“And you think that the results might be unpleasant if he once came up with the abductors of his Majesty?” asked Cyril.
“Your Excellency, they are all to be brought back to Tatarjé, dead or alive; and I gathered from the shopkeeper that if the matter were left in the hands of the people they would take care that it should be dead.”
“Count!” said the Queen quickly, as Cyril sat with his chin on his hand, plunged in meditation. “Count!” she said again, as he did not answer her, “what are we to do?”
“I was just considering the advisability of our all going quietly to the next police-station and giving ourselves up, madame.”
“You would not do it?” she cried, her eyes dilating with horror.
“I am almost convinced that it is our proper course, madame. I have known all along that failure in this enterprise meant death to Paschics and myself; but I thought that you and Fräulein von Staubach would at any rate be free from bodily peril. But don’t you see the diabolical cunning of these fellows? It would be easy enough to get up a scuffle in arresting us, in which both of you might be killed by accident, and there they are, with the King in their hands! They have only to make a dramatic discovery of Baroness Paula’s imposture and proclaim it, convert the King, and, using him as a hostage, make terms with Drakovics. The ball is at their feet in that way. Whereas, if we surrender to the police, they are bound to protect you two ladies from the mob, whatever happens to us.”
“Yes, and what is to become of us?” cried the Queen, in a harsh, strident voice. “Is my boy to be given up after all to the tender mercies of these vile conspirators? After all that I have risked to save him, is he to be forced into an alien Church before he is old enough to make a choice? I tell you, he shall not be! Give yourself up at the nearest police-station, Count, if you like; I will kill my son and myself before you shall surrender us!” She made a sudden spring forward, and snatched the keen, broad-bladed Thracian knife from Cyril’s girdle, holding it poised ready to strike at her own heart.
“This is no time for scenes, madame,” said Cyril irritably. “We are not strolling players, but sensible people consulting together as to the best means of averting a great danger. Have the goodness to give me back that knife.”
He took it from her unresisting hand as he spoke, for his words and tone came like a dash of cold water on the fire of her passion, and she was already ashamed of the momentary frenzy which had seized her. But when he had returned the knife to its sheath, she caught his hand in both hers.
“Count, I have trusted my son’s life and honour and my own to you. You will not fail us?”