A prince of lovers

by Sir William Magnay

“Her penance shall be of short duration, I promise you that,” Ludovic assured her confidently. “She shall join you in a very few days. Rollmar is too sensible to take a foolish and futile revenge. Indeed, it is best; more, it is necessary. We have no horse for her.”

“And Minna hates riding, if you had. Well then, we must leave her. It is easier now,” she added, with a loving look of confidence.

In a very few minutes preparations for the escape and the journey were made. Ludovic extinguished the light, and, cautiously opening the door, crept out, leading the way along the narrow passage, and down the winding stairs, descending to the outer door by which his guide had admitted him to the castle. No one was to be seen; the door was unlocked; they passed out, and crossed an angular court-yard to a massive stone door set in the outer wall. This, as Ludovic’s conductor had shown him, was left merely bolted on the inside; at a strong pull it swung slowly open, and they found themselves in a passage cut through the rock and leading out into the wood.

Ludovic put his arm round Ruperta to help her along the rough path.

“Now for our faithful Ompertz and the horses,” he said encouragingly. “He is near at hand. Another hour, dearest, will see us miles away from this hateful place.”

They were now at the end of the cutting. It was with a delicious sense of freshness and liberty that Ruperta felt the wind through the trees blowing on her face. Her lover’s strong arm was round her—in a few minutes the enemies of her happiness were to be given the slip. There was just light enough to see the path; a stronger blast of wind came through the wood, deadening the sound of another rush. More quickly than they could realize it, they were surrounded by half a dozen men who had suddenly sprung from their ambush. Before Ludovic could put his hand to a weapon, he was seized by four strong fellows, who held his arms firmly, and began to drag him back to the castle. Ruperta, with all her spirit, was powerless to render him any help. She herself had been captured by two men who, with less violence, but equally insistent force, kept her from following.

But the dashing of her hopes, the sickening sense of the Count’s treachery, made her desperate and reckless. She struggled furiously with her captors, two tall, evil-looking ruffians who had, however, evidently had orders to treat her with as much respect as their object permitted. This was to take her back to the castle by another entrance; but they found it not so easy. Ruperta resisted vigorously, then, remembering that Ompertz might be near, she began calling for help. It was but a faint hope, but, to her joy, she heard an answering call which was followed by the welcome appearance of the great dashing swashbuckler, who came through the wood with a leap and uplifted sword, a very fury to the rescue.

Evidently the men thought so, for it was with no very confident air that one of them released his hold on Ruperta, and, drawing his sword, stood before her to keep Ompertz off. A dog might as well have tried the repel the spring of an attacking lion. With a mighty sweep his sword was sent flying among the trees, and it was only by a smart backward spring that he cheated the soldier’s blade of its second blow.

At the same moment Ruperta found herself free, her other captor thinking less of his charge than of his skin, which was, indeed, just then in jeopardy of damage. She quickly told her rescuer what had happened. He just checked an oath of angry disappointment.

“I told him what to expect,” he said, savagely rueful. “But we both hoped I might prove a false prophet. Oh,”—he set his teeth ominously—“oh, for five minutes alone with this precious Count! He should never tell another lie while I lived, or he.”