CHAPTER XIV.
“Are you very tired, your highness?”
Bennett peered down at the pale face at his side. He held a candle in his hand as they groped slowly forward in a tunnel that Cousin Fritz ascribed to the Romans. Beyond them gleamed another unsteady light, carried by Carl Eingen. Now and then they could hear a penetrating voice raised in song or lowered in soliloquy as Cousin Fritz guided them toward their goal.
The Princess Hilda and Fraulein Müller had laid aside their court attire and had donned peasant costumes, of a very antique cut, which Cousin Fritz had obtained from his collection of old-fashioned trumpery, a collection from which the social history of Hesse-Heilfels for several generations could have been reconstructed by an imaginative writer.
The princess looked up at Bennett, a merry gleam in her dark blue eyes:
“I’m tired, yes; but not of action. I am weary of imprisonment. I long to reach the end of this tunnel. I feel as though I were approaching the sunlight after being buried alive for centuries.”
“But, tell me,” he persisted, his voice low and vibrant, “will you never regret your decision? Think of what you have given up. When you donned that peasant’s dress you laid aside a future that shone with the splendors of high state. That simple cap upon your head replaces a queen’s diadem. The sacrifice, your highness, is more than I can ask.”
“Why will you tease me?” she cried with petulant playfulness. “When I put off my court dress, I gave up forever the title of ‘your highness.’ What has that title brought to me? Nothing but weariness and pain.”
Just beyond them she could see Carl Eingen with his arm around the waist of Fraulein Müller. “Do you think,” asked Hilda, her eyes dancing as they met Bennett’s, “do you think that Gretchen would wish to return to my court with the knowledge that Carl Eingen was forever an exile from the kingdom?”
Bennett trembled with a sensation of ecstatic triumph. His mind recalled the thought that had inspired him when he followed the Princess Hilda into the cellar on the night of the king’s overthrow. In this subterranean realm there would be no kings and princesses. They would all be fugitives, placed upon a plane of equality by the levelling power of misfortune. Beyond his wildest dreams, that thought had been prophetic. By no conscious effort upon his part, he had won the confidence, perhaps the love, of this woman at his side. The hand of sorrow had laid its grip upon her young heart, and in the hour of her misfortune she had looked at life with eyes that saw all things from a new point of view.
“It is strange,” she whispered as they stole forward through the damp and narrow passageway, “it is strange that I should feel for my old life no regret, no desire to return to the tawdry glories of a court. But do you know, Herr Bennett, I feel that I would rather die in this old cellar than go back to my people, to be stared at by the gaping crowds, to hear the murmur of their senseless chatter as they told each other the tale of my burial and resurrection. Ugh! The very thought of it is horrible.”
They hurried on in silence for a time.
“I shall live with Carl and Gretchen,” she said musingly, when they had turned a corner in the tunnel and had again caught sight of the candle in Eingen’s hand. “We will go to some quiet spot and till the soil and forget the treachery that drove us from our fatherland. I shall be happy in their happiness—and forget—forget—forget!”
Bennett bent down until his face almost touched hers.
“You must not forget,” he whispered, “that there lives a man whose only wish on earth is to know that your heart is light, that your eyes are bright with the joy of life, that no shadows fall across your path.”
Suddenly through the tunnel came the shrill voice of the dwarf, chanting mischievously the refrain, “Two of a kind.” Then a mocking laugh followed the words into the echoing vaults far behind the fugitives.
The Princess Hilda shuddered, and placed a light hand upon Bennett’s arm.
“Do you know what he did to them?” she asked nervously.
“He won’t tell me,” answered Bennett; “all that he will say is that they were ‘a small pair’ and he ‘discarded’ them.”
Again the princess shuddered, and quickened her steps. Suddenly the candle carried by Carl Eingen flickered vigorously, and almost succumbed to a damp draught. The princess glanced up at Bennett joyfully.
“Look at Carl’s candle,” she exclaimed. “Do you know what that means, Herr Bennett? We are near the entrance, or rather, the exit to the tunnel. The Rhine, Herr Bennett, the dear, old Rhine is waiting to take us to its heart.”
Her voice trembled with excitement and she stumbled as she darted ahead. By a quick movement Bennett’s arm caught her as she fell forward. Forgetful of everything but his burning love, he held her pressed against him as he rained passionate kisses upon her lips and cheeks.
“I love you, Hilda, I love you! I love you!” he whispered wildly. “You are my queen! my queen! Do not tremble so! See, I will be gentle! Just one more kiss, my darling! One more kiss! One more kiss!”
“Two of a kind, two of a kind, two of a kind,” cried a harsh voice, close at hand. “There, Carl Eingen, is the river, and here’s the boat! Pull it up close to the wall. That’s right. Ha, ha! I must discard again! This time it’s two pair! Two pair! Ha, ha!”
Carl Eingen had entered the flat-bottomed boat and had placed the oars in the rowlocks, after seating Fraulein Müller in the stern.
The Princess Hilda and Herr Bennett stood upon the stone-work that jutted out from the tunnel’s opening. The breeze that swept across the bosom of the Rhine caressed their cheeks and made free with Hilda’s golden locks. Behind them stood Cousin Fritz, cap in hand, as though he did the honors of his mansion to home-going guests. Bennett gave his hand to the princess and she seated herself by Fraulein Müller’s side.
“Come, Cousin Fritz,” cried Bennett, his voice vibrant with the joy that filled his soul, “into the boat! Quick! We can afford to take no risks—Wilhelm’s sentinel may have sharp eyes. Quick, I say!”
Cousin Fritz stepped back into the tunnel. His small, white wizened face became a ghostly vision against the black depths behind him.
“Farewell,” he cried in his thin, mocking voice, “farewell! My kingdom needs its king, and I return! Remember Cousin Fritz, King of Hesse-Heilfels for a thousand years! Farewell!”
Bennett pushed the boat into the current and jumped aboard. With powerful strokes Carl Eingen urged the clumsy craft toward the centre of the stream. Suddenly across the black waste of waters between them and the shore came a piercing voice as they heard the disjointed words:
“Two pair! Discard two pair! Draw to kings! Ha, ha! Draw to kings! Ha, ha!”