“Why, what a pity you weren’t here yesterday, so as to travel in the good Bishop’s company! He passed here about noon, with just two or three priests and people, and gave me his blessing as kindly as you please. Which way did he go? Why, he took the path down the mountains, of course. It winds a good deal; you can see it again down there,” she had drawn Cyril to the door, and was pointing down the rocky slope, “and when you reach the bottom, you have to go on past the waterfall, where the river comes down from the mountains, and keep on along the bank for three or four miles, until you get to the bridge. When you have crossed that, you are in Prince Mirkovics’s country, and if you go straight on you must come to the castle before very long.”
“But all this will take a long time,” said Cyril, in dismay, thinking of the pursuit which was in all probability already on foot, and of the Queen’s difficulty in walking; “is there no place where we could find shelter before reaching the castle?”
“Shelter means a hiding-place, I suppose?” said the old woman shrewdly. “No, don’t be afraid; I won’t tell tales. Well, there may be one, and there may not. When you come to the falls, you will see a tumbledown old house built beside them. It was a saw-mill once, but it doesn’t work now. Old Giorgei who lives there is mad, but you won’t find it out unless you start him upon politics. His two sons took part in that conspiracy years ago, when the English King (our Carlino, you know) was driven out, and they were both killed. The eldest, who worked the saw-mill, was killed in the fighting, and the other, a soldier in garrison at Tatarjé, though he escaped at the time, was taken and shot afterwards. But if you don’t mention politics or Drakovics, the old man will be all right, though there’s no saying what he will do if you stir him up. Holy Peter! there’s the master coming, and what will he say to me? You keep him in talk, there’s a good young man, while I get back to the house.”
“Tell the women to get ready to start,” Cyril called after her as she scurried back into the room, and he went forward to meet the elderly man who was approaching—a lean, bow-legged individual, with small eyes and a quavering voice, who cried out angrily as he came in sight of the broken gate—
“What does this mean, fellow? How dare you destroy my property in this way?”
“You forget that it was contrary to the law for the gate to be locked yesterday evening,” returned Cyril. “Inns are supposed to be open night and day. However,” he added, remembering, as the old man grew purple with rage, that it was not advisable to make enemies, “I am willing to pay for the damage, since you sent down the key for us after all. Ten piastres will buy the wood and pay a carpenter for making you a much better gate than this one, and I will add five piastres for the accommodation you found for us. But I warn you that if you lock the new gate to keep out travellers who may die in the snow, it will be the dearest gate you ever had.”
“What do you mean, fellow? Do you venture to threaten me?” stuttered the innkeeper, his fingers closing greedily over the coins. “You are much too impudent for a peasant.”
“Then perhaps I am a prophet. I may tell you that when I give myself the trouble of prophesying, I generally take good care that the prophecy comes true; so remember. Good day.”
And having attained his object of securing time for the old servant’s retreat by mystifying her master, Cyril returned into the little house and summoned the ladies to start on their journey. The Queen was quite unable to walk without assistance, but she persisted in accepting as little help as possible from him. Indeed she did her best to enlist Fräulein von Staubach as her supporter, and only consented to dispense with her services when Cyril pointed out that it was impossible for him to carry both the little King and the bundle of rugs; but that if Fräulein von Staubach would take charge of his Majesty, he himself could carry the rugs and find an arm to lend the Queen. In this order they started from the hotel, the proprietor watching them morosely as they passed through the broken gate, and took their way down the mountain. The sun had thawed the surface of the snow a little, and it was less slippery than the night before, but their progress was necessarily very slow. The Queen set her teeth and limped along with dogged resolution; but Cyril noticed that before long she forgot her reluctance to make use of his support, and clutched his arm tightly. Matters became somewhat better when the snow was left behind, and the spirits of the wanderers rose as they plodded down the path, which, as the old servant had said, pursued a very winding course.
“Why, we can see the hotel again from here!” said Fräulein von Staubach at last, looking back at the snowy heights they had left. “Oh, Count, look! They are there!”