He could not move, he could not speak. His lips were parched, his mind numb. He gazed at the ashen face of the boy, at the crimson lips of the smiling, bonny face—God, what should he do?
“And now, General, the last stage has been reached,” said the youth recovering his voice. “All there is left to do is for me to ask your forgiveness, the pardon of his Majesty, my uncle, for all the unhappiness caused by me. You have in the vaults of the Credit Lyonnaise at Nice my formal renunciation of all claims to the succession and all family rights. There never was a marriage between Madelain and me—the proofs are with the Austrian Legation at Rome. Madelain was paid and all my dancer and actor friends are settled with. Come, General, be brave, be strong! Forget me—and if you can—forgive me. You in your wisdom will find a way to alter the succession, perhaps my little sister can secure the dynasty. Come, be cheerful, and do not grieve. It is but a worthless life that is about to pass out—I have lived my life—and lost. May God forgive me!”
The hand clutching the arm of the General fell back. The Count, in his agitation, mumbled terms of love and endearment as he eased the sick boy upon the mean couch—but the youth had swooned. Quivering and faint he hastened to the porch and summoned the physicians.
They came quickly, the Parsee first, who bent over the prostrate form. A light touch upon the sick youth’s chest and brow and Doctor Saklava announced the fit of fever had returned. He begged the Count to retire to the adjoining room or outdoors. Nothing could be done; he would watch and render all the help needed.
With the sinking of that day’s sun, in the meager light of a battered lantern, and attended by the doctors and servants, General Rondell knelt by the couch of straw and closed forever the eyes of the boy who was to have been his king—but who had willed it otherwise. The falling darkness found a sad cavalcade slowly riding back to Madras, carrying all that remained of one of the world’s chosen. And the tall, sorrow-stricken man rode on alone behind and found no balm for his broken heart in his thoughts.
CHAPTER II
A NARROW strip of haze above the western horizon obscures the coastline and dims the burning rays of the setting sun. The blood-red ball, just visible above that indefinite line where ocean, sky and land might meet, burnishes the lazy leaden waves of the sea, oily and sluggish as if affected by the oppressive heat. Purples and blues, reds and greens vie with each other in a seeming desire to extinguish the burnt orange which fades but slowly and reluctantly. Everywhere reigns the deep dusky yellow heat, with an utter absence of either sound or motion.
It is as if a thick sheet of glass had been interposed between the observer and the rest of creation, with nothing tangible, nothing real except the one all-prevailing sensation of oppressive heat.