CHAPTER XVII.

“THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR.”

Whatever M. Drakovics’s misgivings may have been with respect to the letter of which the rebels had obtained possession, the measures which he took to recover it were crowned with complete success, and he appeared in Cyril’s office triumphant, three days after his colleague had returned a second time to Bellaviste, in attendance on the Queen and the little King.

“Everything has fallen out exactly as I prophesied to you, Count,” he cried, “with the exception of one or two unfortunate accidents, such as one could not hope to provide against. You saw, of course, yesterday’s telegram from Constantinovics announcing that he and the royal forces had occupied Tatarjé with very little opposition? Well, here is a long letter from my nephew Vassili, giving details, and, best of all, enclosing that letter of mine which caused me such anxiety. I promised to show it to you; here it is.”

Cyril glanced at the document with languid interest. It was an ordinary business letter in the Premier’s writing, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, and promising to meet his wishes with regard to the subject upon which they had been in correspondence. But for the fact of its having been written by M. Drakovics’s own hand, there was nothing remarkable about it; and except for the danger of its being tampered with, it appeared quite inadequate to account for the writer’s anxiety to recover it. Cyril returned it quickly.

“Many thanks, Drakovics. I congratulate you on getting the precious thing back so soon. But what are the unfortunate accidents to which you refer?”

“I must give you the gist of Vassili’s letter before you will understand them. As I anticipated, the moment that the rank and file of the rebels learned that they had been deceived in imagining that they had the Queen in their hands, they lost heart. There was a little fighting round the Bishop’s palace, led by the commandant and Colonel O’Malachy; but the Bishop and the Mayor, when once their eyes were opened, insisted upon a surrender. They had been doubly deceived, first by means of this letter here, into supposing that I--why, I cannot imagine--sympathised with their object, and then by the lady who personated her Majesty.”

“Really,” said Cyril, “the Bishop must be singularly guileless for a man of his age and political experience. It’s pretty evident that he is too simple-minded for the position that he occupies.”

“That will be for the court to decide when he is brought to trial,” replied the Premier, changing countenance a little. “In any case, he submitted at once when he learned the truth, and gave assistance in securing his fellow-conspirators. He even surrendered this letter, which had been intrusted to his care. Moreover, the rescued ladies all bear testimony to the consideration with which they were treated during their imprisonment in his palace.”

“In other words, Bishop Philaret is one of those who aspire to run with the hare and yet hunt with the hounds?”

“Possibly; but we may be thankful that he has shown so accommodating a spirit. If he had been like the rest--but we are coming to the unfortunate accidents I mentioned. During the night after the recapture of the town, Colonel O’Malachy succeeded in making his escape from the place where he was imprisoned, and the commandant committed suicide.”

“Good gracious! there has been treachery at work,” cried Cyril.

“Impossible, Count. Both prisoners were searched before they were left alone; but they must have contrived to secrete some tool or weapon. The commandant was found with his brains blown out, and a discharged revolver in his hand, and Colonel O’Malachy appears to have escaped through the window and the garden at the back, by means of tying his bed-clothes together into a rope. The two men were confined in a private house, for the ordinary prison was full.”

“You may take my opinion as that of the average man,” said Cyril, slowly and meaningly, “that there was foul play somewhere. A stout elderly man like the O’Malachy, and lame too, could never escape unaided from a window.”

“Of course, the whole affair will be most strictly inquired into, and the sentries put on their trial,” said M. Drakovics. “Vassili can testify that both the prisoners were secure when Constantinovics and he visited them late at night. The thing is a mystery.”

“A very ugly mystery for all concerned, if it is not cleared up.”

“Oh, come, you take too dark a view of things, my dear Count. It will be awkward for the poor wretches of sentries, of course; but how could it possibly affect any one else? By the bye, this is something in your department. Vassili says that the rescued prisoners--our friends, that is, naturally--were to leave Tatarjé by rail this morning, which means that they will arrive here to-night.”

“I will tell the Queen, and inquire what she wishes done,” said Cyril, as the Premier rose to depart; but when he was left alone he sat still for a time. “I must hear what the ladies have to say,” he told himself at last. “They may be able to throw some light on the earlier stages of the affair. But as to these two ‘unfortunate accidents,’ I have no doubt whatever. It is true, of course, that the commandant’s brains were blown out; but I think it extremely unlikely that the revolver which did it was in his hand at the time. As for the O’Malachy, he was helped to escape because he knew too much to be brought to trial, and because, as a Scythian subject, it would have been dangerous to put him out of the way. It looks very much as if the Bishop had been squared, but that time will show.”

Banishing these speculations from his mind with an effort, he sought an audience of Ernestine, and acquainted her with the approach of Baroness von Hilfenstein and the rest of the members of the Court. She was overjoyed by the news, and, as he had expected and hoped, directed him to take a special train, the royal train, and meet them at a station some thirty miles from Bellaviste, thus bringing them back in triumph, as a mark of the Queen’s appreciation of their services. There was no time to be lost if the transfer was to be effected without undignified haste, and Cyril telephoned his orders immediately to the railway officials, and found the royal train waiting for him when he reached the station. In spite of his precautions, he was a little late in arriving at his goal, and found the people whom he had come to welcome waiting on the platform to welcome him, which they did in many cases with tears of joy. When he had reassured them all separately as to the safety of the King and Queen, and the fact that their health was not likely to suffer permanently from the hardships they had undergone (this was a point on which Mrs Jones, in particular, showed herself almost impossible to convince), he succeeded in getting them safely bestowed in the train, and himself made one of a pleasant party in the royal saloon. Baroness von Hilfenstein and her daughter had endless questions to ask about the escape from Tatarjé, Stefanovics was all anxiety as to the feeling in Bellaviste with regard to the rebellion, and every one else had some inquiry to make; but at last Cyril succeeded in gaining a hearing for his own question.

“Tell me what happened after we had left,” he said. “Not the vaguest scrap of information has reached us about that.”

“Really,” said Baroness von Hilfenstein, “it all happened very much as you said it would, Count. About half an hour after you had gone we began to hear stealthy sounds, as though people were moving about round the house, and presently there came a tremendous knocking at the front door. The apartments of M. and Madame Stefanovics were situated in the front of the house, as you know; and after telling his wife to rise and dress at once, M. Stefanovics opened the window and asked who was there. It proved to be the commandant, who said that he had received intimation of a plot to seize the persons of the King and Queen, and begged that they would allow him to conduct them at once to the Bishop’s palace for safety.”

“Seeking safety in the lion’s mouth!” said Cyril. “I hope you did not recall the story of the spider and the fly to the commandant’s memory, Stefanovics?”

“No, indeed, Count,” returned the chamberlain. “I expressed horror at the news and gratitude to the commandant, but declined to alarm the Queen before morning. To that my friend replied that he durst not keep his men in the grounds of the Villa, where they were so much exposed to attack, and that he must get them safely behind walls in another hour, if he had to take the royal party with him by force. As he threatened to break open the door, I went down to open it, sending my wife to warn the Baroness.”

“Yes,” interrupted Baroness Paula, “and Madame Stefanovics and my mother came and dragged me out of bed and into the Queen’s room, and made me dress up in her clothes, and told me so many things which I was to do and was not to do that I was quite dazed. Then, before I was ready, in stalked Mrs Jones through the private door, carrying in her arms--what do you think? Why, the great doll in the uniform of a Hercynian grenadier which the Emperor Sigismund sent to our King, dressed up in his Majesty’s clothes. I really thought it was the King until she showed me the face. Meanwhile, Madame Stefanovics had gone to wake the other ladies----”

“And I whispered to each not to be alarmed by anything she might see, but to behave just as usual,” said Madame Stefanovics proudly.

“And very soon after that we were ready,” continued Baroness Paula, “and my mother conducted us out. The Queen’s crape veil quite hid my face, and no one seemed to have a suspicion. The commandant was waiting in the hall, and he bowed very low and regretted the necessity for disturbing me at such an hour. I said that he was only doing his duty, and that I was grateful to him for his fidelity--imitating the Queen’s voice as well as I could. The gentlemen of the household were all ready too, and we drove away from the villa with proper ceremony,--the commandant had had the carriages prepared while we were dressing. The soldiers marched on either side, and we reached the Bishop’s palace without any alarm.”

“I can best describe to his Excellency the next development of the plot,” said Pavlovics, the King’s chamberlain. “Rooms were provided for us at the palace, Count, and we were left in peace during the night; but in the morning the commandant appeared with a file of soldiers in the apartments which had been allotted to us of his Majesty’s household, and ordered that the King should be roused, dressed, and brought to him. The Government, so he said, had decided that for the safety of the kingdom it was imperative that his Majesty should become a member of the Orthodox Church, and the Bishop was already waiting in the cathedral to perform the ceremony of confirmation. The Queen had agreed to the measure, but would appear to resist it, for fear of the anger of her German relatives, and therefore it would be best if it could be carried out without arousing her Majesty. Thunderstruck, and not knowing what to believe, I asked to speak to Mrs Jones, who declared she would not give up the King for any such purpose, and that his Majesty was ill in bed. Going back to the commandant, I told him this, and both Herr Batzen and I endeavoured to induce him to abandon his intention----”

“Yes, indeed,” put in the old pastor, whose mild eyes had acquired a look of startled surprise during the stirring events of the last fortnight. “I represented to him as forcibly as I could the extreme folly and wickedness of the course he proposed; but he pushed me rudely aside, and thrust his way into the King’s room----”

“Where Mrs Jones stood in front of the bed, and defied him to approach,” went on Pavlovics. “He called two soldiers to drag her away (we were already under guard), and pulled off the bedclothes. To his stupefaction and ours, there was no child in the bed, but only a large doll. Mrs Jones, seeing her advantage, began to abuse him, assuring him that the King was far away, and safe out of his reach, and that he might take the doll, and welcome, and do what he liked with it, and much good might it do him! Utterly astonished, they searched the room, to discover whether his Majesty was concealed anywhere about it, and then went away, to question the sentries. After a time an officer came to tell us to go to the Queen, and inform her of the disappearance of her son, and we prepared, very unwillingly, to do this.”

“Now it is my turn again,” said Baroness Paula. “When M. Pavlovics and Herr Batzen had joined us, and we had explained things to them and to the ladies who were not in the plot, and warned them to keep up the farce, we were startled by the entrance of the commandant and some soldiers. I stood up, and in a most regal voice demanded what they meant by such an intrusion; but he answered politely that it was necessary to discover who it was that had kidnapped the King, that the criminals might be pursued and punished. He had a list in his hand, and calling over the names, discovered that Fräulein von Staubach, the King’s governess, and Paula von Hilfenstein, a maid of honour, were missing. Then they left us, and we never saw the commandant again, except at a distance.”

“They did not try to drag you into their schemes?” asked Cyril.

“No; they left us severely alone. Oh, it was fearfully dull, Count--you can’t imagine how dull, for my mother would not allow me to relax my dignity for a moment, lest there should be spies watching us. She drilled me in my part from morning to night; and there I sat in the Queen’s clothes, with the veil arranged so as to hide my face from any one coming into the room. When we went out, I had the veil down, of course.”

“But surely they did not let you go into the town?”

“Oh no; but each day we were allowed to walk for an hour in an inner courtyard with some weeds in it. They took the sentries out of the way for the time, and never allowed even the servants to cross the square. But on the first day I felt certain that we were being watched, and I pinched Madame Stefanovics’s arm--she was walking with me--and we both glanced up, and saw some one looking at us out of a little window; but I thought it was the Bishop, and she thought it was the commandant.”

“Both, no doubt,” commented Cyril. “Their suspicions had been roused as to the genuineness of their capture. Did they ever try to induce you to sign any document for them, Baroness?”

“No, never.”

“That shows that they were convinced you were not the Queen. I thought so.”

“Oh, but wait and hear the rest. We never found out that we were watched again, and we never saw any one in authority. Sometimes they used to send messages to me, but always through one of the other ladies, and the servants were always most respectful. They never came into the room where I was. On the second day we heard a great noise in the street, and the servants told some one who asked about it that the Jews were being driven out, and then we heard nothing more until the day before yesterday. We were terribly dull; but we knew that so long as they continued to take me for the Queen, it meant that they had not captured her Majesty, so we were happy. Then, that day, we heard fighting--real fighting, with cannon, not like the driving out of the Jews. We were all very much excited, and trying all the windows in turn in the hope of being able to see what was going on, when the door opened suddenly, and the Bishop came in, unannounced. Even at that moment the rest remembered their parts, and I said in German, ‘Will your Beatitude be pleased to inform me what is happening?’ But instead of answering, he came close to me, and glared into my face, and then said, ‘The Government forces are besieging us, madame. One of their spies whom we have captured informs us of an extraordinary rumour, that the Queen is at Bellaviste, and not here. Is this true? If it is, cut short the farce, and put an end to this bloodshed.’ I had just time to think that if the Queen was safe at Bellaviste there was no need to play my part any longer; but before I could answer he pulled aside my veil, and cried out, ‘You are not the Queen! Come with me instantly.’ He gripped me by the wrist and dragged me away, out of the room, down the stairs, and into the outer courtyard, which was full of the rebels--soldiers and civilians mixed. Some were defending the walls, and I caught sight of the commandant among them; but the greater number were standing about in groups and quarrelling, while every now and then a shell exploded at or near the gate. I realised then that the Government troops must be in the town, and attacking the palace itself; but I had no more time to think, for as soon as the rebels saw the Bishop holding me by the wrist they gave a howl and rushed towards me. I was terrified; but the Bishop called out, ‘Wait! This is not the Queen. We have been deceived. The Queen has never been in our hands at all, and there is nothing to fight for. Let us surrender and save our lives!’ Then suddenly he tore off the widow’s cap from my head, and the veil with it, so roughly that all my hair came down” (Baroness Paula’s flaxen plaits were celebrated in Thracian Court circles), “and they saw at once that I was not the Queen. He let go my wrist for the moment, and my mother seized it--she had followed us out--and dragged me back into the house and up-stairs again, and the rebels were too busy with their own affairs to follow us. It was not long before M. Vassili Drakovics came to us, and told us that the Government forces were masters of the place, for the rebels had seized the commandant and the Scythian officer who was helping him, and insisted on a surrender. And that ends our adventures, Count.”

“I scarcely know whether to admire more the spirit with which you went through the adventures, or the grace with which you relate them, Baroness,” said Cyril, and followed up this compliment with others addressed to the rest of the ladies, until they were all on the best of terms with themselves; and even Baroness von Hilfenstein relaxed into a smile, while averring that Count Mortimer was such a frivolous person that she could never see how any one thought it safe to intrust him with the management of affairs of state.

It would have astonished the good lady if she could have known of the relief with which Cyril parted from his charges at the Palace, after conducting them to the Queen’s presence, and went home to ponder his earlier theories in the new light he had just obtained. Sitting at his ease in his private sanctum, which no one but Dietrich was allowed even to approach, he set to work to construct a hypothesis that should fit the facts.

“Let us see how it works out,” he said to himself. “I don’t think Drakovics originated the plot, for he would know that Hercynia and Pannonia would have to be reckoned with if it ever came out. No; the O’Malachy was the moving spirit once more. His big plot failed before; but he foresaw that if he was content with a little one he might lug Drakovics into it. It was very simple: Drakovics wanted the King converted, but durst not take it in hand for himself; the O’Malachy and the Tatarjé people were willing to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him--on conditions, no doubt. The final terms were contained either in that letter he showed me, or, as I believe, in a much more explicit one for which that was substituted by Vassili. The opportunities of communication would be furnished at first by the correspondence about the post for the commandant’s brother, and the last touches were put by Peter Sergeivics. He had ample opportunity for seeing any of the conspirators when he came to Tatarjé before appearing at the Villa at all. Then Drakovics bethinks himself that it is just possible something may turn up later to connect him with the plot, and he sends me a vague and non-committal telegram as a guarantee of good faith, arranging that it is not to arrive until after I have left Tatarjé. It reaches me a little too early; but I am already in possession of the facts--some of them, that is. Naturally Drakovics is thunderstruck in the morning when he learns from Dietrich that I have stayed behind. His only chance of success now is to let the conspirators catch us before we reach Prince Mirkovics’s. Most fortunately I gave him no details of our plans; but I am convinced that he let the Tatarjé people know in what direction we were to be looked for, so that we were waited for at Ortojuk even before our meeting with the sub-prefect. Upon my word, instead of complaining of bad luck, I am astonished at my own luck in getting them through at all. If it had not been for that change of clothes at the farm, we must have been caught.”

Rising from his chair, Cyril began to stroll up and down the room, still thinking busily, and biting the end of his moustache.

“And the net result of this is,” he went on, “that to save his schemes, Drakovics plotted deliberately against both Ernestine’s life and mine, for he must have known what would happen if we were caught. And now he will be in constant terror lest anything of this should come out. He has bribed the O’Malachy with his freedom, and the Bishop with--well, it does not all appear yet; I shall be interested to observe what it is. The spy was sent in to warn the Bishop to throw up the sponge, which he did very neatly. The mayor was probably a dupe, I think; but the other three knew after the first morning that the Queen had never been in their hands.

“And now, what is the upshot to be?” Cyril sat down again to consider. “My dear Drakovics, I have never exactly loved you; but I had a foolish fancy that you played fair towards your own side. That sweet dream is now gone; but I don’t deny that this particular trick is yours. You hold all the cards--you are a Thracian, popular, and in power--and I am in a fix, in a hole, in a very, very tight place. You will stick at nothing now to get rid of me; but I am not going to make you a present of the rope with which to hang me. Nothing would suit you better at this moment than to get wind of my little affair with Ernestine, but I don’t intend that you shall. Until I have something up my sleeve to play against you, you shall hear nothing about any desire for the alteration of the Constitution. Bluff is no good here, or I could play a glorious game; but there is too much at stake. You would have me torn to pieces by a dirty ruffianly mob, would you? Wait a little, my dear friend, only wait! But I should like to know,” this was an after-thought, “what you bribed Bishop Philaret with, and how far you committed yourself in your genuine letter.”

Strangely enough, both these pieces of information were in Cyril’s hands some five days later, although unfortunately not in a shape in which he could turn them to advantage As he sat in his office, Dietrich brought him a note, which he said had been given him in the street by a peasant, a stranger, for his master. There was no address on the envelope, which was dirty and common, but the contents were full of interest:--

“My dear Lord Cyril,--I was greatly interested to hear of the letter discovered among the papers that the poor commandant had intrusted to the Bishop for safekeeping during our little affair at Tatarjé. Merely as a matter of interest, may I ask you to put these two questions to your friend Drakovics. Ask him where is the letter addressed by him to the Bishop and the commandant jointly, and promising them an amnesty and future favour if they managed the King’s conversion? and who is to become Archbishop of Bellaviste when the Metropolitan joins the majority? The earlier inquiry, as you have no doubt noticed, concerns the beginning of the present business, the later one its end, which is not yet. You will guess that I would not likely write this to you if you would be able to make any unpleasant use of it; but since you cannot do that, I would like to relieve you from the humiliation of being dragged at Drakovics’s chariot-wheels any longer.--From your well-wisher,

“/O’Malachy/, _Colonel_ à la suite _of the --th Regiment of the Line._”

Cyril’s first impulse on reading this was to curse the O’Malachy aloud; but he restrained himself, and proceeded to tear the letter methodically into strips and burn it. The exercise relieved his mind, and he was able to look at things calmly again.

“It’s just like the old fool,” he thought, “imagining that he will set Drakovics and me by the ears. That he will not do, for his testimony would be of no value against Drakovics’s denial, and I don’t break with my friend the Premier until I can pulverise him. There shall be no minor explosions--at any rate on my side--to mar the effect of the great _coup_. I can smile and smile and be a villain as well as he can. He may have the laugh on his side at present, but the man laughs longest who laughs last. Oh yes; I trusted him once, but never again, my friend--never again!”

It was fortunate that Cyril’s soliloquy was uttered only in thought, and did not publish itself in words, for just as he had reached this point in his meditations M. Drakovics was announced. The Premier came in looking vexed and somewhat sullen; but it suited Cyril’s humour to welcome him with exaggerated cordiality.

“Come in, come in, my friend!” he cried. “Take this chair of mine. If there was a more comfortable one, you should have it, but we are not Sybarites here. To what happy chance do I owe the pleasure of beholding your bright and cheerful countenance?”

M. Drakovics frowned. “I came to tell you, Count, that her Majesty insists upon your having the Holy Icon. But doubtless this is no news to you?”

“Haven’t heard a word about it,” returned Cyril, with perfect truth. The Comradeship of the Holy Icon was the chief Thracian order of merit. It took its name from a band of heroes who had guarded a sacred picture of St Peter in the decisive battle which made Thracian independence possible in the days of Alexander the Patriot, and its membership was confined to those who had rendered signal service to the reigning dynasty. To be admitted to the brotherhood on the recommendation of his sovereign was a gratifying experience for any subject; but it seemed to Cyril that to him, at least, it might also be an embarrassing one. “Why should I have heard the news?” he asked.

“Why? when we all know the high esteem in which her Majesty is at present pleased to hold you? You are basking in the sunshine of royal favour just now, Count. I only hope for your sake that the brightness may last.”

“Well, whether the Holy Icon comes to me by favour or not, I won’t say that I think I haven’t deserved it,” said Cyril deliberately.

“It is usual,” said the Premier, with marked emphasis, “for the recipient of such an honour to express his unworthiness--even his reluctance to accept it.”

“Oh, come now; I did not expect that from you, Drakovics! You and I are behind the scenes; we need not wear the mask for each other’s benefit. But am I mistaken, or is it the case that you see the unworthiness and feel the reluctance for me?”

“I felt it my duty, certainly, to remind the Queen that the Order was intended for soldiers----”

“And her Majesty reminded you that you were yourself one of its most distinguished ornaments?”

“And,” frowning, “that its members ought to belong to the Orthodox faith.”

“It is unfortunate that neither her Majesty nor her predecessor in the sovereignty of the Order have been Greeks. But in spite of flaws in his argument, shall I desert my friend Drakovics at this crisis? Come, Drakovics--my more than friend, my patron (shall I say?)--give me your true reasons, and I will decline the honour. Have you not been my political guide, philosopher, and friend since first as a raw youth I entered Thracia? Do I not occupy in your affections a position second only to that of the ingenuous Vassili? Can you doubt my gratitude to my benefactor?”

“If I thought you were in earnest, I should suspect that you meant mischief; but I know you are only joking,” said M. Drakovics sourly. His ordinary feeling towards Cyril was a mixture of fear and dislike, but when the younger man gave reins to his levity he positively hated him. “Her Majesty insists on your admission to the Order, and the chapter is to be held on Wednesday morning, so that you may attend the Thanksgiving service among the other knights.”

“Then you withdraw your opposition?” Cyril shook the Premier warmly by the hand. “Ah, how my mind is relieved! Believe me, my dear Drakovics, I shall never forget this.”

Heartily disgusted, M. Drakovics withdrew, to confide to his nephew that the Mortimer was more absurd than ever, and so much elated by the honour about to be conferred upon him that it might be hoped he would show his delight in some preposterous way, and ruin himself; to which Vassili replied that he only trusted this might prove true, for that in the Mortimer’s most foolish moments hitherto he had shown himself a match for the wisest heads in Thracia. This was a consolation which Cyril, smarting under the discovery of the way in which he had been duped in the matter of the plot, would have hesitated to appropriate to himself; but he was able to rejoice over the present mystification of M. Drakovics as he turned again to his work. There was much to arrange during the three days which remained before his admission into the Order. All the arrangements for the great Thanksgiving service, and the royal visit to the Hôtel de Ville which was to follow it, were in his hands. The service had been suggested by the Metropolitan himself, for it was beginning to leak out by this time that the Queen and her son had incurred considerable danger in their return to the capital, although the exact nature of the perils they had escaped was not known; and Cyril had succeeded in overcoming Ernestine’s objection to being present at an act of Orthodox worship, in view of the effect to be produced on the people. Then Paschics, who had been discovered in prison at Tatarjé, had to be received, rewarded, and promoted, and the special gifts which the Queen intended to send to all the humble friends of her adversity must be despatched to their intended recipients by his hand. All this time, since the interview in the gamekeeper’s house, Cyril had never seen Ernestine alone,--to tell the truth, he shrank from doing so. He knew that what he had to say to her would wound her deeply, and, as a diplomatic artist, he disliked inflicting suffering before it was absolutely necessary. But on the morning of the Thanksgiving service, when he was conducted into her presence to be invested with the insignia of the Order of the Holy Icon, he regretted his delay. The Queen’s face was flushed and her eyes gleaming, and it struck him at once that she was meditating some desperate step.

“I had better have had it out with her,” he said to himself, “for if she is going to make a scene it will ruin us both. I will get things settled this afternoon, if she will leave me so long. Perhaps after all she is only excited by her victory over Drakovics.”

His conjecture appeared to be well founded, for Ernestine’s face grew calmer as the Metropolitan and his assistant archdeacon droned through a kind of litany in an unknown tongue. When it was over, M. Drakovics, as the senior member of the Order, took Cyril’s hand and led him up to the Queen, who rose from her seat, and, as the ritual prescribed, holding the new knight’s hand in hers, turned to the rest of the brotherhood--

“Comrades of the Holy Icon, I your lady present to you Cyril Mortimer, Count of the Pannonian Empire, to be admitted one of your number. It is for you to say whether he is worthy of this honour. As for me, I can testify that he has risked his life in my service, and that Thracia owes to him the safety of her King, that he is a gallant gentleman, and a most faithful friend”--“Servant,” ejaculated M. Drakovics, but she disregarded the correction--“to me and to my house.”

The Queen’s voice faltered perilously, but she crushed down the rising tears and looked round defiantly upon the knights. It was Prince Mirkovics to whom it fell to answer her.

“Lady, we receive this our brother at thy hand with all joy and honour, for who serves thee has served us, and he that is a friend to thee and to thy house is our friend also.”

The last clause was interpolated, and not found in the ritual; but Prince Mirkovics had saved the situation by his graceful acceptance of the Queen’s amendment, and Cyril breathed more freely as he knelt before her that she might invest him with the badge of the Order. The Metropolitan was reading from the service-book with its massive jewelled cover the solemn charge which was laid upon all the comrades of the Holy Icon, and Cyril was waiting with downcast eyes to make the prescribed response at the end, when he became aware that Ernestine was looking intently at him. Her eyes seemed to burn themselves into his brain, and the effort not to look up was positively painful. Nay, more, it was useless, for her will overcame his for the moment, and he glanced into her face. Their eyes met, and the knights and their stately surroundings faded away. For an instant they were standing again among the smoke-clouds in the burning house, with the roar of the cataract in their ears--they two alone. Then Ernestine’s eyes fell, the Metropolitan’s elaborate admonition came to an end, and Cyril replied mechanically in the proper form, feeling as he did so, for he could not see, that M. Drakovics, standing behind him, had caught Ernestine’s glance, and had interpreted it correctly. She was suspending the miniature copy of the Holy Icon from his neck now, by means of its golden collar, and repeating the words of investiture after the Metropolitan. The pause gave Cyril the chance he needed for recovering his calmness; and when he rose from his knees, invested with the mantle of the Order, and, standing at the Queen’s side, bowed to his brother knights, there was not the slightest trace of emotion in his face. The Premier gnashed his teeth; for one moment magnificent possibilities had presented themselves to his mind.

After the investiture came the Thanksgiving service in the cathedral, with the _Te Deum_ chanted as only an Orthodox choir can chant it, and a sermon from the Metropolitan, brimming over with patriotism and loyalty. Either the little King’s intercession for him had touched the old man’s heart, or the plot had horrified him, as showing to what his political schemes might lead; and Cyril smiled as he thought of that other sermon of his not so many months ago. The service was comparatively short, for there could be no visiting of shrines or veneration of icons, such as would have been _de rigueur_ in the case of Orthodox monarchs, and the royal procession made its way across the square to the Hôtel de Ville. Ernestine had laid aside her widow’s weeds for the occasion, and donned a black velvet dress and a veil of priceless lace flowing from a diamond tiara, while her hair fell in heavy curls on either side of her face. The little King was garbed in a Parisian adaptation of the national costume, a fact that appeared to awaken interest and curiosity among the spectators; but Cyril was struck by the lack of genuine feeling displayed. It was evident that the Queen was as unpopular as ever, and that the people regarded her with no more exclusive affection than they would a neighbouring monarch on a visit. M. Drakovics was the real sovereign, at least in Bellaviste, and it appeared to Cyril that in case of a conflict of wills, the Premier would receive public support far more readily than the Queen.

It was not a cheering prospect, and Cyril threw aside the thought and plunged into the business of the moment. The luncheon was a long affair, with its speeches and toasts and many courses, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the Royal party returned to the Palace. It was Cyril’s duty to present for the Queen’s approval his report of the day’s proceedings, for publication in the “Court Circular” of the Government papers the following day; and although he might have sent it through Baroness von Hilfenstein, his memory of the morning was sufficiently vivid to determine him to seek a personal interview with Ernestine. Her Majesty was expecting him, he was told; and he passed on into the anteroom, where he found only Fräulein von Staubach and Anna Mirkovics. While the latter went into the inner room to announce his arrival, Fräulein von Staubach astonished him by saying in a fierce whisper--

“If you are a man, say something kind to the poor Queen. She has been breaking her heart over your coldness ever since we returned to Bellaviste.”

Before Cyril could do more than look his surprise at advice so contrary to that which he had last received from Fräulein von Staubach, Princess Anna returned to say that the Queen was ready to receive him, and he went on into the inner room, where Ernestine was sitting listlessly in a great carved chair. She sprang up as he entered, and made a step towards him; but as he paused at the door and bowed, her face clouded again, and she approached him shyly, holding out both hands.

“Have you nothing to say to me, Count?”

“I have the honour to present my official report for your consideration, madame.”

“Your report? Give it to me. _That_ for your report!” and she flung it with all her strength into a corner. “Count, what do you mean by treating me in this way? You will not even look at me!”

“Madame, it is because I fear that to look at you would force me to remember what it may be my duty to forget.”

“What should you forget? Not that we love one another?”

“Madame, I remember nothing that you may wish forgotten.”

“You don’t trust me yet?” She stamped her foot passionately. “It is cruel, it is unfair! What have I done that you should be so unjust to me? Stay!” she ran to a mirror, and pulling out the diamond-headed pins which fastened her head-dress, laid the veil and crown on the table, then with hasty fingers tore from the front of her bodice the ribbons and badges of the Orders she had been wearing, and returned to Cyril. “Now there is no Queen to whom you need be distant and ceremonious. It is your own Ernestine, who asks you how she has offended you.”

“My dearest!” began Cyril, raising her hands to his lips, but she was not satisfied.

“You were not content with that in the burning house,” she said.

“Ernestine!” He caught her in his arms and kissed her; “do you think it is fair to tempt me in this way? Flesh and blood can’t stand against it, you little witch.”

“I like that name,” she said, with a happy smile. “I am very glad I can tempt you, Cyril. It is like this morning. I made up my mind that you should look at me, and you were obliged to do it. I willed your eyes to meet mine.”

“Yes, to the great edification of Drakovics,” returned Cyril.

“What does M. Drakovics signify? I am not afraid of him.”

“Very well, dear. If you are indifferent to the consequences of his knowing our secret, it is not for me to shrink from them.”

“Now you are unkind again. What do you mean?”

“Will you let me speak plainly, dear? I don’t want to be unkind; but I must try to make you understand the difficulties that beset us. Since returning to Bellaviste I have seen more and more clearly the awkwardness of our position.”

“I don’t understand.” Ernestine had grown very pale, and she drew herself away from him as she began to perceive that his backwardness as a lover was due to policy rather than to timidity; but Cyril did not flinch--

“I am afraid we can scarcely flatter ourselves that you have given Drakovics much reason to love you, can we, dearest? Hitherto I have imagined that prudence would keep him friendly with me, but since returning from Tatarjé I find that this is not the case. He evidently regards me as the obstacle which prevents him from attaining supreme power, and he would stick at nothing to remove me from his path. Now do you see why this is the most unpropitious moment possible for giving him a handle against me?”

“But--but you say I have betrayed you already,” she faltered.

“No, dear; it is not quite so bad as that, though I could have wished it had not happened. You have betrayed yourself,” Ernestine’s white face become crimson as she covered it with her hands; “but Drakovics can hardly make himself objectionable because you have done me the honour to care for me. If he tries it on, I will make it hot for him.”

“Then you don’t intend to try and obtain an alteration of the Constitution?” The misery in her eyes would have made most men promise to tear the Constitution to shreds if she would only look happy again, but Cyril was made of sterner stuff.

“The faintest whisper of such a thing would ruin us irretrievably, Ernestine. We should set not only Drakovics and Thracia, but all Europe, against us.”

“My beloved, I can’t make you understand that I care nothing for that. I will marry you whether the Constitution is altered or not, and share the consequences with you.”

“Your generosity overpowers me, dearest, but we must face facts. If I suggest the alteration of the Constitution, I am hounded out of Thracia, and we are separated for ever; while if you marry me as things are, you become merely the King’s mother, a foreign princess. You lose the regency by the mere fact of marrying,--if it was solely a question of resignation, you might refuse to do it, and we could tide things over somehow.”

“But I don’t mind giving up the regency--for you.”

“And quitting Thracia, and leaving Drakovics to do what he likes with your child and his kingdom?”

“Oh no, no,” she said eagerly. “I remember; I have been thinking about that. We will be married privately by Batzen, and then escape in disguise--you and I, and Michael, and perhaps Sophie. I should not be frightened in the least with you. Then we will go to England--no, not to England; they are relations, and would not protect me against my father and Sigismund--but to America, and throw ourselves on the protection of the President of the United States. They always protect people in America, and with the King in our hands we could make terms with M. Drakovics.”

Cyril gazed at her animated face and sparkling eyes in wonder, marvelling at the audacity and naïveté of the scheme. For a moment his heart warmed towards her; then he saw himself the butt of the world’s caricaturists, from San Francisco to Yokohama, and it hardened again. “My dear child,” he said, “we are not living in the Middle Ages. Drakovics would like nothing better than for us to carry out your plan. He would proclaim the deposition of the King, and either choose another or establish a republic.”

“Then you will not take any steps at all?”

“No step of that kind, certainly.”

“That means, then, that you wish our engagement to be at an end? I must thank you for being so plain. Oh, what have I done? what have you done? Why let me betray that I cared for you when you do not love me? But I thought you did! I thought you did!”

“If you accuse me of deceiving you, madame, there is no more to be said.”

“Oh, don’t speak to me so coldly; don’t look so angry! How can I think you love me when you are content to give me up?”

“Madame, I had no thought of proposing such a thing. The idea had never occurred to me for an instant.”

“Then what did you think of doing?” with renewed hope in her tone.

“I hoped, madame, that you might be content to wait----”

“Wait? Only wait? Why, that is nothing! But how long?”

Cyril hesitated, but her eager eyes compelled him to speak. “Until your son is of age,” he answered reluctantly. He had intended to break the news more gradually, but she had not permitted it. “Your regency ends as soon as he is sixteen, as you know,” he added.

“And he is just four now,” she said hopelessly. “Twelve years! I should be an old woman by that time.”

“Dearest, you will never grow old.”

“Don’t pay me compliments!” She brushed the remark aside with a gesture of bitter contempt. “Have some pity for me. Think what my life has been! Married at sixteen, and so unhappily. I know I was wrong--dreadfully wrong--in much that I did, but it was not all my fault. You know that you sometimes helped to make things harder for me yourself in those days. And then--left alone to guard my child’s kingdom for him! I am so lonely, so inexperienced, I need you to help me--and you will not do it.”

“I had hoped that I should be always at hand to help you whenever you needed help, madame.”

“If you call me that again you will break my heart. Don’t you see that I want you close to me? I want to be able to see you and speak to you without fear of making people talk. Every day I count the hours until we meet, and then it is only for a moment’s discussion of business. I am looking for you all day. My ladies cannot imagine what makes me so restless. Baroness von Hilfenstein says that my nerves have suffered from the strain of our adventures, and threatens to send for a specialist from Vienna. How can I go on like this? You cannot really mean that it is to last for twelve years?”

“If you cannot bear it, Ernestine, it is easy to end it. You have only to hint to Drakovics that I have had the presumption to fall in love with you, and he will get rid of me without any further trouble to you”--“Oh no, no!” she moaned--“But if you prefer half a loaf to no bread, I am here, and ready to help you in any way that I can.”

“Will you promise that whatever happens you will not forsake me? But even then you are doing everything for me. I want to be able to help you--to take care of you--to feel that I am doing something for you.”

“You are doing something very hard for me, dearest, in consenting to wait. And after all,” this was contrary to Cyril’s better judgment, “something may happen to shorten the time.”

“Madame,” said Fräulein von Staubach’s voice at the door, as a gleam of hope shone in Ernestine’s sad eyes, “his Excellency the Premier is crossing the gardens, and will be here in a moment,” and Cyril kissed the Queen on the forehead, and hurried away.