“Well—thus far I have been relating to you the history of Roumelia, the rise and fall of my chosen fatherland. Now we reach the last chapter—the day we are living now. Will you not light a fresh cigar, my dear Mr. Morton? Permit me to retire for a moment.”
Going to his sleeping room, Count Rondell filled a goblet of water and drank feverishly. Morton lit a cigar the while he watched the Count sinking back into his seat.
The stateroom had become very close and oppressive. No sound but the rhythmical beat of the auxiliary engine, rather felt than heard, fell upon the ear. The steady yellowish light on the wall threw into relief the ghastly features of the old diplomat; the smoke from Morton’s cigar hung heavily against the ceiling, taking odd and fantastic shapes. The younger man was strangely moved. What a terrible drama had been laid bare! He could not take his eyes away from the pitiful figure before him—the old nobleman looking the very picture of despair.
“I am coming now to the last chapter, Mr. Morton. A few hours ago I received two cables informing me of events which have happened during my absence. The earlier cable says, in substance, in code of course, that within the last ten days a revolt had occurred in the capital. Rumors of the heir’s disappearance had emboldened the disaffected factions of the kingdom, who struck—and struck fearfully! The king had always lived simply—and trusted his people and his army. The few palace guards were easily overpowered; the king was taken prisoner and with him his consort. The ministers of state were forced to resign, a de facto republican government was proclaimed, and Demeter Sturdza, the leader of the Radicals, an old schemer and a villain masquerading as a patriot, has been appointed acting President. Everything is in chaos. The later cable is still more distressing. A trusty friend of mine, the late minister of Finance, sends it to me from Constantinople, to which place he has flown. He is one of the few of the old administration who escaped.”
The Count opened the portfolio nervously, took some papers lying on top, and with trembling hands adjusted his glasses. After a futile attempt to read he resignedly put both papers and glasses down and with a pitiful gesture resumed his narrative.
“My dear Mr. Morton—I cannot read it—I shall have to give you the contents from memory. The fearful facts are engraven on my mind only too deeply! The king has been assassinated—the queen is dead from shock. Prince Fernand was shot down in cold blood by a drunken Colonel of the Territorials, the ministers and counsellors are either dead, imprisoned or fugitives. The army, at first indifferent, is now obeying the newly formed government. The country has been isolated from the rest of the world, as the wires were cut. Martial law prevails and a reign of terror instituted. The property of the old régime has been confiscated.”
The old diplomat had risen before he finished his recital, staggered nervously and weakly to and fro, and, leaning on the back of his chair, he spoke the last words in jerky sentences.
“There remains the only member of the Royal family—a lovely young girl—a mere child—the sister of the unfortunate boy I had seen die. This innocent princess is without friend or protector. She has found a precarious refuge in the summer castle of the late prince in the hills of the North. When this cable was sent she was alive and, although deprived of her freedom, still unharmed.
“The poor girl has no knowledge of life, and is utterly helpless. Reared in the seclusion of the court under the care of the late queen—a most noble and saintly lady—she is still but a child in experience. She was my beloved king’s favorite—a beautiful, pure girl, a noble princess. She must not perish!”
Morton felt dizzy and sick. His cigar had gone out long since. He had almost ceased to think or feel. With a great effort he pulled himself together, and staring fixedly at his narrator, murmured thickly: “Why—why do you tell me of all these fearful things? What do you want from me?”