“Madame!” said Cyril reprovingly. “If your Majesty will leave the choice to me, I should prefer a boat. But as regards the order of our progress, I think that you, Fräulein, should go first, carrying his Majesty, and keeping his face hidden as far as possible. Paschics shall follow, not looking as though he had any connection with you, but ready in case you find yourself in any difficulty. The Queen and I will come last.”
“No!” cried the Queen, “I will not be separated from my boy. Why should Sophie carry him? It is my place, and I will do it.”
“Madame, it is impossible,” returned Cyril, not unsympathising, but unmoved. “You have been photographed so often holding his Majesty in your arms, and the photographs are so well known throughout the country, that the juxtaposition of the two faces would attract notice at once, and that would mean instant discovery. You must allow Fräulein von Staubach to take this post of honour, and remember that your own name is Anna, and that you are unfortunately dumb.”
The Queen subsided into instant silence, and Fräulein von Staubach and Paschics, at Cyril’s suggestion, moved farther along the bank, that they might not all appear to belong to the same party. He had heard the voices and laughter of a band of peasants as they came along the by-lane, and presently they emerged into the road, and took the direction of Ortojuk. It was evident that contingents from several villages were present, for they were divided into four or five parties, each of which kept religiously to itself, and discussed its own subjects of interest, the men in front and the women behind. Fräulein von Staubach, with the little King in her arms, found a welcome among the women of the first party, Paschics slouched with the gait of the professional vagrant into the ranks of the men of another, and Cyril and the Queen, rising slowly and painfully, as though scarcely able to walk any farther, found a place in the last. Cyril knew the temper of the Thracians too well to expect to be greeted with curiosity or even interest. One or two languid questions were put to him as to his starting-point and his destination; but the announcement that his home lay across the river chilled any semblance of friendliness that might otherwise have been forthcoming, and his companions returned to the discussion of their own village politics without paying any attention to his presence. The women behind were more inquisitive, and Cyril could hear them questioning the Queen. What was her name? where did she live? had she any children? was her husband kind to her?—questions to all of which she answered by shaking her head and pointing to her tongue. Then the women drew away from her, and whispered together, and again some of their words were audible to Cyril. Dumb, poor thing! and apparently deaf too. No wonder she seemed sad! And besides, it was quite clear that her husband beat her. Cyril wondered vainly from what premisses they deduced this inference; but there was no doubt that it seemed to satisfy them.
After another hour’s walking the walls and cupolas of Ortojuk came in sight, and Cyril felt an involuntary tightening of the throat as the band of peasants approached the gate. The guards gave them a very cursory inspection, however, being chiefly interested in inquiring whether they had passed or met on the road a posting-carriage containing some English travellers, who were said to be escaped criminals, and to have succeeded in eluding justice wonderfully hitherto. Cyril recognised the hand of the sub-prefect in this piece of intelligence, and it caused him additional uneasiness to remember that the official was probably in the town at this moment; but there was no opportunity for deliberation now. The sole way of escape lay through Ortojuk and across the river, and to pause or turn back was to be lost. He pushed his way through the gate with the rest, made sure that the Queen was close behind him, and submitted to be swept along in the company of his peasant-friends towards the market-place in the middle of the town, on the opposite side of which lay the streets leading down to the river.
It was now considerably past noon, and as many people were leaving the market as entering it; but the sellers, who had been disposed to take things easily and eat their dinners, were stimulated by the arrival of the fresh band of customers, and prepared to seize upon them with effusion. The company of peasants divided on reaching the market-place, each man seeking the special row of stalls of which the contents interested him most, while Cyril and the Queen pressed on across the open space in the midst, which had been used earlier in the day as a horse-fair, in the wake of a few earnest souls who desired first of all to perform their devotions at the great church on the opposite side. Some way in front of him Cyril could see the hat which Paschics was wearing, conspicuous among the caps of the other men and the handkerchiefs of the women, and he breathed more freely, for it seemed as though the first danger of Ortojuk were already past. But his joy was premature. From the direction of the municipal buildings, which lay close to the church, but at right angles with it, came three men on horseback, pushing their way roughly through the crowd, and he recognised them immediately as the sub-prefect and his two ragged followers. He had barely time to reflect that the sub-prefect was still searching for English travellers, and was looking far too glum to have met with any success in his efforts as yet, when the official rose in his stirrups and looked over the people’s heads. Whether it was that he regarded any wearer of a hat as a suspicious person, or that he actually recognised that which Paschics had on, he shouted to the crowd to make way, and riding up behind Paschics, tapped him smartly on the shoulder, asking him some trivial question at the same time. Involuntarily Paschics looked round and up at his questioner, who uttered an exclamation of delight.
“It is the courier who was with the English!” he said to his henchmen. “Arrest him instantly, and bring him before the mayor for examination.”
There was a wild rush to the spot on the part of the crowd, and as the people swayed hither and thither, Cyril caught a momentary glimpse of Fräulein von Staubach, with the child still in her arms, disappearing down the street next the church, which he had pointed out to her on the map as the nearest way to the river, without even turning her head to ascertain the cause of the commotion. He blessed her for the stolidity or presence of mind which had made her obey him so implicitly; but the next moment he was recalled to the perils of the position by feeling the Queen’s agonised grasp on his arm. Even now she remembered her part sufficiently not to attempt to speak, but her tortured eyes gazed into his in mute anguish.
“Maria and Sascha are safe,” he said to her, not venturing to use any other language than Thracian, lest the unwonted accents should attract the notice of the crowd, but trusting that she would be reassured by the tone, “but Nicolai is taken.”
Her grip on his arm relaxed, but she still held convulsively to his coat as he thrust himself into the crowd, battling apparently to gain a front place, but in reality to force his way across the market-place. There could be no safety or shelter until they had gained the narrow streets again. After a few moments, his struggles brought him fairly near the prisoner and his guards, and he heard Paschics protesting vigorously against his arrest, in scraps of various languages. But his words were not all those of protest.