Into the black night across the level plain which stretched between Theos and the pass of Althea a woman rode as one rides a race with death. Her servants had been left far away behind—her horse’s sides were streaked with foam, once or twice he had swerved and almost unseated her. She plied him with whip and spur, and passionate words. It was for the honour of a great race, for her own salvation that she rode. All was well as yet. The lights of the camp were twinkling like a band of ribbon across the hillside, and there was silence as deep as death everywhere, except when the wind came booming down the valley in fitful gusts, and bowed the tops of the lonely and stunted trees. Upwards she mounted, and the road grew rougher. Her horse’s eyes were streaked with blood, his nostrils quivered. Still she urged him on. A little further now, and her goal was reached. So she rode on, white to the lips with fear—lest even now she should be too late.

At the outposts they stopped her, and the great bay horse, after staggering for a moment like a drunken man, fell over dead. She scarcely glanced at him. The officer, who knew her, rapidly transferred her saddle to his own pony.

“It is a message from the King to Nicholas,” she said. “Tell me, how long will it take me?”

“The Duke is himself guarding the Beacon,” the soldier answered. “Madame the Countess will reach him in ten minutes.”

She galloped off, never noticing that her pony’s feet were shod with felt. She looked neither to the right nor the left, and she saw nothing of the strange restlessness which seemed to pervade the camp. Everywhere the shadows of men were moving noiselessly about. Spectral guns were surrounded by little groups of whispering soldiers. There was no bivouacing, the camp-fires burned low. Every now and then, when challenged, she mechanically repeated the countersign. All the while her lips were moving in one ceaseless, passionate prayer.

They took her pony at the summit, and a silent sentry pointed to where a single dark figure stood out against the empty background. A few yards to his left was the great beacon, and a row of torches burned in a stand, ever ready for the signal. She called to him softly, and even to herself her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

“Nicholas! Nicholas!”

He turned towards her, and she saw that his face was livid. He was horrified to see her.

“Marie! The good God! What has happened?”

“I have deceived you, Nicholas,” she whispered, hoarsely. “The writing was not the writing of the King. It was Domiloff’s plot, and I wanted to see you King. The King has saved my life. Forever, Nicholas, you and I must be his faithful subjects. I have given my word. I have pledged your honour.”

Then into the face of Nicholas of Reist there came a transfiguring and almost holy joy. He uttered no word of reproach. The glory of life was once more hot in his pulses. He drew her to him.

“Thank God!” he sobbed. “This way, Marie! Now listen!”

She stooped with him over that awful chaos. From below came a sound like the falling of autumn rains upon dead leaves. He held her to him.

“It is the Turks,” he whispered.

She sprang away in horror, but he laughed softly.

“Marie,” he said, “that is well. Instead of a sleeping camp our guns will rake the Pass, our men await only the signal. Up here, where one is near God, one sees clearly. I am the faithful servant of Theos, even though the King had been my enemy. See!”

He listened for a moment, and then crossing the hill, took a torch from the stand and plunged it into the heart of the great beacon. Tongues of fire leaped up to the sky, and a hoarse murmur passed like a wind through the camp. Then the ground beneath them shook with the roar of artillery. Nicholas took her by the arm.

“Ride for Theos at once,” he directed. “You will be quite safe, for no Turk will pass alive through the Pass. Tell the King that I am his faithful servant.”

About halfway to Theos, Brand, galloping furiously out from the city, came face to face with Marie riding leisurely home on a small pony. He leaped from his horse in amazement.

“Marie,” he exclaimed, “what is happening at the Pass? How came you here?”

She was very tired, but she smiled at him reassuringly.

“Nicholas has over ten thousand Turks in the defile,” she said. “They must either surrender or be killed.”

“Thank God!” he exclaimed.

She got off her pony and sat on a bank.

“I am very tired,” she said, and, swaying suddenly towards him, fainted in his arms.

Brand was a man of resource, and in a few minutes she reopened her eyes. He poured some brandy between her lips, and she sat up.

“I am very sorry,” she said. “I rode last night from Theos to Althea, and I have had no rest.”

He made her drink some milk. They sat hand in hand, a wonderful dawn breaking in the east. By and by a horseman from Theos passed them at full gallop.

“The war is over,” he cried. “The English fleet is at Constantinople! The Turks have sued for peace. Long live the King.”

He vanished in a cloud of dust, riding furiously for the Pass. Brand took Marie into his arms and kissed her.

“Dear,” he said, “I haven’t much money, and I’m only an ordinary man.”

She laughed softly.

“I think in Theos,” she said, “we have clung a little too closely to the old ideals. Rank is very well, and money I know little about. But on the whole, I am glad that you are an ordinary man.”

They rode into Theos as the King arrived from Solika. The Cathedral bells clanged out a welcome, the people lined the streets, everywhere breathless excitement prevailed. Old Baron Doxis met the King on the palace steps. He held out both hands, but his eyes were wet with tears.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “this is your day of triumph, and yours alone. May God send you in the future wiser and better councillors.”

But Ughtred passed his arm through the old man’s, and led him into the palace.

“I am young and I was unproven,” he said. “I shall be quite satisfied if God will preserve for many years my present ones.”

Theos won for herself, as the fruits of that brief campaign, a wonderful military reputation, and every prospect of unbroken peace. She entered indeed upon that golden age which comes once in the world’s history to every nation, great or small. Mr. Van Decht built a palace within the city, and invested all his vast capital in the country. Brand, whose services no one realized more thoroughly than the King, accepted a Government appointment and entered the House of Laws a naturalized Thetian. And when they asked the King what gift a grateful nation could offer him, he answered them promptly but in very few words.

“The right to depart from a constitutional principle. The right to share my throne with the woman I love.”

There was no hesitation, no break in the thunderous applause which greeted his answer, and which Nicholas of Reist himself led. The marriage of Ughtred of Tyrnaus and Sara Van Decht under such conditions touched the imagination of Europe. Every capital was anxious to fÊte them, the Society papers lived upon their doings for years. But even they did not know that during that famous visit to London, where they were received with a consideration rarely accorded even to royalty, they stole away one evening and dined together tÊte-À-tÊte at a famous London restaurant. They were unrecognized, and they enjoyed themselves like children. Afterwards they found out a certain seat in a certain corner of the palm lounge, and spent a very delightful hour there. When at last they rose to go he took her hand for a moment softly in his.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “you find it possible to be happy, although you are a queen?”

“I am your wife, dear,” she answered, with a little squeeze of his hand, which seemed to satisfy him.

An amazing whisper suddenly passed from group to group of the brilliantly-dressed men and women who sat about in the Court. The band broke off in the middle of a selection and played the National air of Theos. Every one rose respectfully. He passed her hand through his arm with a little grimace.

“They have found us out, dear,” he whispered.

The people gazed with breathless but well-bred interest. They saw a tall, distinguished-looking man, with the mark of a recent scar slightly disfiguring his left temple, and upon his arm the most beautiful woman in the room, her eyes wonderfully soft and brilliant, a delicate flush upon her cheeks. The King and Queen of Theos passed out to their carriage.

Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.

2. The original book from which this e-text is transcribed did not have a Table of Contents; one has been added for the reader’s convenience.