THE FAILURE OF FRIENDSHIP
There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering, fled, and mercy sighed farewell.
—Byron: Corsair.
The supreme moment in the lives of both Nicholas and myself had arrived. But Solonika's strange behaviour had unnerved me, and I felt unequal to it. The presence of the landlord in the room, directing his servants as they placed the steaming dinner upon the table, gave me an opportunity for delay.
With Solonika obdurate and my own ignorance of the country, escape was impossible, unless Nicholas would help. He was my only hope. If I could win his sympathy and cause him to place his knowledge, power and influence at my disposal, for the sake of our friendship, there was a chance that we might win our way out of this terrible country in safety.
While we had been riding toward the inn, I had mapped out a plan of escape. There was the General's yacht lying at Bizzett with steam up, ready to take Nicholas and me to Naples in the morning. If we motored as near the gates as possible and bought or stole horses from a neighbouring farmer; if we disguised Solonika in a peasant girl's costume, changing the description of the party, we might ride under Castle Comada to freedom. Attired as he was in his Grand Duke's uniform, Nicholas's orders to the officer in charge would be promptly obeyed. This officer would have instructions to stop an automobile party, but he would not stop us.
Once out to sea on the yacht we were safe. No Bharbazonian would ask a Turk a favour; consequently our passage through the Bosphorus past the fortresses of Scutari and Constantinople would not be interfered with. Nick could go with us, hastening his departure one day, thus escaping any retribution his countrymen might desire to wreak upon him for lending us aid.
If we had been in any other country under the sun, I had no doubt but that Nicholas would stand shoulder to shoulder with me and gladly fight it out to the bitter end. But this was Bharbazonia, and Nicholas was a Bharbazonian. Would he be a friend first and a patriot second? Politically, the dénouement in the Cathedral and the flight of Solonika might be a great aid to the Secret Order of the Cross. The lack of an heir played into their hands. It might serve the purpose of Nicholas and his countrymen to get Solonika out of the country.
Again, the love he professed to bear Solonika should urge him to save her from the infuriated mob which, he would shortly know, was even now riding furiously after us clamouring for her innocent life. How much stress this love would stand I could not guess. He had seen the Prince's affectionate parting with me at the foot of the stairs and, when the full import of that scene burst upon him, as it surely would when I told him of the truth, how would he be able to control his jealousy?
Above all, the sacrilege! A woman had defiled his altar. Nick as I knew and loved him in America, was not deeply religious. But what was he in Bharbazonia? How deeply engrained in his nature, through centuries of ancestry, was his respect for the Greek church, the protected creed of his loved country? I seemed to see again as I looked at his frowning face, turning these things over in my mind, a pair of strong hands clutching an imaginary throat.
As against all these deep-rooted motives, of patriotism, jealousy, religion, the only faintly shining star of hope to which I might look was the weak little star of friendship. Friendship, the most beautiful love in the world, the most disinterested, was to be put to the test.