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Dash for a Throne

<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2> <h3>"I AM NOT THE PRINCE"</h3> "I think we had better return to that house," I said to Minna. "My horse is close here, and you can ride while I lead him. You must be worn out." "I will do whatever you think best. I believe Major Gessler is to be trusted." "Yes, I think so now. I have given him an order from those for whom he is acting that you are to be detained no longer." "How did you find out where I was?" she asked. "I am longing to hear everything." "You had better have some rest first. There is much to tell and a weighty decision to make. Let us start." I led the way to where I had tied the horse, and, having unfastened the reins, I walked him up and down once or twice to see if he showed any signs of lameness as the result of his fall, and whether he was fit to carry the girl. He appeared all right and much the fresher for the rest, so I lifted her into the saddle, and taking the rein in my hand started on the return journey. "You can tell me as we go along what has happened to you since the ball," I said. "It has been a terrible experience, but it is simple enough to describe. In the crowd at the ball I got separated from Captain von Krugen, and some one just like him came up and said we had better stand out of the throng a minute; and when we had moved away, he added that you wished me to be in the ante-room instead of the ball-room. I suspected nothing, of course, and went with him, and then some people came pressing round me, and some one said that as a matter of fact they had bad news to break to me—that you had met with an accident and were seriously hurt, and wished me to go at once to you. I did not hesitate an instant when I heard that, and so I fell into the trap. You don't blame me?" "Blame you for being solicitous about me?" I asked, turning and glancing up to her with a smile. "But it was a cowardly scheme. And had you not seen me in the ball-room?" "Yes, of course, and I said so. But they told me it had happened only a few minutes before, and that you had been carried at once to the house of a doctor, where you were expecting me. They told me you might die, and at that I was so eager to get to you that I would have gone anywhere." She paused again here, but this time I would not trust myself to look round. "In this way," she continued, "I was lured into the carriage, and after that, of course, I was helpless. They took me to some house near Munich, and the place seemed alive with armed men. There, to my surprise, I found aunt Gratz, who told me that Marie had betrayed us all, and that I was in a trap. I felt at first glad in a sense, because I knew then that you were not hurt after all; but presently I grew angry, for she began to tell me all kinds of horrible things about you; I will tell you them some time. And when my anger passed, I was nearly broken-hearted, for, as all our plans were known to the others, I was afraid, horribly afraid, of what might happen to you, and what mischief my foolish credulity might cause you. It was a time crowded with terror," she sighed. "And after that?" I asked, wishing her to finish her story before I began mine. "In the early morning Major Gessler sent word that we were to prepare for a journey, and then we thought of writing you. I should not have thought it possible, but aunt Gratz suggested it, and said that she was sure she could get it delivered to you. I wrote it then readily enough; but what I said I do not know—I scarcely knew at the time—it must have read like a wild, incoherent cry—for that's what it was." "How did you know you were coming to Landsberg? I have been much perplexed by your letter, why your aunt should have spoken in this way of me in regard to it." "I am afraid I can give you the clew. She knew about Landsberg—she seemed to know everything; and from what I have heard to-night, she was acting in collusion with that man. His object was, as I now know, to let you have the clew where to follow us, so that he could draw you into a snare, for some object I am almost afraid to think of. But something happened to interfere with the plans." "I know what that was. He learnt, probably from Major Gessler, that I was coming to Landsberg direct from Baron Heckscher, and probably there would be some special reference to him in the baron's message." "That may have been it. At any rate he came to us in a state of great excitement, declared that he had found out a plot to kill me, that you had communicated with him, and that we three were to set off at once to meet you at a place he named; I forget its name. I was suspicious at first; but when he declared that there was to be a clear-up of everything and a complete understanding between us all, and that all they had said about you was not true, and when aunt Gratz joined in persuading me, I consented. We got away secretly, and I was glad indeed to leave. They all appear to have known that with me your name was the one argument sure to prevail," she said softly. "It has led you into plenty of perils, Minna," I replied. "But it will lead me out of them again. You have done it already, and I do not care now what happens. It is good to have some one to trust—and, best of all, to be with him." She paused and sighed contentedly, and then exclaimed: "But why don't you say something? I have not done wrong, have I?" What could I say, if I spoke at all, but turn and tell her that this trust in me was just the sweetest savor that could be put into my life; and that to hear it from her own lips was enough to set every pulse in my body beating fast with my love? But yet I could not speak this until I had told her all from my side; and so I gripped the bridle rein the tighter and plodded on through the moonlight, keeping my face resolutely turned from her lest the sight of her beauty and the knowledge of her trust should burst the last bonds of my self-restraint. "No, you have done no wrong, Minna; but tell me the rest." She waited a second, and then continued: "In the carriage, to-night, the truth came out. Aunt Gratz and he quarrelled, and with a sort of blunt, brutal frankness he blurted out the truth that we were flying from, not to, you, and that he was carrying me away to make me his wife. In his mad rage against you he heaped all kinds of abuse on you, knowing that it made my blood boil. He is a villain." "He has paid for his treachery by now, probably," I said, and then there came a longer pause. "Don't you wish to hear any more?" she asked gently, as if anxious to make me speak to her; and when I told her that I was only too eager to hear it all, she went on: "I thought it best to say nothing, but I made up my mind that I would slip away and seek any one's help rather than stay with them. My great thought was to get back to the house at Landsberg; and I sat as if prostrated with grief and waited, watching for a chance. It came at last, at a town where we stopped to change horses, and he got out of the carriage. There was some delay; and I saw him enter the house. Aunt Gratz was half dead with fatigue, and lay back in the carriage and fell asleep. I opened the door on my side very softly and slipped out, without disturbing her, and then ran off in the thick dusk for my life. I was soon missed, of course, and should not have escaped had it not been that there was a wagon standing not far away, though out of sight of those in the carriage. There was no one in it, and I jumped in and hid myself among some hay and sacks that lay in the bottom. I lay concealed there a long time and heard the hue and cry raised, and people searching for me, though no one thought to look in the wagon. Presently the wagoner came, and we started off at a slow pace. I let him go on for a few miles, and then to his intense astonishment I rose up suddenly from among the sacks and told him I would give him money if he would take me toward Landsberg." "Poor Minna! What an experience for you." "I did not care then, for I was free from that man. The wagoner was a good fellow and, though I did not know it, we had been coming in this direction, and he set me down about a mile from here, where his road turned off. I walked on to be frightened again, but this time—by you; and then to feel safe, oh, so safe, again." "You did splendidly!" I cried warmly; for her pluck and resource had been admirable. And then I walked on in silence thinking how best I could commence my confession. "Can you hear sounds of any one coming?" she asked. I stopped the horse directly and stood listening. Turning my head, I glanced in her face and saw a smile there. "I hear nothing; do you?" I asked. "No. I didn't expect to. I——" She stopped. "You what?" "I've seen nothing but the back of your head for two miles, I should think, at the least. And I thought perhaps the horse might need a rest." It was a little act of coquetry after all. "He must be a sorry beast if he tires in carrying such a burden," said I, smiling. "But we have come half the distance, I think. You haven't much farther to go. Aren't you tired?" I was standing close to the saddle, and she looked down into my face without speaking for a while. Then she said: "I was thinking—cousin." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus7.jpg" alt=""/></div> <h3>"I WAS THINKING—COUSIN."</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The pause before the use of the word and the emphasis upon it told me she had more than her usual meaning. "I can guess your thought, I believe," I said. "Well?" "You were wondering whether you are right still to call me cousin." "I don't believe what they told me," she replied quickly, for I had guessed her thought. "What did they tell you? No; I won't ask that either. I will tell you freely all that has to be told." I paused an instant, and suddenly the clean, clear moonlight which flooded everything so brilliantly seemed to turn chill and fear-laden for me. The horse moved restlessly, striking the ground harshly with his fore hoof. I stroked his neck to quiet him and left my hand on the crest of it. "Well?" The question was asked softly and gently. "It is hard to tell it," I answered in a low and rather unsteady voice. "To me? Are you afraid of me?" and I felt a hand placed on mine. "It is hard to speak words that may divide us—but I have deceived you. I am not your cousin. I am not the Prince." I felt the fingers on mine start and tighten for a second, and then close in a warm, trustful pressure. "Can I make the telling easier for you? I had made up my mind that that was so; but the rest? Who are you? Don't tell me unless you wish. I trust you none the less. You remember I told you days ago—how long it seems—you had a secret and that I saw it. Now I know part of it; and I am glad of the knowledge—not glad that you are not my cousin Hans; glad only that you have told me. But I am eager for the unknown part." I could not beat down my feelings to speak coolly; so I waited to fight for my self-control. "They told me only one thing that should be hard for you to tell me—and that I know was untrue," she continued, as if it were a pleasure to bare her heart to me. "That you were not true to me, but seeking to betray me. I would have laughed at the absurdity if the malignity of such a slander had not maddened me." "No, I have been no traitor to you," I answered readily. "That I can declare from my soul. But I have kept this knowledge from you. Even that I would not have done but that I could not see how else I could go on helping you. I could do nothing unless men thought I was the Prince." "Yet you could have trusted me," she said, with a gentle sigh of reproach. "Had I told you, I could no longer have remained at the castle. It was not that I did not trust you—indeed, I longed to tell you, not only that but all the rest." "The rest?" she repeated softly in a low voice that trembled; and again I felt her fingers on mine start. "Yes. The secret at which even you did not guess. I can judge pretty much what these people have told you—that I am an adventurer and an ex-play-actor. There is a secret behind that which I have not shared with a single soul on earth; but I will tell you." Then I told her plainly of my meeting with von Fromberg, the mistake under which I was first taken to Gramberg, and the chain of circumstances which had kept me from breaking silence as to my identity and had seemed to drive me into accepting the part that had been thrust upon me. I did not dwell too strongly upon the one motive that had influenced me—the wish to save her from the plot against her safety. But she was quick to read it all; and maybe her feelings for me prompted her to give it exaggerated importance. She listened almost in silence, merely asking a question here and there when some point was not clear, and at the close she sat thoughtful, and said sweetly: "It means a great loss to me—and yet perhaps a greater gain." I looked up with a question in my eyes. "I have lost my cousin, it seems—surely the truest cousin that ever a woman had; but then I have gained a friend whose stanchness must be even greater than my cousin's, for there was no claim of kinship to motive his sacrifices for me. But, cousin or friend, you are still——" She did not finish the sentence. "Still what?" I asked. I think she was going to make some pretty quip in reply, for I saw a smile half mischievous and all witching on her face; but, reading by my looks how much store I set on her answer, she said earnestly: "The one man in the world who has proved himself as true as steel to me, and whom I trust with my whole heart." "You may," I answered, with an earnestness equal to her own, and my hand, which was resting on the horse's neck, turned and sought hers, and pressed it in a strong, firm clasp. "Whatever happens," I added, "I can at least be your friend, and I will." We stood thus awhile, our heart-thoughts in close sympathy, till she started and lifted her head. Those quick ears of hers had caught the sound of a horse's hoofs approaching from behind us. "Some one is coming. You have not yet told me something. How am I to call you, and by what name to think of you?" "There is still a longish story to tell, and I will tell it all to you; but for the present we must keep up our play of cousinship until the truth can be safely told. That will not be long now." "And then? But there, I do not wish our cousinship to end. I am glad to know so much, however. Every time I say 'cousin' I shall think of this talk to-night." I took the horse's bridle again then, and led him on, for the sounds of the hoofs behind us were growing clear and distinct, and we did not speak until Major Gessler rode up to us. "You have not got so far as I expected, Prince," was his greeting. "I'm afraid I seemed to leave you rather in the lurch." "This horse of ours was tired, and we stayed a time on the road," I answered, not without a slight feeling of embarrassment. We should probably have reached the house at Landsberg but for the long halt I had made in telling my story. "But what is your news, major?" "They are following," he said briefly, and he made a sign to me that something very serious had occurred, which I judged he did not care to tell before Minna. She saw the gesture and read it also. "Have they fought?" she asked. "No, there was no fighting; but the Count von Nauheim has met with a serious accident—very serious." He thought evidently that any ill news in regard to him might need to be broken carefully to Minna. "You may speak plainly," I said. "Is he dead?" "Yes, he is dead. When he ran off in that way, and Signor Praga after him, the shots we heard were fired at the count's horse by his pursuer. His object was not to kill the man, but to prevent his escape. Both shots missed their aim, however, and then he determined to ride the man down. On the brow of the hill, where you saw them disappear, comes a straight bit of road for a couple of miles, at the end of which is a steep, dangerous hill. Both men rode like madmen across the level—Praga, who is a splendid horseman, gaining steadily all the time. Finding that he was being caught, von Nauheim began to punish his horse mercilessly, and when they came to the steep descent the poor brute seems to have stretched himself for a final effort to answer the call on him. For a moment he raced away from the other, but when about half-way down the hill he collapsed suddenly, and dropped like a stone. So frightful was the speed at which they had been going that horse and rider rolled over and over several times in an almost indistinguishable mass. Praga, who was not far behind, had great difficulty in avoiding them and in checking his own horse. When he went back to von Nauheim he found him dead. The stirrups had prevented him from getting free when the smash came, and the horse had fallen on him and rolled over him, breaking his back and crushing the life out of him. He was a horrible sight." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus8.jpg" alt=""/></div> <h3>THE HORSE HAD FALLEN ON HIM AND ROLLED OVER HIM.</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> "I am glad Praga didn't kill him," I said. "But I can't say I am sorry he has met his death. He deserved it." The others made no reply, and we held on our way without speaking. The officer rode on the other side of Minna; and the silence of the night was broken only by the sound of the horses' hoofs, the major's being restive, and breaking now and then into an amble. "Do you know much of Signor Praga, Prince?" asked the major after a long silence. "Not enough to speak of him," I replied shortly; and the effort at conversation closed as abruptly as it had begun. When we had covered a couple more miles, he said he would ride on and prepare for our arrival, and I was not sorry to be quit of him. "It is a terrible end," said Minna thoughtfully, referring to von Nauheim. "A more merciful one than he deserved," said I. I could find no pity for such a scoundrel. "He has been a traitor all his life." "He is dead," said the girl gently. "But he lived too long. Years ago I would have killed him had he not run from me." "You knew him years ago?" "And never knew anything but ill of him. It was because of my knowledge of him that I stayed on at Gramberg. That is part of the story I have yet to tell you." "When?" she asked eagerly. "To-morrow. I would tell it you now, but we are close to the house." And a few minutes later we turned in at the lodge gates, and were winding our way through the high shrubs which lined the drive for more than half the way to the mansion. When we reached the house an old motherly woman came forward to receive Minna and take her to her rooms. The girl stood a moment, and put both her hands into mine, with a gesture she had used once just after my arrival at Gramberg. She was thinking of it, too. "Do you remember my telling you at Gramberg how I trusted you?" she asked, leaving her hands in mine and looking into my eyes. "I could never forget it," said I, speaking low. "My instinct was very true, wasn't it? I knew. And after to-night I trust my friend more than I even trusted my cousin. Goodnight, friend—and cousin." "Goodnight." A slight shade passed over her face for a moment, though a great light was shining in her eyes, and she waited as it I should say more. "Good night, Minna," I whispered. And then she cast her eyes down and blushed; and after standing thus for the space of perhaps five seconds she took her hands gently out of mine, glanced once rapidly into my face, smiled, and turned to the woman, who was waiting at a distance. "Be up early, cousin," I called to her in a tone of assumed indifference, as if anything about her could be indifferent to me, "for we must make our plans." "I am quite as anxious as you," she replied; but the real answer was with her eyes, which reflected the thought beneath my words—that I should be all eagerness till the time came for us to meet again. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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