The wrath, gathering in a purple cloud on Sutphen's brow, now broke into a storm. "He must have known," he said pointing at the pseudo-king. "He appointed you officer of the day," and the outraged Colonel wheeled about on Josef, who scarcely deigned a smile of commiseration for such ignorance.
"He knew nothing," he finally volunteered. "I brought him here so that if Russia won, I could save my dupe. If Krovitch won, a true revelation of his real status would make him my debtor for life."
"Why?" Sobieska asked amid a stillness freighted with the prophecy of a startling revelation. All held their breath as Josef, turning slowly from countenance to countenance, read the disdain which he inspired.
"He has kissed you," he said pointing a bony finger at Trusia, "and would have married you." Her face crimsoned at the memory of that betrothal salute, formal and public as it had been. Waiting until the scene had time to rise before her eyes, he continued that by no chance should the import of his words be missed, "He is my son." The pride of the parent snake was in the eyes that he turned upon the Parisian, who turned his head away, ashamed of such regard.
"May God forgive us both," he whispered, "but I disown you."
For the first time a hint of color appeared in the parchment hue of Josef's cheek and for the first time a human note sounded in his voice. "My son," he began with a slight outstretching of his hands, "my son, I wanted you to be wealthy, great, not the spawn of a hereditary servitor, not a struggling artist." Slowly, as he realized that the artist would have none of him, the wonted bitter look crept back into his face, leaving it wan as ever, while additional defiance increased the grim lines about his mouth.
There followed a breathless silence. Somewhere, to the actual pain of all but one present, a bird was singing in the outside world. The sound came faintly to their ears as from another existence—the shadow sound of dreams. In the room itself reigned the cold stillness of death. Then gradually a sigh of sounds crept in. Increasing in volume, it shaped itself into an approaching medley of shouts, hoof-beats, scattering rifle shots, a fierce sentry challenge, a reply,—then a steed halted on the stone flags of the courtyard. They waited breathlessly for the added disaster all felt was coming. Their senses, cloyed by grief, knew that whatever it was of ill-omen, it could not touch them now. Still they listened. The wicket in the entrance door was heard to open. An irregular, halting, desperate step came up the hall.
With a lunge, the door flung open. Zulka, bleeding, grimy, and gasping, tottered into the room.
"Schallberg! Schallberg!" he whispered faintly, "Lore! Bagos! all are taken!" And he fell heavily to the floor.
They pressed forward, excepting Josef, who, in the prevailing excitement slipped from the room. His escape was unnoticed for the time being, as Zulka, struggling to his feet, told them the story of the attack upon the capital and the death blow to their hopes.