“You shall have that pleasure,” said Cyril aloud. “But it would not surprise me,” he added to himself, “if a bullet from my revolver found its way in your direction in the scrimmage, my good man, and gave me the pleasure instead.”
“Good!” said the old man, unconscious of the murderous determination of his intended victim. “It is almost a pity that you are not a Thracian; but no Thracian would be such a fool as to let his life go so easily. And now, bid the women follow me. I will hide them safely.”
He turned into the house and brought out an ancient lantern, setting to work to light it by means of a flint and steel, while Cyril turned to the Queen—
“Madame, the old man consents to hide you; but I have grave doubts of his sanity, and more of his trustworthiness. Take this knife of mine, and hide it in your dress. If the occasion comes, use it—that is all that I can say. The need is so urgent that I dare not advise you to neglect the smallest chance of escape; but I fear this is a very slight one indeed.”
“But why should I take your knife?” demanded the Queen, holding the weapon doubtfully in her hand. “You don’t think that I can’t trust you to defend us, Count? What has the old man been saying? By his tones and gestures he seemed to be very hostile to you. What arrangement have you made with him?”
“He guarantees your safety, madame, which is the important point at the present moment. Permit me to assist you,” and he helped her across the threshold into one of the lower rooms of the mill, which was filled with rusty machinery, looking weird and ghostly in the dim light. The old man had preceded them, and was waiting at the foot of a ladder in a similar room beyond, leading to a large round hole in the ceiling, through which nothing but darkness was visible. The Queen looked from him to Cyril, then sat down deliberately on a block of wood, and beckoned to Fräulein von Staubach.
“Ask the old man what he has promised to do,” she said loudly, for in this confined space the noise of the waterfall was so overpowering that ordinary tones were inaudible. “No; not you, Count,” waving Cyril away; “you are trying to hide something from me.”
“Madame,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, “I heard what passed between Count Mortimer and the old man. He has promised to hide us safely if Count Mortimer will give himself up to the enemy.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Cyril in German, “you are in error. There is no question of giving myself up. I have a revolver here, and I mean to make a fight for it yet.”
“A fight! one man against a crowd!” said the Queen, with a look of measureless contempt. “You take too much upon yourself, Count. I am to be consulted before you enter into treaties of this kind.”