“But what about you?” asked Cyril. “You should have kept the wig and beard for yourself.” But his success in transforming the appearance of his employer seemed to have stimulated Paschics, for he next proceeded methodically to disguise himself. He did not change his clothes, except that he took Cyril’s hat, which he moulded into a different shape, instead of his own; but when his preparations were complete, he was no longer the smart, bustling, business-like Italian courier, but an idle Thracian down on his luck, and only half at ease in his shabby Western garments. His coat was stained and partially buttonless; his hat, placed at what ought to have been a rakish angle, had an air of indescribable melancholy, owing to the fact that its brim was turned down on one side instead of up, and his very hair and moustache, which had been gaily curled, now hung dank and despondent.
“Bravo!” cried Cyril. “It will take a knowing fellow to recognise you, Carlo. Now let us pack up our possessions, and then I think it will be time to be off.”
Their preparations had taken a considerable time, and the house had long been silent. They rolled up the rugs and Cyril’s discarded garments into a bundle, which Paschics was to carry, and placed a gold coin in the chest from which they had obtained the clothes. The money due to the driver was also wrapped in paper and placed in a conspicuous spot; for, although it might have been good policy to aim at being taken for mere thieves instead of more important fugitives, Cyril did not wish to give the man an additional reason for pursuing the party with his enmity. They then carried the bundle out into the yard, and Paschics, climbing the wall, lowered it to the other side, remaining at the top himself to help the rest. The door opened easily, as Olga had promised it should, and beside it they found a little pile of barley-cakes and an old brandy-bottle filled with rye-beer. Having secured these, and given them into the charge of Paschics, Cyril returned noiselessly into the house. It was necessary to move with the greatest caution, in order to avoid disturbing the sleepers whose snores were audible from the rooms on either side; but Cyril had paced the passage carefully when he went to bid good-night to the farmer, and knew exactly how far to go. Arrived at the door which Olga had indicated, he scratched on it very lightly with his nail, and it was opened immediately by Fräulein von Staubach.
“We have been expecting you for hours!” she whispered reproachfully. “Neither Mrs Weston nor I could bring ourselves to close our eyes; but Tommy is fast asleep again, although we had to wake him to dress him.”
“Give him to me just as he is, and do you and Mrs Weston bring your things and follow me,” Cyril whispered back. The Queen laid her son in his arms without a word, and he led the way down the passage. The floor was of beaten earth, so that there were no boards to creak, and the two ladies were carrying their boots in their hands, in accordance with the directions they had received, and thus not the slightest sound was made. While they paused outside to put on their boots, Cyril secured the door noiselessly, and then noticed that the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach were not carrying the bundles of clothes he had expected.
“What have you done with your own things?” he asked, in a low voice, but with some irritation, of Fräulein von Staubach.
“We have got them on under these,” she whispered. “The Thracian dresses are so thin and loose that they would be too cold alone, and so we put them on over those we had.”
“Then you were not able to buy pelisses?” said Cyril, as he led the way to the corner where Paschics was waiting. “However, the weather is mild, and these women are wonderfully hardy, so that your being without them will not excite remark.”
They had reached the crooked tree by this time, and the ladies were a little appalled to behold their means of escape. The Queen insisted on being the first to tempt the perils of the climb, and Cyril, intrusting the sleeping form of the little King to Fräulein von Staubach, assisted her to reach the top of the wall, climbing up after her himself to help her to lower herself on the outer side until Paschics could guide her feet to the crevices in the stonework. The King was next conveyed across, still without being awakened, and then Cyril descended again to help Fräulein von Staubach, whose transit was the most difficult of all. She had not the Queen’s agility, and she was painfully nervous; but by dint of superhuman efforts on her part and on Cyril’s, she was at last able to join the group outside. The luggage was next passed over, and then Cyril let himself down, to be met by a little shriek from the Queen as he did so. In the shadow inside she had not noticed his disguise, and for the moment she believed him to be one of the enemy. Paschics viewed her alarm with equanimity, as a tribute to his skill, and in the midst of whispered explanations a start was made, Cyril again carrying the King. The ladies had been left unencumbered; but before they had gone more than a few steps the Queen snatched her bag from the hand of Paschics.
“You shall not carry everything for us!” she cried. “Sophie, take your own bag immediately. M. Paschics is heavily laden already with that great parcel.”