The poor fellow was very faint, and, I think, wandered a little in his brain.
“I’ve got it, sir,” he murmured; “I’ve got it, fair and straight. No more hunting for me, sir. I’ve got it here in the stomach. Oh, my God!” He let his head fall with a thud on the floor.
I ran and raised him. Kneeling on one knee, I propped his head against my leg.
“Tell us about it,” commanded Sapt in a curt, crisp voice while I got the man into the easiest position that I could contrive.
In slow, struggling tones he began his story, repeating here, omitting there, often confusing the order of his narrative, oftener still arresting it while he waited for fresh strength. Yet we were not impatient, but heard without a thought of time. I looked round once at a sound, and found that James, anxious about us, had stolen along the passage and joined us. Sapt took no notice of him, nor of anything save the words that dropped in irregular utterance from the stricken man’s lips. Here is the story, a strange instance of the turning of a great event on a small cause.
The king had eaten a little supper, and, having gone to his bedroom, had stretched himself on the bed and fallen asleep without undressing. Herbert was clearing the dining-table and performing similar duties, when suddenly (thus he told it) he found a man standing beside him. He did not know (he was new to the king’s service) who the unexpected visitor was, but he was of middle height, dark, handsome, and “looked a gentleman all over.” He was dressed in a shooting-tunic, and a revolver was thrust through the belt of it. One hand rested on the belt, while the other held a small square box.
“Tell the king I am here. He expects me,” said the stranger. Herbert, alarmed at the suddenness and silence of the stranger’s approach, and guiltily conscious of having left the door unbolted, drew back. He was unarmed, but, being a stout fellow, was prepared to defend his master as best he could. Rupert—beyond doubt it was Rupert—laughed lightly, saying again, “Man, he expects me. Go and tell him,” and sat himself on the table, swinging his leg. Herbert, influenced by the visitor’s air of command, began to retreat towards the bedroom, keeping his face towards Rupert.
“If the king asks more, tell him I have the packet and the letter,” said Rupert. The man bowed and passed into the bedroom. The king was asleep; when roused he seemed to know nothing of letter or packet, and to expect no visitor. Herbert’s ready fears revived; he whispered that the stranger carried a revolver. Whatever the king’s faults might be—and God forbid that I should speak hardly of him whom fate used so hardly—he was no coward. He sprang from his bed; at the same moment the great boar-hound uncoiled himself and came from beneath, yawning and fawning. But in an instant the beast caught the scent of a stranger: his ears pricked and he gave a low growl, as he looked up in his master’s face. Then Rupert of Hentzau, weary perhaps of waiting, perhaps only doubtful whether his message would be properly delivered, appeared in the doorway.
The king was unarmed, and Herbert in no better plight; their hunting weapons were in the adjoining room, and Rupert seemed to bar the way. I have said that the king was no coward, yet I think, that the sight of Rupert, bringing back the memory of his torments in the dungeon, half cowed him; for he shrank back crying, “You!” The hound, in subtle understanding of his master’s movement, growled angrily.
“You expected me, sire?” said Rupert with a bow; but he smiled. I know that the sight of the king’s alarm pleased him. To inspire terror was his delight, and it does not come to every man to strike fear into the heart of a king and an Elphberg. It had come more than once to Rupert of Hentzau.