  The Archduke knew where to find his Aide, so he waved aside the servant and went on to the billiard room. “Don’t mind me, boys,” he said, as they sprang up; “go on with the deal—unless,” motioning toward Bernheim’s big pile of chips, “you want to be relieved of the beginner.” “Your Highness is ready to go?” Bernheim asked. Armand nodded. “But that mustn’t take you away; luck’s with you, it’s a crime to desert her—I know the way home.” The Colonel pushed his winnings into the centre of the table. “I have to thank you for a delightful evening, messieurs,” he said, with his stiff, military bow; “and since I must leave before the end of the game, I make a John-pot of these for you.” The Archduke took him by the arm. “You may not do that, Colonel,” he laughed; “they cannot let you. You must cash in, and give them a chance some other time.” “But it is my pleasure, sir, for them to have back what I won.” “And it will be their pleasure to take it back,” said Armand kindly, “but not in that way—they must win it back from you.” Bernheim drew himself up. “I understand, sir,” he said.—“Messieurs, I salute you.” When they came out on the Avenue, a fine rain was blowing in clouds, but the Archduke declined the servant’s offer to ring the stables for a carriage. The street was deserted; not a pedestrian, nor even a cab, was in sight, either way. Both men wrapped their capes around them, and strode off toward the Epsau. “A dirty night, sir,” the Colonel observed—“it might have been well to take the carriage.” “I like it,” said Armand; “to walk in the rain or to ride in the snow.” “The snow, yes—but we don’t have much of it in Dornlitz—one must go to the mountains in the North—to Lotzenia—for it.” “My dear cousin’s country!” “His titular estates—but not his country,” said Bernheim. “He has the old castle on the Dreer and a huge domain—that King Frederick’s father gave to Lotzen’s father in a foolish moment of generosity—but he hasn’t the heart of a single inhabitant; indeed, until his banishment there, I think he had never even seen the place. But with the old castle of Dalberg, across the valley—the cradle of your race, sir—it’s very different. Who rules there is the idol of the Lotzenians; he is their “And now that there is no king, whom will they serve until the new lord comes?” Bernheim raised his cap. “Her Royal Highness the Regent—until they serve you.” No man could be quite insensible to all that this implied of kingly power, and the traditional homage of inherited devotion, the hot love for him who was born their chief—given them of God, and their own before all others. The Archduke’s fingers closed a bit tighter on his stick, his blood pulsed faster, and the stubborn spirit of old Hugo awoke to new life; and in that moment, in the dead of night, with the rain whipping around them, as it wrapped the city in a cloud of glowing mist, he turned his face forever from his old life, its memories and methods, and passed finally into the New, its high destiny, its privileges, its responsibilities, its dangers and its cares. He would make this fight in the Duke’s own fashion, and end it in the Duke’s own way; if he fell in the ending, he would see to it that the Duke fell first; not that he cared for his company in the out-going—though, doubtless, it would matter little then—but because it were not well to leave him behind to plague the kingdom with his viciousness. They now had left the more modern portion of the Avenue and were in the older section, where the houses were smaller and stood only a little way from the sidewalk; though occasionally a more pretentious one was set far back, with trees and shrubbery around it, and a wall before, hiding it almost entirely from the street. In front of one of these residences, the Archduke suddenly stopped and caught Bernheim’s arm. “Listen!” he said, “I heard a cry.” Bernheim, too, had heard it, but he was not minded to let his master know. “It was the wind, doubtless, sir,” he said. “No, it wasn’t the wind—it was a voice, and a woman’s voice, I thought.” A blast of rain and mist swept by them and through the trees, stirring the leaves into a rustling as of the sighs of disembodied spirits, while the swaying street lights flung the shadows hither and thither like pursuing cerecloths struggling to re-shroud them in their forsaken garb. Bernheim looked around to fix the location. “It’s the De Saure house,” he said, “and has been unoccupied for months—Your Highness must have been mistaken.” The Archduke moved on. “Doubtless, the wind plays queer tricks with sound on such a night; yet my ears rarely deceive me.” They were passing the wide entrance gates, and he went nearer and peered within—and as though in answer, from out the darkness came the shriek of one in awful terror. “Don’t strike me again! For God’s sake don’t strike me!” The Archduke seized the gate. “Come on, Bernheim,” he exclaimed; “it is a woman.” The Aide caught his arm. “Don’t, sir,” he said; “don’t—it is nothing for you to mix in—it is for the police.” Armand made no answer; he was trying to find the latch. “I pray Your Highness to refrain,” Bernheim begged; “an Archduke—” “Help! For God’s sake help!” came the cry. The latch yielded, and Armand flung back the gate. “Come on,” he ordered, “I’m a man, and yonder a woman calls.” He sprang down the path toward the house, which he could see now in black forbiddingness among the trees far back from the street. Again Bernheim ventured to protest. “It may be Lotzen’s trap, sir,” he warned. For the shadow of an instant the Archduke hesitated; and at that moment the voice rang out again. “Don’t strike me! Don’t str—” and a gurgling choke ended it. “To the devil with Lotzen!” he exclaimed, and dashed on. And Bernheim, with a silent curse, went beside him, loosening his sword as he ran, and feeling for the small revolver he had slipped inside his tunic, before they left the Epsau. To him, now, everything of mystery or danger spelled Lotzen—but even if it were not he, there was trouble enough ahead, and scandal enough, too, likely; scandal in which the Governor of Dornlitz, an Archduke, may be the King, had no place, and which could serve only to injure him before the people and in the esteem of the Nobles. Better that half the women in Dornlitz should be beaten and choked than that his master should be smirched by the tongue of calumny. He had no patience with this Quixotism that succored foolish females at foolish hours, in a place where neither the female nor they had any right to enter—and where, for her, at least, to enter was a crime. If he were able, he would have picked the Archduke up bodily, and borne him back to the palace, and have left the infernal woman to shift for herself, and to save herself or not, as her luck might rule. Then they brought up suddenly in front of the house; and as they paused to find the steps, a light flashed, for an instant, from the upper windows, and disappeared—as if an electric switch had been turned on, and off again. But its life had been long enough to show the broad entrance porch, and the big doors beyond it—and that they were open wide. At the sight, Bernheim swore a good round oath and seized the Archduke’s arm. “It’s a trap, my lord, it’s a trap!” he exclaimed. And again Armand hesitated; and again the cry came, though muffled now and indistinct. “We will have to chance it,” he said, “I can’t desert a woman who calls for help.” “Very well, sir,” said Bernheim, knowing that further opposition was useless, “but if it is a trap, she’ll be the first I kill.” They went softly up the steps and into the vestibule; not a sound came from within. “Are you familiar with this house?” the Archduke whispered. “Very, sir; I’ve been in it scores of times—salon on right, dining room and library opposite.” “And the stairs?” “In the rear, on the left.” “Can you find the electric switch?” The Colonel drew his revolver and stepped quickly inside; he knew there was a row of buttons near the library door, and he found them readily. With a single motion he pushed them in, and every chandelier and side-light in the entire lower floor sprang to life—illuminating rooms, solitary and undisturbed. Over the mantel in the library hung a pair of beautiful old duelling rapiers, and the Archduke snatched one down and tried its balance; then took the other and handed it to Bernheim. “Take it, man,” he said, as the Colonel touched his own sword; “take it, it’s worth an armory of those; its reach alone may save your life, if we are crowded.” He made a pass in the air and laughed—it was sweet any time to feel the hilt of such a weapon, but now it was doubly sweet, with danger ahead and the odds he knew not what. He pointed upward. “Come along,” he said—“now for the next floor and the clash of steel.” But Bernheim shook his head. “I pray you, my lord, be prudent,” he urged—“remember, to us you are the King.” Faintly, from somewhere above, the cry came—weak and suppressed, but audible. “Help! oh help!” “Damn the woman!” Bernheim exclaimed, dashing forward to go first; and failing, by four steps. The upper hall was dark, save for the reflection from below, but Armand caught the sheen of a switch plate and pressed the key. Five closed doors confronted him—without hesitation he chose the rear one on the right, and sprang toward it. As he did so, the lights on the first floor went out, the front doors closed with a bang, and a key turned in the lock and was withdrawn. Instinctively he stopped and drew back; at the same moment, Bernheim reached over and turned off their lights also, leaving the house in impenetrable darkness. The Archduke stepped quickly across toward Bernheim, and bumped into him mid-way. “It’s a trap,” he whispered; “the locking of the door proves it—these rooms are empty, but we’ll have a look and not be caught between two fires.” “Damn the woman!” said Bernheim. Armand laughed softly. “Never mind her, we have other work on hand now. You keep the stairway; put your sword into any one who tries to come up; I’ll go through the rooms,” and he was gone before the Colonel could protest. Bernheim tip-toed over to the head of the stairs and, leaning on the rail, listened. He could detect no sound in the hall below; the silence was as utter as the blackness. He stooped and felt the carpet on the stairs; it was soft and very thick, the sort that deadens noise. Behind him, a door closed softly, and he saw the gleam of a faint light along a sill, and, in a moment, along another further toward the front. Evidently, the Archduke had met no misadventure yet. And so he stood there, tense and expectant, while the darkness pressed hard upon his eyes, and set them burning with the strain of striving to pierce through. Presently he felt that some one was coming toward him, and then the faintest whisper spoke his name. He reached out, and his fingers touched the Archduke’s shoulder. Armand put his mouth close to his Aide’s ear. “Rooms deserted,” he whispered—“what’s on the third floor?” “It’s a mere garret; the servants quarters are in a detached building in the rear.” “We’ll chance the garret—I laid a chair across the foot of those stairs—and also at the head of the back stairs—anything doing below?” “Quiet as the grave, sir.” “An apt simile, Bernheim,” said the Archduke; “there is going to be a death or two down there to-night, if we can manage it—just as a gentle notice to our cousin of what he may expect.” The old soldier’s hand sought impulsively his master’s. “You mean it, my lord?” he asked eagerly. “I do; I’m——” a stair creaked very faintly—“they’re coming,” he ended. Both men bent forward listening ... the seconds passed ... no sound came to them. Then Bernheim bethought himself of the rail, and laid his ear upon it. Instantly he was up. “They are coming,” he whispered, “I could hear them distinctly.” “Good,” said Armand. “We will give them the steel as soon as they’re within reach—be ready—I’ll take the right.” The stairway was of more than medium width, and straight-away almost to the lower floor, the turn being at the bottom. While the lights were on, Bernheim had noticed a heavy oak chest against the wall near where they were standing. Now it suddenly occurred to him how it could be used. Asking the Archduke to bear aside a moment, he seized it in his powerful arms, and carrying it to the head of the stairs hurled it, with all his strength, down into the darkness. There was a heavy thud as of human bodies struck, wild shrieks of pain and terror, and then a deafening crash, as the chest broke asunder against the wall below, followed directly by moans, and curses, and struggles to get free. Although Armand had not seen what his Aide had done, he could picture it all now, and he laughed aloud. “Clear away the dÉbris, gentlemen!” he called. “On to the charge! Don’t be a lot of quitters; we’ve plenty of ammunition left; en avant!” But only the moans answered him. He drew Bernheim closer. “What do you suggest,” he asked; “shall we go down?”—And the upsetting of the chair at the rear stairs answered him. “Turn on the lights when I whistle,” he ordered, and stole swiftly to the rear of the hall. Doubtless the purpose had been to attack them simultaneously in front and rear, and here was the chance to give this detachment, also, a surprise. He heard the chair being set carefully aside, followed by foot-falls such as are made only by shoeless feet. The darkness was impenetrable, but he knew they paused at the door, and then came slowly forward, passing him so closely he could have touched them with his hand. The next instant he gave the signal. As the lights blazed out, disclosing three masked men with drawn swords, the Archduke leaped forward and, with the hilt of his rapier, struck the one nearest him behind the ear. The rogue dropped in his tracks. At the same moment, Bernheim’s pistol cracked, and another went down, shot through the head. The third stood irresolute; and him the Archduke addressed. “It’s the pistol, yonder, or the sword, here,” he said; “which will you choose?” The fellow chanced to be almost in line with the front stairs, and for answer he sprang across the hall and dashed down them. Bernheim’s gun spoke thrice: the first bullet struck the wall; the second, the newel post; the third, fired into the semi-obscurity below, and as the knave’s head was almost on a line with the floor, brought an answering cry; but it did not disable him; they heard him stumble over the broken chest, then the key was thrust into the lock, the front door was flung back, and he crossed the porch at a run. “He’s the last of them, I fancy,” said Armand. Bernheim looked at the pistol in disgust. “I never did have any patience with these toys,” he growled; “three shots across a blanket, and only a touch!” The Archduke pointed to the dead body. “You did pretty well there,” he said. “Luck, pure luck.” He went over to the stairs. “I don’t hear anything,” he said; “the chest seems to be very quiet—what about the lights; shall I turn them off?” “First take a look at these gentlemen,” said Armand; “do you know them?” The Aide stooped over the one he had killed and jerked off the mask that covered his upper face—then did the same with the other, and shook his head. “I never saw either of them,” he said; “but they look the part—you hit this one exactly on the spot; he is paralyzed or dead.” “We will leave him to find out for himself which it is,” the Archduke answered—“unless, Colonel, you wish to search further for the lady—as I remember, you promised her the first killing.” Bernheim laughed. “I rather imagine your lady is a man—I think we shall find her at the foot of the stairs.” He ran quickly down, vaulted over the dÉbris with the aid of the rail, and turned on the light. The Archduke had followed him as far as the turn. “It looks as though you got her, Colonel,” he remarked, pointing with his rapier to two men who lay among the fragments of the chest. One was dead—face and head mashed flat, the crimson splotch on the white wall marking where the heavy missile had crushed them. The other, both legs broken at the ankles, and half his ribs driven in, was pinned in the corner, unconscious—a singularly repulsive creature, with huge, protruding teeth, pimply face, an enormous red nose, and a mouth like a fish’s. Bernheim looked him over. “Positively, I’d be ashamed to employ such carrion,” he remarked. “I don’t understand Lotzen; he is an aesthete, even in his crimes.” The Archduke stepped carefully into the hall, and laid his rapier on the table. “Let us be off,” he said; “there is nothing more to do.” He turned toward the door—then stopped and reached for the sword. “Others are coming,” he said;—“we’ll fight it out right here.” There was the quick tramp of feet on the porch, and a sergeant and two police entered. Their looks of bewildered surprise, as they recognized the Archduke and his Aide, were so comical that even Bernheim smiled, though his words were curt enough. “Salute, men!” he said, “don’t you know His Royal Highness?” The sergeant’s hand went up. “Your pardon, sir,” he stammered, “but we heard shots—and this house is supposed to be unoccupied. I am sorry——” Armand motioned him to silence. “There is nothing to pardon, sergeant,” he said; “you are doing your duty very properly, and you come in good time. You will search this place thoroughly, including the grounds; remove the dead and wounded immediately; see that all knowledge of the affair is suppressed, and report to me at noon to-morrow.” The officer saluted again. “Yes, Your Highness.” “Where are our capes, Colonel?” “In the library—I’ll get them.”... He dropped the Archduke’s about his shoulders, and the sergeant did the same for him. As they gained the Avenue, the cathedral bell struck three. “A nice hour for an old man like you, Bernheim, to be going home,” said the Archduke. A quizzical smile came into the Aide’s stern face. “A lady called me,” he replied. |
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