At the Queen's Mercy

by Mabel Fuller Blodgett

“And so yours,” she answered. “Can it be you have not seen? He loves the Queen. He fears you as he fears not death. And he is a true man. He will find a way to lead us from the Palace, yet neither will he deliver us to the mob without. Have speech with him at once. For your friend Gaston Lestrade, have no fear. Make your plan, and tell me but the time and place and manner of your going. He and I will follow.”

It was thus Astolba spoke, and there was so much wit in what she said, and so much new-born energy and strength in the manner of the saying, that I was convinced of the justice of her words.

Thus she left me, going out by the door through which Lestrade had fled, while I turned my steps to the guard-room of the Palace. Here a piece of good-luck awaited me, for I found Zobo, and alone.

He looked not over pleased at my coming, but with grave courtesy bade me sit.

Then I, with what craft I might, began the task before me, and Zobo stood after the first few words motionless,—a giant statue of bronze. Only his eyes were alive, and they glowed with a strange and savage fire.

When my plan began to unfold, I saw him start, and the great corded muscles of his bare arms knotted as his hands gripped tight the rod of metal that he held. When his fingers relaxed their hold, I saw that he had bent the inch-wide bar, as a child bends a pliant twig. But I was then in the midst of my discourse, and could not be turned aside by trifles.

When I had done, there was silence, the kind of silence that a man feels, like to that which comes upon the face of nature before the tempest breaks. I saw that but a very little thing was needed to turn the unfailing loyalty of the man into its accustomed channel. Then we should be dragged before the Queen to meet the reward of our treachery, for such would be our attempted escape in the eyes of her who reigned over the Walled City. Of that I had no single doubt.

Perhaps a man grows used to danger. Perhaps my nerves were dulled by what had gone before. At least, I can say this with truth, I thought in that moment more on the pattern of the rug at my feet than on the chance of life or death that trembled in the balance. The crucial moment passed. Love triumphed. Zobo was ours.

An hour later I had left the place. We were to make the attempt that night,—Lestrade and myself disguised as priests, and Astolba dressed as a singing-boy attached to Edba’s Temple. According to a blessed, if heathenish, custom, we could go veiled. We should leave the Palace by one of the many-tangled secret ways beneath it. The entrance to this, as to all, was of course guarded, but Zobo held the Queen’s warrant, and with that we might hope to pass.

Once in the City, a friendly guide should meet us. We should be to him inmates of the royal household fallen under Lah’s displeasure, to be saved by Zobo’s contrivance. We were to make our way through our foes as best we might, protected by our priestly garb, and wait in hiding in a deserted hut to which our guide would conduct us. There we should be left. And then it was that Zobo showed the greatest proof of friendship. He held with the Queen alone the knowledge of a hidden door within the City’s wall. One by one, we three swore by all that was sacred never to reveal the secret.