She heard a few phrases pass between them and then, without lights, the machine suddenly moved forward. The explosions of the engine, muffled though they were, seemed like rifle shots to ears newly accustomed to the silences of the night. But the speed of the motor increased rapidly, and she felt the damp of the river fog brushing her cheek. She could see nothing though she peered into the blackness eagerly. The car was rushing to destruction for all that she knew, yet Karl was driving straight and hard for the entrance of the bridge. Marishka saw the dim gleam of a lantern, heard a hoarse shout, and then the sound of shots lost in the crashing of the timbers of the bridge as they thundered over, the throttle wide, past the bridge house at Bosna-Brod upon the other side of the river, and on without pause through the village into the open road beyond. All this in darkness, which had made the venture the more terrible.

It was with relief that she heard the light laugh and even tones of Captain Goritz.

"That is well done, Karl. Your eyes are better than mine. But I have no humor for a bath in the Bosna, so we will have the lights, if you please."

"They will follow us?" stammered Marishka.

"There is a greater danger of detention at Dervent or Duboj, but I'm hoping the bridge-tender may keep silent. It was stupid of him not to guard the chain."

"You lowered it——?"

"It made a fearful racket, but the roar of the river helped."

A little further down the road, at a signal, Karl brought the car to a stop and silenced the engine, while Goritz got down into the road and listened intently, striking a match meanwhile and looking at the dial of his watch. There were no sounds in the direction from which they had come but the distant roar of the river and the whispering of the wind in the trees.

"It is half-past three, Karl. How far have we to go?"

"More than two hundred kilos—two hundred and fifty perhaps."

"Ah, so much?" and he frowned. "I wish to reach the capital by eight o'clock, Karl," he said.

"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann—if it is in the machine. I can at least try."

As Goritz got in beside Marishka, he started the engine, and they were off again. As a sign that at least the chauffeur was trying to carry out his orders, in a moment they were rushing along at a furious pace which seemed to threaten destruction to them all. In spite of an impending storm which had now, fortunately, passed, at Brod Karl had lowered the top of the car in order to make better speed in the final race for their goal, and the rush of wind seemed to make breathing difficult, but Marishka clung to the bracket at her side, trying to keep her balance as they swung around the curves, and silently praying. Conversation was impossible until the road rose from the plains of the Save into the mountains, where the speed was necessarily diminished. The car, fortunately, seemed to be a good one, for no machine unless well proven could long stand the strain of such work as Karl was giving it to do. Through Dervent they went at full speed, seeing no lights or human beings. Beyond Duboj the moon came out, and this made Karl's problems less difficult, though the road wound dangerously along the ravines of the Brod river, which tumbled from cleft to cleft, sometimes a silver thread and again a ragged cataract hundreds of feet below. There were no retaining walls, and here and there as they turned sudden and unexpected corners it almost seemed to Marishka that the rear wheels of the machine swirled out into space. She held her breath and closed her eyes from time to time, expecting the car to lose its equilibrium and go whirling over and over into the echoing gorge below them, the depth of which the shadow of the mountains opposite mercifully hid from view. But Karl had no time in which to consider the thoughts of his passengers. He had his orders. If achievement were in the metal he intended to carry them out. The feudal castles of old Bosnia passed in stately review, Maglaj, Usora, clinging leech-like to their inaccessible peaks, grim sentinels of the vista of years, frowning at the roaring engine of modernity which sent its echoes mocking at their lonely dignity. Marishka could look, but not for long, for in a moment would come the terrible down-grade and the white, leaping road before them, which held her eyes with fearful hypnotism. Death! What right had she to pray for her own safety, when her own lips had condemned Sophie Chotek? There was still a chance that she would reach Sarajevo in time. She had no thought of sleep. Weary as she was, the imminence of disaster at first fascinated—then enthralled her. She was drunk with excitement, crying out she knew not what in admiration of Karl's skill, her fingers in imagination with his upon the wheel, her gaze, like his, keen and unerring upon the road.

Beside her Captain Goritz sat silently, smiling as he watched her.

"It is wonderful, is it not?" he said in a lull, when the machine coasted down a straight piece of road. "Fear is the master passion of life. Even I, Countess, am in love with fear." And then with a laugh, "We shall arrive in time if the tires hold. It is a good machine, a very good machine."

Dawn stole slowly across the heavens between the mountain peaks, an opal dawn, pale and luminous. Here and there objects defined themselves against the velvety surfaces of the hills, a hut by the river brink, a thread of smoke rising straight in the still air, a herdsman driving his flock in a path across the valley. But Karl, the chauffeur, drove madly on, more madly, it seemed, as the light grew better. People appeared as if by magic upon the road, with loaded vehicles bound to market—awe-stricken peasants, who leaped aside and then turned wondering.

The machine climbed a mountain from which a vista of many miles of country was spread out before them, but there was no sign of their destination. Half-past eight—nine——! The roads became crowded again, with vehicles, horsemen, footmen, and groups of soldiers, all traveling in the same direction. Sarajevo was not far distant but they went at a snail's pace, their nerves leaping in the reaction. Marishka, pallid with fatigue, sat leaning forward in her seat, dumb with anxiety. Goritz rubbed his chin thoughtfully. But he had not yet begun to despair. Suddenly the car came to a turning in the road, and the Bosnian capital was spread out at their feet. Goritz looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. If the thing they dreaded had not yet come to pass there might still be time. As they descended the hill into the valley of the Miljacka, it was apparent that the town was in holiday attire. Flags floated from many poles, and the streets and bridges were crowded with people. At the direction of Captain Goritz, Karl drove quickly to the railroad station, where a group of officials stood gesturing and talking excitedly.

"Has His Highness gone into the city?" asked Goritz of the man nearest him.

The fellow paused and turned at the sight of the Austrian uniform.

"Ah, Herr Lieutenant—you have not heard?"

"I have just come down from the hills. What is the matter?"

"A bomb has been thrown into the automobile of the Archduke——"

"He is killed?" asked Goritz, while Marishka leaned forward in horror.

"Fortunately, no. He cast the bomb into the street, but it exploded under the vehicle of his escort, killing several, they say."

"She is safe—Her Highness is safe?" questioned Marishka.

"Yes, but it was a narrow escape," said another man.

"Where is the Archduke now?" asked Goritz.

"At the Rathaus—where he is to receive a testimonial from the Burgomaster, in behalf of the city. From there they go to the Governor's palace, I think."

"Thanks," said Goritz with a gasp of relief, and gave the word to Karl to drive on toward the center of the town.

"'Forewarned is forearmed,'" he muttered to Marishka. "They may not dare to attempt it again. I think you need have no further anxiety, Countess."

"But I must reach Her Highness. I must let her know everything."

"We shall try." And then to Karl, "Go as far as you can into the town, to Franz Josef Street."

But at the tobacco factory the crowd was so great that they could not go on, and Goritz after some directions to Karl, helped Marishka down, and they went forward through the crowd afoot, listening to its excited comments.

"Cabrinobitch——"

"A Serbian, they say. The police seized him."

"I was as near to him as you are. Stovan Kovacevik was hit by a piece of the bomb. They have taken him to the hospital."

"Colonel Merizzi—they say he is dead. And Count von Waldeck badly wounded."

Marishka shuddered. She had known them both at Konopisht. She caught Captain Goritz by the arm and forced her way to the Stadt Park, following the crowd of people and at last reaching Franz Josef Street, which was filled almost solidly with an excited, gesticulating mass of humanity.

"A Serbian plot!" they heard a man in a turban say in polyglot German. "Not Serbian nor Bosnian. We have no murderers here."

"So say I," cried another. "They will blame it upon us. Where are the police, that the streets are not even cleared."

"Why does he come here to make trouble? We do not love him, but we are an orderly people. Let him be gone."

"He was at least brave. They say after the bomb was thrown into his machine he threw it into the street."

"Brave! Yes. But he is a soldier. Why shouldn't he be brave?"

"Courage may not save him. There is something back of this. A man told me there was a bomb thrower on every street corner."

Marishka pushed forward shuddering, with Captain Goritz close behind her.

"I cannot believe it," she whispered.

"The ravings of a crowd," he muttered. "It matters nothing."

But as they neared the corner of Rudolfstrasse, there was a stir and a murmur as all heads turned to look up the street in the direction of the Carsija.

"He comes again." "The machine is returning from the Rathaus." The word flew from lip to lip with the speed of the wind. A few Austrian soldiers were riding down the street clearing the way. They were all. No police, no other soldiers. It was horrible. The sides of the machine were utterly unprotected from the people, who closed in upon it, almost brushing its wheels. Marishka pressed forward again, jostled this way and that, until she stood upon the very fringe of the crowd at the corner of the street. Captain Goritz held her by the elbow. What purpose was in her mind he could not know. But every nerve in her—every impulse urged her to go forward to the very doors of the machine and protect Sophie Chotek, if necessary with her own body, against the dangers which, as the people about her said, lurked on every corner. The machine approached very slowly. There was no cheering, and it seemed strange to Marishka that there could be no joy in the hearts of these people at the courage of their Heir Presumptive, who had faced death bravely, and now with more hardihood than prudence was facing it again. The car was open, and she could see the figures of the royal pair quite clearly, their faces very pale, the Archduke leaning forward talking with a man in uniform in the front seat opposite him, the Duchess scanning the crowd anxiously. As the machine stopped again at the street corner, Marishka rushed forward until she stood just at its front wheels, waving a hand and speaking the Duchess's name. She saw the gaze of Sophie Chotek meet hers, waver and then become fixed again in wonder, in sudden recognition, and incomprehension. Words formed on the girl's lips and she called,

"It is I—Marishka Strahni, Duchess—I must speak——"

She got no further. Out of the mass of people just at her elbow the figure of a man emerging, sprang upon the running board of the machine. He seemed to wave his hand, and then there were sounds of shots. The Archduke started up, holding a protecting arm before the body of the Duchess, who had sunk back into her seat, her hand to her breast. The Archduke wavered a moment and then fell forward across the knees of the Duchess.

Of the mad moments which followed, Marishka was barely conscious. She was pushed roughly back into the turgid crowd and would have fallen had not an arm sustained her. Men seized the assassin and hurried him away. There were hoarse shouts, glimpses of soldiers, as the machine of death pushed its way through the mass of people, and always the strong arm sustained her, pushing her, leading her away into a street where there were fewer people and less noise.

"Come, Countess, he brave," Goritz was saying. "God knows you have done what you could."

"It is horrible," she gasped brokenly. "A moment sooner, perhaps, and I should have succeeded. She recognized me—you saw?"

He nodded. "Kismet! It was written," he said grimly.

"But someone must pay—someone—who was——?"

"A Bosnian student—named Prinzep—a man said."

"He was but a boy—a frail boy——"

"He has been well taught to shoot," muttered Goritz.

"Death!" she cried hysterically. "And I——"

"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly. "Lean on my arm and go where I shall lead. It is not far."

"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly.

The sight of strange, distorted faces regarding her gave Marishka the strength to obey. Mechanically her feet moved, but the sunlight blinded her. She passed through a maze of small streets lined with market stalls where groups of people shouted excitedly; and dimly as in a dream she heard their comments.

"The police—we have police—where were they? The Government will be blaming us. We are not murderers! No. It is a shame!"

Marishka shuddered and leaned more heavily upon the arm of her companion. She was weary unto death, body and spirit—but still her feet moved on, out of the maze of small alleys into a larger alley, where her companion stopped before a blue wooden gate let into a stone wall. He put his hand upon the latch, the gate yielded, and they entered a small garden with well ordered walks and a fountain, beside which was a stone bench. Upon this bench at the bidding of Captain Goritz she sank, burying her face in her hands, while he went toward the house, which had its length at one side of the garden. She put her fingers before her eyes trying to shut out the horrors she had witnessed, but they persisted, ugly and sinister. Over and over in her mind dinned the hoarse murmur of the crowd, "We are not murderers! No!" Who then——? Not the frail student with the smoking pistol ... the agent of others.... The eyes of Sophie Chotek haunted her—eyes that had looked so often into her own with kindness. She had seen terror in them, and then—the mad turmoil, the dust, the acrid smell of powder fumes, and the silent group of huddled figures in the machine!...

There were sounds of voices and of footsteps approaching, but Marishka could not move. She was prone, inert, helpless.

"She is very tired," someone said.

"Ach—she must come within and sleep."

A woman's voice, it seemed, deep but not unsympathetic.

"A glass of wine perhaps—and food."

"It shall be as you desire, Excellency. I know what she needs."

Arms raised her, and she felt herself half led, half carried, into the house and laid upon a bed in a room upstairs. It was dark within and there was a strange odor of spices. Presently someone, the woman, it seemed, gave her something to drink, and after awhile the turmoil in her head grew less—and she slept.