Count Zarka: A Romance

by Sir William Magnay

“Oh, I know, I know,” moaned Philippa, hopelessly struggling. “But when I tell you that from the very depths of my soul I hate this man, to whom you think to wed me, that I would rather you stabbed me to the heart this instant than gave me his hated name, and him the right to——. Oh, sir, by the God you serve, save me from him, from misery worse than death, and refuse to utter one word of that office which must be now most awful blasphemy!”

She had sunk on her knees to him, and was clutching his gown in her agony. But her appeal had no effect on him—at least none that was apparent. Probably he judged her as a man of the world, and easily silenced his scruples by the reflection that, although she in her inexperience might not think so, he was doing her a rare good turn. Whatever his private opinion of his patron may have been, he could hardly conceive a girl could be in her right senses to refuse his alliance. As well might he refuse the preferment which Zarka had taken care to dangle before his eyes. And then he had his own ideas of women.

“My dear young lady,” he said, taking her arm to lift her, “you will thank me one day for this night’s work. Come! In a few minutes you will hold one of the most enviable positions in Europe, in the world.”

As she did not rise Zarka came quickly forward and took her other arm. Between them they raised her, and half led, half dragged her into the chapel, and along the broad space up to the altar rails.

“Let me die!” she moaned, struggling against a great faintness. Then, though she felt that both her arms were held, the priest appeared in front of her before the altar he was desecrating. Turning her head she saw by her side the cunning-faced servant who had ushered her into the castle. He was to be the witness of this diabolical sacrilege.

As the priest began to read the marriage office the words, sounding in Philippa’s ears, gave warning of the imminence of her hateful doom. In a few seconds she would be irrevocably tied to Zarka. Crying out in her desperation, she made one last convulsive struggle to escape—to death, if she could only lay her hands on the means. By a supreme effort she freed herself from her captors and made a wild rush towards the sacristy, hoping in her despair to find a weapon to turn against them or herself. But the servant, lithe and alert, was after her like a greyhound. Closely followed by his master, he caught her as she reached the door; they stopped her, and began to force her back to the altar. She struggled desperately and screamed, but it was of no avail; Zarka was a man of immense strength, and having gone so far, he was bound to carry his project through by undisguised force since persuasion was futile. Philippa was helpless in his arms, and as they reached the altar rails again she hung still in his hold, but leaning away from him, utterly exhausted.

The priest, with no more concern on his face than if he were marrying a couple of peasants at Easter, lifted his book at a nod from Zarka and resumed the recital of the office. Philippa heard him pronounce Zarka’s name, and then her own.

“No, no!” she almost shrieked, desperately protesting.

“Philippa!”

If she did not hear her name shouted the three men did. The priest suddenly stopped in his unctuous monotone, and his expression was not so bland as usual as he glanced inquiringly at the bridegroom. Before Zarka had recovered his surprise sufficiently to take action the cry was repeated, this time close at hand. “Philippa!” and in another instant as the servant sprang to the sacristy door, it was flung open and, thrusting the man aside, Von Tressen rushed into the chapel followed by Galabin.