CHAPTER XXVI

THE DEATH OF THE KING

It was noon when Fenton awoke the next day. He awoke to a sense of unfamiliar surroundings. Above him was a ceiling of dingy, brownish hue. The walls, he discovered on investigation, were similar to the ceiling and unadorned save for a few dusty old French prints. The bed on which he lay was hard and lumpy, the coverlet ancient and thin. There was a faint mustiness observable in the atmosphere and through a half-closed door came the sound of a bow softly scraping the strings of a decrepit violin. Fenton sat bolt upright in bed and examined his surroundings with much surprise and, truth to tell, a little alarm.

The fact that he was awake was thus communicated to the musician in the other room; for a shuffling step crossed the floor and the head of Monsieur Dubois was poked inquiringly through the door.

"Now I understand," said Fenton, putting one leg out of the bed, and groaning with the effort--for a full day in the saddle will leave its effects on the most experienced horseman.

"Monsieur is surprised," said the old Frenchman, coming into the room with his violin in one hand--a rather crazy, poverty-stricken kind of violin--and the bow in the other. "It was this way. Monsieur Fenton was quite so fatigued that he fell sound asleep in the café and nothing could arouse him. Luckily my lodgings were close by and, with the help of a stout young fellow, who will return to-day for some compensation, which I had to promise, not having anything by me"--this apologetically--"we managed to get monsieur here and to bed. I trust that monsieur is feeling much better?"

Fenton was already out of bed and in the middle of his toilet. He dressed hurriedly, albeit stiffly.

"What news is there?" he asked gravely. "What of the King?"

An expression of sadness came into the fine eyes of the old exile.

"It is indeed the great catastrophe, monsieur," he said. "The King is dying. I have just come from the palace where the official bulletins are published. He has not recovered consciousness. The physicians hold out no hope."

Fenton's worst fears were realised. It was some minutes before he could recover sufficient composure to go on.

"Has the assassin been caught?" he asked.

Monsieur Dubois shook his head. Then lines of anger and determination showed around his eyes and mouth. He elevated one arm and shook the bow menacingly. "The arch assassin, he shall pay for this!" he exclaimed. "It is told everywhere on the streets that it was Miridoff who planned the murder of the King--the strong King who was needed to lead Ironia to victory. Ironia has a heavy score to settle with Miridoff."

"Miridoff is dead," said Fenton.

"How do you know?" demanded the musician eagerly. "There is nothing known of the Grand Duke's whereabouts. Serajoz is full of the mystery."

"He is dead beyond all doubt," declared the Canadian. "I killed him myself."

Followed a brief recital of some of the principal events in the mountains which had led up to the capture of the hunting lodge, and the release of the princess. Monsieur Dubois could hardly restrain himself. At the conclusion of the narrative he seized Fenton by both hands and poured out a volley of incoherent praise.

"My young friend has had a most great honour," he wound up by saying. "It has fallen to his lot to rescue the Queen of Ironia. What honours shall be heaped upon him!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Fenton, almost roughly.

"If Peter dies the throne will pass to the Princess Olga," explained the other. "She is the last of the line. Alexander is childless, and the princess is the only child of Peter. There is no one to dispute the throne with our beautiful Olga, who, it is said, is just as good as she is beautiful."

Fenton, who had suddenly sought a seat, did not say anything.

The musician rambled on:

"And a great heritage she will come into, this Queen Olga." The old Frenchman, fond as he was of the country from which he was an exile, had a very real regard for the welfare of the little land where he had lived so long. "When the war is over," his voice droned on, "Ironia will have added again the two provinces, Serania and Mulkovina. And I shall throw up my hat nearly as joyfully for that as I shall for the return into the victorious borders of La Belle France of Alsace-Lorraine." This last appeared to overcome him for a moment, and he paused before starting again.

"Ironia will then have a population of ten million, Monsieur Fenton. Think of that. She will become a power in Europe on a scale long looked forward to by her rulers. Then the young Queen will have a great country to reign over."

Fenton raised his head and clutched at a figurative straw. "But can a woman occupy the throne of Ironia?"

"But certainly. She will marry, of course. Indeed, even now they are saying on the street that a match will be made for our Queen with a prince of Serbia. It would be a fine stroke." The Frenchman mooned on while Fenton sat dumbfounded. This old man was calmly and unwittingly puncturing the bubbles of happiness that had engrossed the Canadian's attention since the romantic episode of the hills. "It would cement once again the Balkan confederacy. Some of the glory of the past would be theirs, and more glory than the past ever knew."

"Supposing the princess were already married, though?" said Fenton slowly and in a strained tone.

"Eh?" The old Frenchman opened his eyes sharply. "A--what you call--morganatic marriage?"

"No," said the other impatiently. "Supposing that the princess, not expecting to be Queen of Ironia, had married someone quietly--not expecting to be Queen," he repeated, as if to urge to himself and the old man every possible means of exit from this _cul-de-sac_ that, for the first time, he realised he had landed in. "What then?"

"It would make no difference." Monsieur Dubois shook his head decidedly. "It would be set aside, my young friend. Nothing can be allowed to stand in the way of matters of State."

Fenton was silent for a moment. Then he stood up and straightened his shoulders. He felt as if he must be alone at once. "Monsieur Dubois," he said, "you have spoken to me about the one aim you have--to get back to France. You have been very kind to me. Will you permit me to reciprocate ever so little and advance the necessary means?"

The old man shook his head and smiled. "They may not take me back in La Belle France. I am an old man. But here, young and old, all will get a chance. I shall stay, monsieur."

He too rose and squared his shoulders. His frame was a little bent, his hands trembled, but there was a look of profound determination and of profounder pride in his eyes as he shook back his tousled grey hair. "Maybe we shall meet at the front, Monsieur Fenton," he said.

They did. It was two months afterward in a field hospital along the frontier. A shell had shattered the musician's leg. He did not recognise Fenton, and babbled incoherently of France and freedom.

* * * * *

Leaving the lodgings of Monsieur Dubois, Fenton hurried to the palace. Varden, he felt sure, would be there.

The streets were strangely different from what he had known them when, barely a week before, he had arrived in Serajoz fur the first time. The city seemed to be one gigantic military camp. Troops passed and repassed. The rumble of artillery was a familiar sound, and occasioned little specific interest. The crowds were smaller already. Thousands of men had enlisted. They had been talking about war for months. They were prepared.

Fenton found Varden at the palace. The latter was coming down the corridor which led from the personal suite of the King. Silently Varden gripped the hand of the Canadian, and for a moment did not speak. Then, "Peter is dead," he said in a low tone.

Fenton asked the question very quietly: "When?"

"He died a few minutes ago," returned the other. "Come."

Varden turned and led the way down the corridor through knots of officials, and through the antechamber where stood a few chosen friends and councillors, conversing in low tones, to a small detached office.

They sat down.

"Don," said Varden, "you've done wonderful work. I've heard all about it. The princess arrived this morning with Mademoiselle Petrowa and that strange fellow Crane you picked up _en route_. He's a queer fish, but I like him. I haven't had a chance to see the princess, but the others are full of your exploits."

"The princess will be Queen now?" Fenton tried to keep his voice calm, but his mind was in a turmoil.

"Yes. I'm afraid this cooks your goose, old chap," said Varden easily. "She's bound to have some princeling or other for a husband now. In fact, a match is already spoken of."

Fenton nodded. Varden's remarks had convinced him on one score. Anna and Crane had said nothing about the ceremony over the tongs. Fenton stood up, restraint and determination mingling in his bearing. "It's quite impossible, I suppose, for me to see--Her Majesty"--his voice trembled slightly, then grew quite firm again. "Percy," he said, "you can fix me up with a post in the army? I want to be right up at the front."

Varden nodded without any particular enthusiasm.

"Wish I could go too," he said. "I'll get there, of course, as soon as the matter of the Queen's accession is settled. Until then I feel it my duty to stay here and watch things. And that means I'll miss the opening of the campaign."

"Is there any doubt," asked Fenton slowly, "as to the accession of Olga to the throne?"

"No," replied Varden. "But these are parlous times, Don. The new ruler is a woman, and there are some ambitious men at the head of the state at present. I have no doubt that Danilo Vanilis would not scruple to sweep her aside and seize the vacant throne himself if it were not for the fact that there are several others quite as ambitious and almost as powerful as himself who wouldn't stand by. Dynasties are unstable things in the Balkans, Don. Still, I am counting on the mutual jealousy of the leaders to provide the means for Olga to step quietly into her rights."

Fenton straightened up. In the face of this hint of a possible plot against the woman he loved, all mental uncertainty vanished.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. "Nothing must stand between the princess and her rights. If money would be any inducement to quiet these trouble-makers, I'm willing to contribute all that I have."

"Quite unnecessary, Mr Quixote," said Varden. "There is a powerful faction to watch the interests of our little Olga. Never fear, she shall be Queen of Ironia."