piastres for the accommodation you found for us. But I warn you that if you lock the new gate to keep out travellers who may die in the snow, it will be the dearest gate you ever had.”

“What do you mean, fellow? Do you venture to threaten me?” stuttered the innkeeper, his fingers closing greedily over the coins. “You are much too impudent for a peasant.”

“Then perhaps I am a prophet. I may tell you that when I give myself the trouble of prophesying, I generally take good care that the prophecy comes true; so remember. Good day.”

And having attained his object of securing time for the old servant’s retreat by mystifying her master, Cyril returned into the little house and summoned the ladies to start on their journey. The Queen was quite unable to walk without assistance, but she persisted in accepting as little help as possible from him. Indeed she did her best to enlist Fräulein von Staubach as her supporter, and only consented to dispense with her services when Cyril pointed out that it was impossible for him to carry both the little King and the bundle of rugs; but that if Fräulein von Staubach would take charge of his Majesty, he himself could carry the rugs and find an arm to lend the Queen. In this order they started from the hotel, the proprietor watching them morosely as they passed through the broken gate, and took their way down the mountain. The sun had thawed the surface of the snow a little, and it was less slippery than the night before, but their progress was necessarily very slow. The Queen set her teeth and limped along with dogged resolution; but Cyril noticed that before long she forgot her reluctance to make use of his support, and clutched his arm tightly. Matters became somewhat better when the snow was left behind, and the spirits of the wanderers rose as they plodded down the path, which, as the old servant had said, pursued a very winding course.

“Why, we can see the hotel again from here!” said Fräulein von Staubach at last, looking back at the snowy heights they had left. “Oh, Count, look! They are there!”

Cyril glanced up, and saw distinctly a dark moving mass, showing clearly against the snow, coming over the crest of the pass. It could only be a crowd of men, and it was in the highest degree unlikely that such a body should be crossing the mountains with any object in view but that of pursuit, but the terror-stricken faces of the two women warned him to be cheerful.

“We shall be obliged to turn aside and interview old Giorgei, I see,” he said; “but there is no need to be frightened. These people may not be after us, and even if they are, it is quite possible we have not been seen. And if they are looking for us, and have seen us, we have a good start, and plenty of time to get hidden before they can come up.”

“But what if the old man will not hide us?” asked the Queen.

“Then we must demand his help in the name of St Gabriel, madame. Did you know that this waterfall was called St Gabriel’s Leap? The charcoal-burner told me the legend. It seems that St Gabriel had one of his numerous hermitages here--for an ascetic he must have enjoyed a wonderful amount of change of air and scene--and one day the Roumis came to hunt him out, intending to kill him. He saw them approaching, and immediately hastened to the edge of the falls and dashed into the water. They expected to see his body washed up in the pool below; but while they were watching for it, they were electrified to behold the saint himself standing on the opposite side of the falls, with his clothes perfectly dry--at least, so the story says. He stayed long enough to bestow his curse on them in dumb show, and then disappeared among the rocks. There was no doubt that it was the man himself, and not an apparition, for he lived some years after, and at last fell into Roumi hands and was tortured to death, no miracle intervening on that occasion. Still, I only wish we had him here now, to let us into his secret.”

“But how do you think he got across?” asked the Queen.

“I should imagine that he had made a careful study beforehand of the rocks in the waterfall, with an eye to emergencies--perhaps had even practised crossing by jumping from one to another. There may be clouds of spray which would hide him until he had got over; but he must have needed a cool head, at any rate.”

“But what about his dry clothes?”

“Oh, that I fear we must put down as a pious addition of later ages, unless he kept a spare suit in some convenient cave on the other side. But listen; don’t you hear the sound of the falls?”

“Trains!” cried the little King, with great delight.

“I wish it was!” said Cyril. “Now, madame, I think we had better leave the road. Unfortunately it lies so straight before us that when the enemy reach this point they will be able to see at once that we are not upon it; but they will be obliged to spend some little time in hunting about to find out where we turned off. There seems to be some sort of a path through this wood, and it leads straight in the direction of the waterfall, by the sound.”

The path, if such it could be called, was not wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and Cyril had some difficulty in making a way for the Queen; but they penetrated through the wood at last, and came out on a cleared space. In front of them was the waterfall, dashing down from a lofty ridge of rocks high up on the left hand, while on the right the water swirled in a deep dark pool at the foot of the cascade. Perched on the very side of the fall, and partially overhanging the water, was a weatherbeaten house, partly built of stone and partly of wood, through the dilapidated windows of which the remains of machinery were visible. Other rusty pieces of mechanism were strewn about the clearing, mingled with a number of logs, some freshly hewn, others mouldering into decay, while an abandoned cart-track, all grown over with grass, followed the slope of the ground on the right, and no doubt joined the road a little way below the pool. The only living occupant of this deserted clearing was an old man with a shaggy beard and long grey hair, who was sitting idly on one of the logs, with an adze in his hand. He did not appear to take any notice of the intruders; but as Cyril approached to speak to him, he turned and addressed him instead--

“You are come at last, then? I have been watching for you a long time.”

“Why? do you know who we are?” asked Cyril, taken by surprise.

“Know you? You are the Englishman, Count Mortimer, and those with you are the wife and child of your master, Otto Georg.”

“You certainly have the advantage of us, father.”

The old man shot a disdainful glance at him. “I saw you carrying the sword before Otto Georg when he entered Bellaviste in state after his marriage with the girl there, and again when that child yonder was baptised. And you expect me not to know you or her, because you are dressed up as peasants!”

“Well, that saves us the trouble of an introduction,” said Cyril easily. “Yes, Father Giorgei, the Queen and her son are at your door, and claim your protection against the enemies who are pursuing them.”

“My protection!” with a grin, which changed suddenly to a snarl of malevolence. “And they ask it through you, of all people, never guessing that they might as well employ Drakovics himself as their messenger! You ask for my protection--you, who murdered my two sons!”

“I think you must be labouring under some misapprehension,” said Cyril, much disturbed by the turn which the conversation was taking.

“There is no misapprehension,” returned the old man, more calmly. “You are the brother of the Englishman Carlino, whom my sons had sworn to drive out. I saw you first with your brother at Bellaviste--it was the day that the mad Scythian girl tried to kill him, and we thought all our plans were wrecked. My son Pavel pointed you out to me. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it is Carlino that speaks, but Kyrillo puts the words into his mouth. It is of no use killing one--they must both go.’ Then the fighting began, and Pavel was killed when Drakovics and Otto Georg retook Bellaviste; but I rejoiced in all my sorrow for my son, because I thought that at any rate Carlino and Kyrillo were both dead also. But you were not dead, and you came back with Otto Georg; and my son Dmitri, who had escaped and hidden himself when the Tatarjé patriots were cut to pieces by the German, was discovered and tried and shot. Both my sons are dead, and you are living still, though their deaths lie at your door.”

The old man’s voice was raised, and his sunken eyes gleamed as he flung the charge at Cyril, who betrayed no emotion. “Let us look at this thing sensibly,” he said. “I am no more responsible than any other member of the Government for your sons’ deaths; but I don’t want to shirk what responsibility there is. Your sons, on your own showing, tried to kill me; but matters fell out the other way. It was a fair fight, and the chances were equal, except that your sons worked underground.”

“And that my sons were in the right!” shouted the father. “They were patriots and Orthodox, while you are a miserable Lutheran foreigner.”

“That is undeniable,” said Cyril; “but setting myself and your grudge against me aside, let me ask you not to lose any more time before providing a shelter for the King and Queen and their attendant. You can’t wish to wreak your vengeance on two helpless women and a child. The Queen was a young girl at home in Germany when your sons’ deaths occurred, and the King was not born until several years after. Whatever the guilt is, they cannot be involved in it.”

“They should not come to ask my help with you in their company.”

“Leave me out of the question, I tell you; only hide them.”

“Ah!” with a long cunning laugh; “shall I hide them and leave you to face your enemies?”

“By all means, if that is your condition. But pray be quick.”

“You won’t try to escape?”

“It wouldn’t be much good. Where am I to escape to?”

“You will wait here while I place them in safety, so that I may see you killed? I have dreamed of it often.”

“You shall have that pleasure,” said Cyril aloud. “But it would not surprise me,” he added to himself, “if a bullet from my revolver found its way in your direction in the scrimmage, my good man, and gave me the pleasure instead.”

“Good!” said the old man, unconscious of the murderous determination of his intended victim. “It is almost a pity that you are not a Thracian; but no Thracian would be such a fool as to let his life go so easily. And now, bid the women follow me. I will hide them safely.”

He turned into the house and brought out an ancient lantern, setting to work to light it by means of a flint and steel, while Cyril turned to the Queen--

“Madame, the old man consents to hide you; but I have grave doubts of his sanity, and more of his trustworthiness. Take this knife of mine, and hide it in your dress. If the occasion comes, use it--that is all that I can say. The need is so urgent that I dare not advise you to neglect the smallest chance of escape; but I fear this is a very slight one indeed.”

“But why should I take your knife?” demanded the Queen, holding the weapon doubtfully in her hand. “You don’t think that I can’t trust you to defend us, Count? What has the old man been saying? By his tones and gestures he seemed to be very hostile to you. What arrangement have you made with him?”

“He guarantees your safety, madame, which is the important point at the present moment. Permit me to assist you,” and he helped her across the threshold into one of the lower rooms of the mill, which was filled with rusty machinery, looking weird and ghostly in the dim light. The old man had preceded them, and was waiting at the foot of a ladder in a similar room beyond, leading to a large round hole in the ceiling, through which nothing but darkness was visible. The Queen looked from him to Cyril, then sat down deliberately on a block of wood, and beckoned to Fräulein von Staubach.

“Ask the old man what he has promised to do,” she said loudly, for in this confined space the noise of the waterfall was so overpowering that ordinary tones were inaudible. “No; not you, Count,” waving Cyril away; “you are trying to hide something from me.”

“Madame,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, “I heard what passed between Count Mortimer and the old man. He has promised to hide us safely if Count Mortimer will give himself up to the enemy.”

“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Cyril in German, “you are in error. There is no question of giving myself up. I have a revolver here, and I mean to make a fight for it yet.”

“A fight! one man against a crowd!” said the Queen, with a look of measureless contempt. “You take too much upon yourself, Count. I am to be consulted before you enter into treaties of this kind.”

“What is the lady sitting down and wasting time for?” asked the old man impatiently.

“Tell him that I refuse utterly to be saved at such a price, Sophie,” said the Queen. “We shall all die together.”

“Madame, madame!” cried Cyril. “Think that you are sacrificing your son!”

“I am saving his honour,” she replied, with fine scorn. “Could I wish him to live by the death of his most faithful servant?”

“You torture me, madame!” cried Cyril in agony. “Believe me, there is no sacrifice in the case. My life is laid joyfully at his Majesty’s feet. I entreat you not to be so cruel as to refuse the gift.”

“I do refuse it,” said the Queen sharply. “Sophie, give me my child. They shall kill us together. It will not be long now.”

“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked the old man of Cyril with a grin, as Fräulein von Staubach placed the little King in the arms of his mother, who arranged the shawl which she wore over her head so as to hide from him the ruined machinery, at which he was glancing fearfully.

“Look here,” said Cyril, dragging the old man aside, “let me go up with you and get them safely hidden. It will pacify her if she thinks I am all right, and I give you my word of honour to come down again with you afterwards.”

“Very well,” returned the woodman. “Help the lame lady up the ladder.”

“Madame,” said Cyril, approaching the Queen, “our friend has changed his mind, and permits me to attend you.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the Queen, looking round at him with a rigid face; “for it would be impossible for me to mount that ladder without your help.”

“She still suspects something, worse luck!” said Cyril to himself, as he restored the King to the care of Fräulein von Staubach and sent her up the ladder after the old man. The Queen followed, with more ease than might have been expected after her confession of weakness, and Cyril brought up the rear. At the top they found themselves in a kind of loft, and as soon as they had all ascended, the old man rushed to a windlass, and by its means drew up the ladder, which he placed on the floor where it could not be seen from below. Then he left them, taking the lantern with him, and they traced his progress by his frequent stumbles over pieces of old ironwork, for the roar of the water drowned the noise of his footsteps on the shaking boards, until he suddenly flung open a large shutter, and called to them to come and look out. A gasp of astonishment escaped them when they obeyed, for they found themselves apparently in the middle of the waterfall. A square stone tower was here built out into the stream, and the cascade, dashing down some four feet below the window, flung its spray in their faces.

“We are caught like rats in a trap!” was Cyril’s reflection; but before he could utter a word the old man turned upon him.

“You see that I have you in my power?” he said. “I know you do, and I know also that you do not trust me. You believe that I have brought you here to take your choice of deaths between the falls and the enemy. Well, be it so; suspicion deserves only disloyalty.”

“What does he say?” asked the Queen of Fräulein von Staubach, who, shaking with terror, translated the words. To her astonishment her mistress stepped forward, and taking the little King from her, placed him in the old man’s arms.

“Make him understand,” she said authoritatively. “I do trust you, Father Giorgei; and I give you the best proof of my trust by confiding to you the safety of my son, your King.”

Cyril trembled lest the old man should fling the child into the torrent; but as Fräulein von Staubach translated the Queen’s words, Giorgei’s face relaxed, and he turned from the window with something like delight.

“You and your child and your servants are safe with me, lady,” he said, “for trust begets loyal service. Without your trust I could not save you, for our only way of escape, if your enemies track you here, is a terrible one, which will demand the most complete confidence in me from all of you. But now I do not fear to try it.”

He closed the shutter again and restored the King to his mother, then turned to a heap of rubbish, and began to draw out of it some pieces of rope, old and frayed, and to knot them together.

“You have more faith in human nature than I, madame,” observed Cyril to the Queen, in German.

“How could I do otherwise than trust him, when he had promised to save us?” she asked, and Cyril reflected that it was not the first time he had seen a woman arrive at a right conclusion upon insufficient premisses. But he had no leisure to make further observations on the peculiarities of feminine logic, for it seemed to him that there was another sound mingling with the roar of the waterfall.

“Surely I hear shouting?” he said to the old man, who dropped his pieces of rope immediately, and drew Cyril towards the front of the building, where a gap between two planks afforded a narrow spy-hole. Looking through this, they saw that the clearing was filled with people, who were pouring into it both by the cart-track and the path through the wood, shouting with eagerness as they realised the character of the place. Among them Cyril recognised the big butcher of Karajevo, and also, to his infinite amusement, the churlish host of the preceding night.

“All lie down on the floor, and do not utter a sound,” said the old man, extinguishing the lantern as he and Cyril returned to the rest. “If they are satisfied with searching the ground-floor, we can stay here; but if they guess that we are on this floor, we must escape by the falls.”

“Is there any other ladder?” asked Cyril.

“No; but if they wished to climb up, they could easily devise some means of doing so. Hush!”

Lying flat on the floor, too far from the edge of the hole for their faces to be seen from below, they saw the darkness above them illuminated by wavering lights, while the sound of voices, raised in order to be heard through the noise of the torrent, mounted to their ears. The mob had manufactured torches from some of the dry wood lying about, and were crowding into the lower rooms, peering into the wrecked machinery and probing the rubbish-heaps with their knives. It took some time to satisfy them that the fugitives were not concealed on the ground-floor; but at last they halted below the hole which led to the loft, and gazed up into the blackness.

“There ought to be a ladder,” shouted one. “Where is it?”

“They must be up there,” returned another. “Father Giorgei always leaves the ladder down here, and it isn’t anywhere about.”

“Never mind,” said the butcher. “We can easily get up without it. A young tree with the branches on will serve as a ladder.”

“But the man is sure to be armed,” said another; “and he could shoot you out of the darkness long before you saw him.”

“We will go up ten or twelve at once and overpower him. I don’t mind being the first,” said the butcher; but the innkeeper pulled his sleeve--

“No, no, my dear friend; why risk your valuable life? Remember your wife and children. Let us set the old place on fire, and burn the wretches out.”

The idea seemed to commend itself to all; but presently a voice said hesitatingly, “What about Father Giorgei?”

“If they have killed him, it can’t signify to him what happens to the house; and if he has given them shelter, he deserves to be punished.”

This was convincing, and the mob rushed out to look for wood, several of them shouting up through the hole, “We have not forgotten you, foxes! We are going to smoke you out of your earth!”

“Surely we had better go before they come back?” said Cyril; but the old man shook his head--

“No; if we opened the shutter now they would see the light, and guess that we had a way of escape. Besides, they may be only trying to frighten us. When they have brought in their wood we will go, if they really set light to it. There will be plenty of time.”

The enemy were not long in returning, laden with logs and branches, which they deposited on the floor and against the wooden portions of the walls. When their preparations were complete, the butcher stepped under the hole once more, and shouted, without waiting to receive any answer.

“Foxes, it’s your last chance! Will you come down or be burnt?”

“See how obstinate they are!” snarled the innkeeper, who was already setting a light to a heap of shavings. “Well, they won’t break down honest people’s gates after this. Put a light wherever you can find any shavings, friends.”

“Pah! it’s getting smoky,” cried one man, coughing loudly. “I suppose there’s no need for us to be suffocated, at any rate? I’m going out.”

“Yes; we need stay no longer,” said the innkeeper complacently. “The whole place will be a furnace in a minute or two.”

“Now!” said Cyril to the old man.

“We mustn’t open the shutter until the place is well alight below,” was the answer, “for they may dash in to see how things are going. But we can get the ropes ready. You understand that you will have to cross the falls?”

“Like St Gabriel?”

“Just so, and by his path. Well, I can only take two across at once, and it will need both you and me to get the lame lady over. Shall I take her first, or the other woman and the child?”

“The King must go first, of course,” said the Queen, when the question was translated to her. “Sophie, I put him in your charge.”

Poor Fräulein von Staubach, who was already trembling at the thought of the perilous transit, displayed no delight in the honourable pre-eminence thus thrust upon her; but the smoke, which was now pouring up into the loft through the hole, was so unpleasant that she did not attempt to hang back. The old man fastened a rope round her waist, and another round the little King, and told her to knot them together when he brought the child to her. Then he opened the shutter, and climbing out on the sill, let himself drop apparently into the raging waters. He seemed to find some foothold, however, for he stood firmly with the torrent washing round his knees, and told Cyril to help out Fräulein von Staubach. In those few moments the poor lady tasted the bitterness of death. Kissing the Queen’s hand, and bestowing a farewell embrace on the little King, she allowed Cyril to help her mount on the window-sill; but there her courage gave way. The sight of the foaming water was too much for her, and, with a scream, she tried to precipitate herself again into the room. But the rotten wood of the sill was displaced by her sudden movement, and she fell on the outside, and remained suspended for a moment, Cyril holding desperately to her wrists, until the old man succeeded in catching her and guiding her feet to his own foothold. Then he led her promptly through the water round the corner of the tower out of sight, and apparently into the very heart of the torrent, returning again alone for the little King. The Queen had tied her handkerchief over the child’s eyes that he might not be frightened by the falling water, and Cyril lowered him successfully out of the window into Giorgei’s arms.

“Shut the window and wait for me!” shouted the old man, as he disappeared again round the corner. “I shall not be five minutes; but you could never get through alone.”

Cyril closed the shutter immediately and returned into the room. The smoke was pouring up through the hole, and red tongues of flame were beginning to mingle with it, leaping up and apparently trying to catch the edges of the flooring. The Queen was sitting on the ground, and Cyril asked her to stand up for a moment that he might fasten the rope round her waist. Putting her hand on the floor to help herself to rise, she drew it back with a little scream, and then smiled.

“I had forgotten that it was so hot,” she said apologetically.

“I think, madame, that it will be well to stand as near the window as possible,” said Cyril, with growing anxiety, “so as to be ready the moment that the old man comes back.”

He found an old packing-case for her to stand on, in order to keep her wounded feet from the floor, and they waited by the window in silence for what appeared to be hours. Still the old man did not return, and a terrible thought crept into Cyril’s mind, What if he did not intend to return? Could a more horrible death be devised for the victims of his vengeance than this which grew closer every moment? The cold sweat stood on Cyril’s brow; but he would not alarm the Queen further, far less suggest to her that her son also was absolutely in Giorgei’s power. He felt that he must do something, and throwing back the shutter, he looked narrowly at the shining, water-washed wall below the sill. There was no trace of any crevice or projection that might help in the descent, and at the foot nothing was visible but the foaming torrent. It was evident that the old man knew of some shelf of rock which afforded a safe standpoint; but to allow oneself to drop into the cataract on the mere chance of finding it would be a feat of such foolhardiness that only the direst necessity could impel a man to risk it. Still, it was for dear life. But the Queen--for her it would be simply impossible. The matter was decided. Cyril closed the shutter again sharply, for the draught served to intensify the force of the flames, and turned to his companion, who had pressed close to the window to enjoy the cooler air.

“It’s no good,” he said; “we can’t do it.”

“No good!” repeated the Queen, her eyes dilated with horror.

“We can do nothing unless old Giorgei comes back, and he has been gone more than ten minutes already.”

“More than ten minutes! He must have been gone two hours--two hours at least. But tell me, if I were not here, could you escape?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then that means that you could. You are sacrificing yourself for me, and it can do no good to either of us. Leave me, and save yourself, I command you.”

Cyril did not offer to stir, and she repeated the order in a tone tremulous with excitement.

“Count, I command you on your allegiance,--go at once.”

“Madame, I absolutely refuse to leave you.”

“But why?” she asked, with an attempt at anger. “Count, I--I dreamt last night that you loved me. If--if I was right, go for my sake, I entreat you. It is my last request.”

“Madame, I also dreamt that dream, and it is for that reason that I will not go. I had rather die with you than live without you.”

A fresh cloud of stifling smoke rolled into the room, making them both gasp for breath. The Queen tottered, and Cyril caught her in his arms.

“I don’t think it will be very painful,” he said, trying to find some crumb of comfort for her. “The smoke will do the business before the flames reach us. It can’t hurt very much.”

“No; it can’t hurt much now,” she replied dreamily.

The shawl had fallen back from her head; and as her face lay on his breast, her hair brushed his very lips. Almost unconsciously, he pressed a kiss upon it. She looked up quickly, with a searching glance; but as her eyes met his in the lurid light, their expression changed, softened, and a flush crept over her face. She sighed as her head sank back to its former position; but it was a sigh of absolute contentment, and Cyril, emboldened by the look he had caught, stooped and kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist, and the thrill of exultation which ran through him swept away the last barriers between them. He kissed her again passionately, and spoke fast and in broken accents, his tongue unloosed by the approach of the death which was so surely creeping nearer.

“Ernestine--my dearest!” he said again and again, his low voice sounding louder in her ears than the roar of the flames or the torrent, “we can welcome death, for it has given us to each other. Life would have kept us apart; but there is nothing between us now. We stand here as man and woman--not Queen and servant any longer. And yet you are my Queen--and I am your servant--always--but now it cannot separate us. We have left our lives behind us. Tell me that you love me--just the one word.”

The overmastering passion with which he spoke stirred Ernestine, and she shook back her hair and looked at him with shining eyes. “My love!” she said, and hid her face again. “Death will be easier than life would have been,” she murmured.

“Oh, my God!” burst from Cyril. “Death now!” The prospect with which he had been contented the moment before seemed all at once to have become terrible beyond expression. Was this new life--this triumphant love--to end thus? With gloomy eyes he watched the flames creeping along the floor, seizing on the odds and ends of rubbish that lay about, coming closer and closer. The wooden walls were on fire as well; but he and Ernestine stood in the partial shelter of the stone tower. Still, the floor was of wood even here. The flames must soon spread to it; it would give way, and they would be precipitated into the abyss of flame beneath. He turned shuddering from the thought, and looking at Ernestine, saw that her lips were moving.

“Are you praying, dearest?” he asked her.

“No; I was thanking God,” she answered simply; and Cyril, raging against his fate and hers, felt almost angry with her for being able to give thanks at such a moment. Suddenly he bent down, and, with a horrified exclamation, crushed out a tongue of flame which had run along the floor and caught her dress. She crept closer to him, and raised her eyes to his.

“Kiss me once more, dear,” she said. “It cannot be long now.”

Their lips were meeting just as a loud knocking upon the shutter from without startled them. Disengaging himself from Ernestine’s arms, Cyril sprang to the window and threw it open. Below in the water stood old Giorgei, much excited, and belabouring the shutter vigorously with his staff.

“Thank the saints you are there still!” he shouted breathlessly. “I was afraid I was too late. That’s right; lower the lady gently,” for Cyril had not lost an instant in lifting the Queen to the sill, and was now helping her to let herself down on the outside. “Don’t be afraid, lady; I am here to catch you. That’s bravely done! Now just round the corner. Shut your eyes if you are afraid of the water. Now, what is it you want to say? Go back quickly and save him, do you mean? Why, of course. You stand there, and I’ll bring him to you in a trice.”

Cyril was not a moment too soon in lowering himself out of the window, for the flames and smoke, encouraged by the draught, poured out after him, and caught the shutter even before he had turned the corner. The Queen was standing knee-deep in the swirling water, clinging to an iron ring fixed into the wall, and Giorgei nodded at her approvingly.

“That’s right; you have some sense, I see, but you’ll need it all in a minute.” It did not seem to strike him that she could not understand his exhortations. “Cover up your eyes if you are frightened; but don’t stand still for a second. That was what kept me so long. The other lady, she got frightened in the middle, and stood holding on to a rock and shaking. She wouldn’t move one way or the other, and at last I had to take the child on first and come back for her, and even then I couldn’t get her to stir for a long time. It was only when I told her she would be the death of you both if she stuck there that she let go of the rock, and then she was too terrified to walk. I had to carry her across in my arms, after all, and she is not so light as she was once, either.”

“Shall I blindfold you, dear?” said Cyril to Ernestine in English.

“No; I am not frightened with you,” she answered, looking at him with a rapt expression in her eyes. He doubted whether she was even aware that she was standing in the water, and yet the means of transit which the old man now pointed out was such as to put every faculty on the alert. In front of them, at the top of the fall, the river made its longest leap, twenty feet or so without a break, and dashed clear of the rocks, leaving an empty space under a curtain of water. Here a precarious path had been formed, partly by nature, but chiefly, no doubt, by the hand of man; and it was possible to cross the cascade, as St Gabriel had done in his day, beneath the water and not on its surface. No wonder poor Fräulein von Staubach was frightened! thought Cyril. But he had little time for reflection. Fastening about his own waist the end of the rope which was round that of the Queen, the old man led the way, and in a moment the fugitives found themselves in a cavern of which the roof was formed of falling water, and where the air was filled with sound, and the temperature icy cold. The rocks were damp with constantly oozing moisture, and the greatest care was needed to prevent a slip; but the Queen never made a false step. She seemed to know by instinct where to place her feet, and obeyed any order without the slightest hesitation, and the perilous passage was accomplished in perfect safety. Fräulein von Staubach and the little King, watching anxiously among the rocks on the farther shore, flew to greet her, while Cyril wondered secretly whether his hair had not turned grey during the last hour. He looked round to speak to Giorgei; but the old man had disappeared, and looking back in astonishment into the water-tunnel, Cyril caught sight of him vanishing round a projecting rock. It was evident that he had departed to avoid being thanked; and as even gratitude itself could not face the terrors of the passage again for the sake of tracking him, the fugitives were obliged to respect his wishes.