COUNT ZARKA

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Fall of a Star

The Pride of Life

The Heiress of the Season

The Man-Trap

The Red Chancellor

The Man of the Hour

“In a moment their light rapiers had touched.” (Page [235].)

COUNT ZARKA

A Romance

BY
SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, Bart
AUTHOR OF “THE RED CHANCELLOR” “THE MAN OF THE HOUR”
“THE FALL OF A STAR” “THE HEIRESS OF THE SEASON” ETC.

FRONTISPIECE BY MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN

LONDON
WARD LOCK AND CO LIMITED
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
1903

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE MAN ON THE ROAN HORSE

“The plan I have in my mind,” said Gersdorff, the Minister, “is so full of delicacy and danger that I hesitate to propose it to you.”

The young man sitting opposite to him smiled. “At least, Excellency, let me hear it. May not the man before whom the danger will lie be the best judge of whether he can undertake it. As to the delicacy involved——”

The Minister made a deprecating gesture.

“I have no fear on that score, so far as you are concerned, my dear Herr Galabin. In fact you are the only man in the Bureau whom I would trust to undertake the affair. The only question is,” he continued, as Galabin bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, “whether I have any right to risk a valuable life in an undertaking where the very courage which points you out as the right man for the business is likely to minimize the dangers, dangers which I cannot disguise from myself may be very great.”

“Nevertheless, I am impatient to hear your Excellency’s plan.”

The Minister leaned back in his chair thoughtfully stroking his mouth with his long white fingers. “Shortly, it is this,” he said. “The mystery surrounding the extraordinary disappearance of Prince Roel of Rapsberg deepens every day. I say deepens, because, as you know, the agents of our Bureau, all the machinery which we have set working to elucidate it, have given us absolutely blank results. Had it been a mere piece of eccentricity on the Prince’s part, the result, as has been hinted, of disappointment in a love affair, we must have found him, or at least some clue to the direction in which he had disappeared. A man, let alone a prince, cannot vanish from the face of the earth without leaving some trace.”

“That is obvious, Excellency, at any rate in a well-watched community.”

“Just so. Now—and I doubt not you will have come to the same conclusion as myself—the result which our exhaustive inquiries leave us is the inevitable conclusion that the Prince has been spirited away.”

“You think that, Excellency?”

Gersdorff nodded. “I do. And my supposition has the deeper colour in that I can easily account for it. Now, in suggesting, my dear Herr Galabin, that you should take this matter in hand and endeavour to follow up the mystery on political, that is altogether higher, lines, I feel it is only due to you to point out the danger of playing the detective, seeing that we accept the theory that this is not a mere ordinary case of a person’s disappearance, due to eccentricity or commonplace foul play. Behind it I fear we have a strong, ruthless, political motive. And a motive springing from one of the strongest, most Napoleonic brains in Europe, and at the back of that policy the might of a great Power.”

“It is fighting against tremendous odds, certainly, to follow the matter up,” Galabin remarked.

“True. Still, we have no alternative. We may be comparatively weak and insignificant in the European concert, but for all that we cannot allow this outrage to pass. Here is one of the richest and most influential of our great territorial nobles kidnapped under our very noses. For the sudden disappearance of such a man can scarcely be accounted for otherwise. Now are we to leave this young Prince to his fate? Supposing, that is, he has not already met it. Although my own idea is—and that is the reason, Herr Galabin, I am anxious to enlist your services—that the Russian, strong though he be, will scarcely venture to put Prince Roel to death, at least until he has ascertained with some certainty the effect such an outrage would produce and the consequences he would have to face. No, he will not burn his boats until he is sure how the land lies in front of him.”

“And the motive for making away with Prince Roel?”

Gersdorff gave a shrug. “The old, wearisome motive that is responsible for ninety-nine hundredths of the world’s unrest. The policy of aggression. The Prince owns an immense territory on the very borders of the debatable land between Baratora and Sorusk, a province which is kept in a ferment by Karatieff’s agents with a view to its ultimate annexation in the interests of peace.”

“I see.”

“Now Prince Roel is, I can quite understand, a stumbling-block in the way of our friend’s policy. For, young as he is, he wields great power; he is practically an independent sovereign on his own territory; moreover he has, it is known, imbibed from his father a hatred of Russian aggression. Gorodov has tried to get round him, but with no success.”

“And so he falls back on force majeure.”

“It is a bold stroke, and one which I should dearly like to defeat,” Gersdorff said with a touch of professional rivalry and zeal which the other could well understand. “If once we can make sure what has become of Prince Roel his restoration to liberty will follow as a matter of course. It will be the price of our secrecy over the affair. Karatieff cannot afford to stand convicted to-day of such mediæval tactics.”

“No, clearly.”

“There is bound to be a storm of some sort,” Gersdorff proceeded. “Karatieff no doubt is prepared for that, and the only question which he has to calculate is the degree of its severity. It is already breaking out in Prince Roel’s own country. Urgent representations have already reached this Bureau; the poor fellow’s mother has given me a painful hour this morning. There is much talk of vengeance if a hair of his head is injured. The Magyars are a dangerous race when roused, but what can they do against Karatieff? No; their attitude may be heroic, but it is eminently unpractical. We must play the fox, not the lion. Let me only find out what has actually become of the Prince, and I will engage to bring Karatieff to his knees. Now, may we count on you, Herr Galabin? I can promise you that the royal gratitude will take a very practical shape, and as for expenses, why, you have carte blanche. You know the country and the language, you have courage and savoir faire, and I could not choose a better man for what is, I admit, a rather forlorn hope. I don’t want your answer at this moment. We can give you a few hours. It is hardly an affair to be entered upon lightly, although at the same time a too serious frame of mind is to be avoided. Now, will you give me the pleasure of your company at luncheon?”

They went in together to the dining-room. At the door Gersdorff laid his hand on his guest’s arm and said quietly, “It will be well perhaps not to allude to this matter before the servants. Experience has taught me the impossibility of being too cautious. We have a saying in our Service, ‘Three pairs of ears, one spy.’”

After luncheon they lighted cigars and sat in the bow window looking down on the busy Königstrasse, the principal thoroughfare of the city. The old Minister’s casual comments on the details of the moving, thronging life beneath them were shrewd and amusing, and the idle half-hour passed agreeably enough.

“Do you see this man riding up the street towards us on the roan horse?” Gersdorff asked, suddenly breaking off from the general to the particular. “Now there is a fellow who is rather a puzzle to our intelligence department.”

“In what way?” Galabin asked, looking curiously at the object of the remark as he drew nearer.

The rider was a dark, well set-up man about thirty-five or forty with something of a Greek cast of countenance. Certainly at a casual glance an undeniably handsome fellow, with a lithe figure and a perfect seat on horseback.

“He is a Count Zarka,” Gersdorff answered. “He lives right away on the eastern borders of the country among the mountains, but he is often here, staying sometimes for several weeks together and living in expensive style. Now the curious thing about him is that he seems suddenly and strangely to have become rich—no one knows how. His father, the last Count, was poor, living in a half-ruined castle among the mountains; this man has, we hear, turned the dilapidated old place into an almost palatial residence where he keeps a certain state. He appeared suddenly a year or two back in society here with a great flourish and all the surroundings of large wealth. Whence does it come? Report says he has been singularly lucky at the gaming-tables; but that would hardly account for more than a temporary state of affluence. Yes,” he continued musingly, “I shall have to find out the real source of the Herr Count’s wealth as soon as we have discovered Prince Roel. Another mission waiting for you, my adventurous young friend. Ah! here he comes back again.”

The sharp ring of the horse’s hoofs sounded on the stones below them; then abruptly ceased. “He is coming in,” Gersdorff exclaimed in some surprise, not unmingled, however, with a certain astute satisfaction. “Now I wonder what he can want here with us.”

Galabin had glanced round in time to see the Count dismount and saunter up the broad steps of the Chancellerie. Presently one of the secretaries came in and told his chief that Count Zarka was anxious to see him for a few moments on an urgent private matter.

“To see me?” Gersdorff repeated.

“No one else, Excellency. The communication the Herr Graf has to make is for your private ear. If your Excellency is engaged——”

“No, no. I will see the Count—in my room. Now,” he observed to Galabin as the secretary left them, “I may, perhaps, be able to find out something of this matter. I have my suspicions of the Herr Graf, and should not be surprised if he comes to hoodwink me. Do me the favour to smoke another cigar here till I can rejoin you. I may be able to set an explicit plan before you.”

With a courtly bow he left the young man and passed through to his private bureau. As he entered, the Count, who was scrutinizing an engraving on the wall, turned sharply. He had the easy vivacious manner of a polished man of the world, and his appearance was prepossessing enough except that the beauty of the face was spoilt by the wolfish expression of the restless eyes.

“To what cause am I indebted for the honour of this visit, Count? What is the important matter you wish to communicate?” Gersdorff never wasted time in preliminary small-talk unless he had an object in such trifling. And here with this man there was none.

“The matter, Excellency, on which I have called to give you certain information,” replied the Count with a self-possession which the experienced reader of men noticed with a certain dubious admiration, “is one to which I fancy the Government will attach great importance. I refer to the mysterious disappearance of Prince Roel.”

“Ah, yes. We shall be glad to have any tangible explanation of that.”

The diplomatic mask was impenetrable, and the sharp eyes saw nothing in the old Minister’s face beyond a calm official interest, courteously inviting him to proceed.

“I should preface such evidence as I can produce,” the Count continued, “by mentioning that during the Prince’s last stay in this city I saw much of him, indeed I may say that we were fairly intimate.”

“A doubtful advantage to the Prince,” was the other’s mental comment, but his visitor detected nothing beyond the slight bow with which the statement was acknowledged.

“During our companionship,” Zarka proceeded, “it came to my knowledge that the Prince had fallen in love, or at least was deeply fascinated by a lady he was in the habit of meeting in society.”

Gersdorff raised his bushy eyebrows in quiet surprise. “You know the lady’s name?”

The Count gave an evasive shrug. “Only so far as a guess will serve. The Prince gave me none of his confidence on the subject, and my knowledge was gathered simply from observation.”

“The man is lying,” Gersdorff said to himself. Then aloud, “Your observation, Count, surely did not stop short of the lady’s identity?”

“I must repeat I have no positive information on that point,” Zarka maintained with a smile that rather gave the lie to his words. “The Prince was most reserved and secretive in the matter, and I could not pretend to do more than hazard the merest guess as to the lady.”

Gersdorff bowed as forbearing to press the question. “Possibly the point is not essential,” he said. “I will not interrupt you.”

“That, however, the poor Prince was greatly smitten,” Zarka continued with a fluency which seemed to his hearer the result of preparation, “was clear to me. From a young man of high spirits he became gloomy, melancholy, with intervals of unnatural excitement. The usual signs of a certain state of mind.”

Gersdorff nodded him on in more curiosity than the other suspected.

Zarka paused for a moment before proceeding, as, having completed the preamble, he came to the real point of his communication.

“In my mind there is no doubt,” he said slowly, giving weight to his words, “that the Prince’s disappearance is directly due to the failure of his love affair.”

The Minister’s face assumed a look of bland inquiry.

“Indeed? That is a strong assertion, Count. You have proof?”

Zarka smiled, and his smile strengthened the other’s dislike.

“Proof absolute, to my mind. Documentary evidence.” He took out a gold-bound letter-case emblazoned with an heraldic device. “A tangible clue which I have felt it my duty to hand to your Excellency,” he said, as with deliberation he opened the case, took out a paper and carefully unfolded it. “You know Prince Roel’s handwriting?”

“Personally, no. But that is easily proved.”

“I knew it well,” Zarka returned. “And there without the suspicion of a doubt is a specimen of it.”

He rose as he spoke and handed the paper to Gersdorff. It contained only a few words, and the Minister read them, half aloud.

“‘I send you herewith two bunches of roses, white and red. The white signify love and life: the red hate and death. Those which you will wear to-night must decide my fate. R.’”

Gersdorff turned the paper, and finding the other side blank, turned it back slowly and read the words over again. Then he laid the paper down on the desk before him, and looked up inquiringly at Zarka.

“The paper tells its own story, does it not?” the Count said in reply to the look.

“To a certain point, yes. May I ask how you came by it?”

“From the Prince’s servant who found it in the pocket of his master’s smoking-jacket,” Zarka answered readily.

“And he brought it to you?”

“To me as a friend of his master’s. It is evidently a blotted draft which the Prince intended to destroy. You notice, Excellency, the ink is spilt on it?”

Gersdorff nodded. “I do not know that this proves very much,” he observed doubtfully.

The Count drew back his lips, showing his teeth in a characteristic but utterly mirthless smile. “Not of itself, Excellency. But I should say that if it were known that a certain lady to whom the flowers were sent wore the red roses, why then——” he finished the sentence by an expressive shrug.

Perhaps had Count Zarka been able to read the significance of the look which the old diplomatist’s keen eyes fixed on him he might not have been quite so glib. But clever man as a glance would recognize the Count to be, he was here, perhaps, a little too anxious to appear quite fluent and at his ease.

“Quite so, Count,” Gersdorff said, almost coldly. “You can give me the lady’s name or not, as you please. If not, no doubt we can find it out for ourselves. It is merely a question of saving the Bureau trouble.”

Zarka affected to hesitate, then to make up his mind.

“It is my desire,” he said, with a bow, “to be of every service to your Excellency. So I must break what was my first resolve, namely that no lady’s name should pass my lips in connexion with the affair. You are welcome to know my suspicion so far as it goes. I can at least tell you the name of the lady who wore red roses at the Margravine von Reuspach’s ball the night before Prince Roel disappeared. Your Excellency may possibly be acquainted with General Hainfeld?”

He paused, with lips drawn back and his glittering eyes fixed on Gersdorff, awaiting his answer.

“I have met the General. Has he a daughter?” the Minister answered doubtfully.

“A step-daughter, Fräulein Philippa Carlstein.” He spoke the name with a curious staccato intonation.

“Oh,” Gersdorff made a mental note of it. Then he waited, his intuition telling that the Count had something to add.

“The General and Fräulein Carlstein,” Zarka proceeded when he found the other did not seem inclined to question him further, “have left the city, I hear, for Switzerland and Paris. That is all the information I have to give, Excellency. You must take it for what it is worth; but I must say it seems to me significant.”

Gersdorff rose.

“Quite so, Count,” he said curtly, as ending the interview; “we will look into the matter——”

But his visitor did not depart without a flourish. “I trust, Excellency, you will consider that what you have done me the honour to allow me to communicate has been a sufficient excuse for taking up so much of your valuable time.”

“Certainly,” Gersdorff answered a little stiffly; “I am obliged to you for your information; your theory of this unfortunate young fellow’s disappearance may be worth following up. You will leave the paper with me? Good-day.”

The Count could only grin again, bow, and take his leave.

Gersdorff returned to Galabin, who rose and looked inquiringly at his face, which, however, from habitual diplomatic schooling, told nothing.

“A lucky visit for us,” Gersdorff said, resuming his seat by the window. “I fancy it has at least narrowed the field of your proposed search, my young friend. For unless I am greatly mistaken the man who is there,” he nodded down towards the street, “mounting his horse with such swagger knows as much as anybody of Prince Roel’s disappearance.”

“He came to tell you so?”

The old diplomat smiled. “He came to throw dust in my eyes. How foolish men are!” he exclaimed reflectively. “When will they learn to hold their tongues? A false scent is very well if only you are dealing with people stupid enough to follow it. Otherwise it is simply a negative clue, since we know the object we are hunting has not gone that way. Now, Herr Galabin,” he continued, resuming his more business-like manner, “in the interests of our State I want you to spend a holiday in the great forest at the foot of the Carpathians.”

He touched a bell. “Ask Herr Botheim to come to me,” he said to the man who answered it.

In a few moments Herr Botheim made his appearance, a small, astute-looking man, with an intensely secretive manner. He was the head of the intelligence department.

“Botheim, how long has Count Zarka been in the city?”

“Since 7.40 this morning only, Excellency. He left the city eight days ago presumably for Rozsnyo.”

“Ah, Rozsnyo. Yes? Was his departure seen?”

“No, Excellency. It appears to have been sudden and secret. We only heard of his departure some hours afterwards. There seemed no reason for suspecting——”

“No, no, my good Botheim,” Gersdorff interrupted; “there is no blame attached to your department, but I fancy we have hardly studied the Count closely enough.”

Botheim could only give a shrug.

“I do not blame you,” the Minister proceeded; “we have hitherto looked upon him, politically, as a mysterious nonentity. But now we may have reason to change our views. You have, of course, information about the Count’s home, the Schloss Rozsnyo? Its situation, I mean, and so forth?”

“Certainly, Excellency. I can obtain all the information in two minutes.”

“Do so,” Gersdorff returned, “and furnish Herr Galabin with it. I will send him to your room at once.” Botheim bowed and withdrew. “You will undertake this mission?”

“I am only too much honoured, Excellency, by your confidence.”

“I am sure it is well placed. You have two objects, remember. First, to discover, if possible, what has become of Prince Roel; and secondly, to find out what you can about this Count Zarka. Now, good-bye. Be wary. I do not trust the Count. Botheim will give you all available information; we shall look to you to add to it materially.”

CHAPTER II
A CHANCE SHOT

The nearly horizontal rays of a setting September sun, red with the promise of a brilliant resurrection on the morrow, struck full against the great elevated timber-line, where, at any rate for a space, European civilization seems to be held in check by the appalling ruggedness and grandeur—the insurmountable wildness of self-assertive nature. The parting glory falling directly on the fringe of the great coniferous belt, threw into more striking relief the blue-black intensity of the forest depths. The day had been hot—sultry for the time of year, for September days are, as it were, the Parthian cohort of Summer’s retreating array: the air was still and silent with the languor which comes of hours of steady, windless heat. Only occasionally there rose from the impenetrable blackness of the woods the lazy cry of a pigeon or the whirr of a tree-partridge, so infrequent as to be almost startling in contrast with the prevailing stillness.

The nibbling hares, dotted at picturesque intervals over one at the tufted and sparsely wooded lawns which here and there broke the continuity of the interminable woods, munched and leaped peacefully and comfortably enough. Presently by common consent, not simultaneously, but by twos and threes, and batches, they stopped their feeding, raised their heads, and pricked their ears until the whole company was at attention. A few tree-partridges, preening their grey feathers, paused and looked round inquiringly towards the black wood into which they could see but a few yards, yet perhaps further than any other living thing. The pause—of alert expectancy—lasted but a few seconds. A fox came with slinking trot out of the wood, and made across the best covered corner of the lawn towards the thickets opposite, increasing his pace as he crossed the open, his eyes redder than normal, for the sun struck full into them. Most of the hares reassured, resumed their eclectic nibbling; a few, impressed by Reynard’s gait and manner, leisurely put a less distance between themselves and the covert, plucking an occasional tempting blade on the way.

There is a subtle magnetic influence acting from animal life upon animal life. Unknown as its cause is to us—for all our researches can never take us beyond the border-line of half-knowledge, at least this side of the grave—and imperfect as our conjectures are, we see clearly enough its influence the more unmistakable in direct ratio to the sharpness of the senses of the creature upon which it acts. We feel it ourselves in the same proportion, keeping time with our individual sensitiveness; but with most of us, at any rate, distance attenuates the subtle power. So, not without the grosser signs of the sudden lifting, this time with one accord, of scores of furry heads and ears, the warning cry of pigeons behind the dark foliage, and the sudden swift rush of the lately indolent tree-partridge, would a human being have felt constrained to look expectingly towards the fringe of the wood, the natural line of which was now broken by the figure of a man.

He had stopped on emerging from the covert, and now stood, set off picturesquely against his dark background, perhaps admiring the romantic scene suddenly opened before him, perhaps uncertain as to his whereabouts. So motionless was his attitude, so striking his appearance, that he hardly seemed to lend a human interest to the fairy spot; an onlooker from the opposite side of the valley would have expected him to vanish as mysteriously as he had come. Presently, however, he moved forward and began to descend the slope. The hares, which had begun to wonder whether there was any harm in him, scampered away on all sides. The man at once halted and made a quick movement of pointing the gun he carried under his arm, but it seemed to be merely the sportsman’s instinct, for he checked the action ere he had aimed, and replacing the weapon in its former position, resumed his way across the now deserted valley.

A handsome man, of fair complexion and athletic frame, dressed in a dark-green shooting suit, whose easy swinging gait had nevertheless a suggestion of military precision and alertness. His figure, standing out against the dark background, was picturesque enough; even the modern fashion of his clothes scarcely detracted from the suggestion of romance in his appearance; his coat was thrown open, and there seemed a characteristic touch of a bygone age in the dress which harmonized so perfectly with his old-world surroundings.

Ascending the lesser elevation on the farther side of the valley he passed in again among the great firs; but now the woods grew lighter as he walked, his course after a while tending downwards. Soon he emerged again into the red sunlight, and upon a far greater extent of comparatively open country than the gap in the woods he had lately crossed. Here he came upon a third essential of perfect beauty in scenery—a rushing stream of water, dancing and sparkling between its sedgy banks as though rejoicing in the change from the barren blackness of its mountain source to the warm luxuriance at which it had now arrived. A short distance below, as its bed grew wider and smoother, the stream became less turbulent, and soon subsided into a placidity marred only by the leaping fish.

The sportsman, however, had for the moment turned the other way, walking some two hundred yards to where it was possible to cross the stream, using the boulders in its course as stepping-stones. On reaching the other side he walked down the bank, not very far before halting to light a cigar. Having done this he still lingered, curiously attracted by a movement of the water under the opposite bank, now some distance off, for the stream had suddenly widened. It was a slight regular splashing, not natural to the spot, for the movement of the water seemed objective not subjective. He could not see whence it proceeded, the cause, in foreign, being hidden by the reeds and sedge which luxuriated along the bank. To resolve his doubts he took up his gun, quietly slipped a cartridge into it, and carelessly fired at the spot. Almost simultaneously there rose the cry not of bird or beast, but of a human being, and above the tops of the rushes directly appeared the head of—a woman.

In a moment the quiet imperturbability of the man vanished. Startled and shocked, he shouted vehement apologies; then set off running back to the place where the stream was fordable. Here in his hurry, he made a false step on the uneven surface of the stones and only just saved himself from falling into the water. He scrambled up and across and, running down the bank, soon pushed his way through the reeds and reached the lady whom he had unwittingly fired at.

That she was young and good-looking accounted, perhaps, for his precipitate haste; when he came face to face with her he told himself that his rush and scramble were fully justified.

A tall distinguished-looking girl stood before him; the handsomest specimen of female humanity he had seen for many a long day, glancing at him with an expression of half annoyance, half curiosity, but with the perfect self-possession that only a high-bred woman is capable of. There was no self-consciousness, no aiming at effect. She seemed to trouble herself very little about the man by whose act she might at that moment be lying dead where she now stood; vouchsafing him little more than a casual glance, and receiving his profuse apologies with no reciprocal excitement.

“But I have hit you, mad fool that I was! That is blood on your dress?”

There was a dark stain on the girl’s brown travelling skirt.

“Yes; some shot hit my hand,” she replied coolly, bringing forward her left hand bound with her handkerchief the delicate texture of which was absorbing blood like blotting paper.

“Oh! What can I say! Do let me——”

“And ruined my gown,” she went on in the same calm voice, contrasting curiously with his excited tone. “Or perhaps it was my fault. I should have held my hand out of harm’s way.”

He pulled out a folded handkerchief.

“Let me offer you this. Can you staunch the bleeding till I fetch a doctor?”

She reached for the handkerchief without looking at her companion.

“Thank you. I will take that. But you need not bother about a doctor.”

“But surely you will allow me——”

She interrupted him with the same equable voice.

“If you will direct me to the nearest road to Gorla’s Farm, I won’t trouble you any more.”

His look of concern was gradually changing to one of puzzled surprise. He could not make her out, nor tell whether she was seriously offended with him or not, so little emotion, or even expression, did she evince. His self-reproaches and vehement apologies seemed to go for nothing. The girl made even less of them than she did of her wounded hand, and she regarded that coolly enough. But a man does not, even unwittingly, inflict bodily harm on another, still less on a woman, without feeling genuine regret for it, and this man could not at once check his expressions of sorrow, cavalierly as they were received.

“You are not to blame,” the girl said at last with decision. “It was a pure accident; it was my own fault. I had no business to play hide and seek in a shooting ground. I ought to have known better and may be thankful the affair is no worse. And if it had been——. Now, as it is getting late I must be making my way homewards.”

He looked surprised. “Do you live in these wilds?”

She laughed. “You did not think there was any habitation, perhaps.”

“Except Rozsnyo.”

He thought her face changed curiously. At any rate the smile died out of it. “I am not bound there,” she replied. “We are living for the time at an old farm, the Meierhof Gorla. My father has come for sport.”

“That, too, is my reason for being here,” he said. “But I am a gipsy—for the time. I have a travelling cart and a tent, pitched over yonder”—he pointed across the valley—“my name is Osbert Von Tressen, and I have the honour to hold the rank of lieutenant in the second regiment of cavalry.”

“My father’s name,” she told him in return, “is Harlberg. We live, when we care for civilization, in town. But I love forest life.”

“You have enough of it here,” he returned drily. “I thought perhaps you had come from the Schloss Rozsnyo. You know Count Zarka?”

She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Yes, we know him. Do you?”

“No; only by—reputation.”

She gave a quick glance at him as though to detect a significance in the last word. If she seemed tempted to ask him what that reputation was, she refrained.

“I hope,” he asked sympathetically, “your hand is not very painful?”

“It hurts very little. I had no idea shot was so painless.”

They had come to the crossing-place over the stream; Von Tressen, going first and stepping backwards, handed her safely across.

“Take care,” he warned her midway. “I slipped on that stone myself just now.”

“You did not fall in?”

“I saved myself at the expense of a wet foot.”

She looked at him in a little amused commiseration. “How uncomfortable you must be! Do not let me keep you. I had rather lost my bearings, but if you can tell me the point to make for I can easily find my way home.”

He laughed. “I should have felt infinitely more uncomfortable if I left you now. I had really forgotten my damp boot. I hope my company is not offensive to you as, after all my folly, I fear it ought to be.”

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I am not vindictive enough to send you away.”

“Then you have forgiven me?”

“For what? I brought the accident on myself. I was tired and hot and thought it would be pleasant to lie down among the cool rushes and paddle my hand in the water, forgetting I ran the risk of being taken for a water-fowl or water-rat. There is nothing to forgive.”

“I shall never forgive myself.”

“You may easily,” she returned.

They walked on in silence for a time over the thick, springy, plush-like turf. The girl seemed preoccupied, and her companion had too much tact to force her to talk. Presently she asked, “Have you had good sport to-day?”

“A big bag of small game which my man has taken to the tent. I have been obliged to shoot alone, as a brother officer who was to have joined me cannot get leave just yet.”

They were passing now through a little wood, their talk languishing strangely; it was, in fact, awkward and disjointed, the girl was distraite, and a strange spell seemed to be on the man.

As they emerged from the wood a glorious landscape lay before them. A great valley, broken up into a thousand tints of light and shade by the setting sun which played among rock and thicket, here and there catching a bend of the glinting stream which wound its way through it. Beyond rose a purple backing of millions of pines, and above and beyond them again the snow-capped mountains in all their stern grandeur.

The girl stopped for a moment. “How lovely!” She spoke without the least suspicion of gush; it was a genuine expression of delight, perhaps curbed by the presence of her companion.

“Yes,” he agreed, “the valley looks beautiful to-day, but, to my thinking, it looks grandest under a stormy sky.”

She was looking towards a spot where, high up on the pine-clad hill a great splash of crimson fire sparkled and glinted, glowing with a brilliancy which tinged the woods around it with its own blood-red colour.

“The Schloss Rozsnyo stands well,” he observed.

“Like a fairy palace,” she commented.

“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Quite a show place, built half upon, half inside the rock, I am told. Most romantic, but singularly out of the way in these regions. It seems sheer waste. But then the Count, no doubt, is a man of peculiar ideas.”

His last remark was half a question, but the girl did not answer it. He was not exactly sorry to notice that her interest in Rozsnyo and its owner did not seem to be altogether of an agreeable nature.

They turned and walked on. She was busy with her thoughts now, he could see; and he forebore to interrupt them. As they turned into one of the broad glades that intersected the forest, he said:

“This is an afternoon of surprises after my week’s solitude. Who comes here?”

The girl’s look followed his. A few hundred yards away, coming towards them at a leisurely trot, was a horseman.

As they and the rider drew nearer, an idea struck Von Tressen.

“I wonder if by any chance this is the man we have been speaking of—Count Zarka?”

He was quite within recognizable distance now. But it seemed from her absence of curiosity—for she kept her eyes from the advancing figure—that Fräulein Harlberg had known him at once.

“Yes it is,” she answered curtly.

Von Tressen, in the glance which he could not resist, saw her face set with a peculiar look of suppressed feeling, almost of defiance. Next moment the Count was reining up in front of them. The two men raised their hats, but Zarka’s eyes were upon the girl. They had probably already taken in her companion during the approach.

“Fräulein Harlberg,” he said with a certain suavity of manner, “I just did myself the honour to call at the farm and found your father a little concerned at your long absence. Knowing the danger of losing one’s way in the forest I offered to go in search of you.”

“It was very good of you, Count,” the girl replied almost indifferently. “But I was hardly in danger of being quite lost.”

The Count now turned his attention to Von Tressen, looking at him with a peculiar wolfish smile, which was at the same time no smile at all, but just the mask of one. “I see, Fräulein, you have already found an efficient escort. You have been shooting in the forest, mein Herr?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Unfortunately?” The Count took up the word quickly, with a snap, as it were, and glanced with a smile of protest at the girl.

“Most unfortunately,” the Lieutenant repeated. “I have unhappily hit the Fräulein.”

Again Zarka echoed his words, drawing back his lips into an expression of incredulity.

“It is nothing,” the girl said a little impatiently.

But it had occurred to Von Tressen that it would be just as well to mention the accident. Zarka looked to him the man inevitably to find it out; besides which it seemed due to the girl that their chance acquaintanceship should be accounted for.

“The Fräulein is good enough to make light of it,” he said. “But it is desirable that a doctor should see her hand without delay. Therefore, perhaps, the Herr Graf will pardon me if I suggest that we move on.”

The Herr Graf did not look exactly in a pardoning mood, although the suave smile was still on his face. He wheeled his horse. “I will do myself the pleasure of bearing you company to the Meierhof,” he said in a tone which had in it less of a suggestion than a determination. “Perhaps then I may be allowed to ride into Kulhausen for a doctor. It will be quickest.”

They had moved on together, the Count walking his horse abreast of them and in his insinuating way trying to draw out a circumstantial account of the accident. At a turn in the forest road Von Tressen said, “It is properly I, the culprit, who should go for the doctor. I cannot allow you, Count, to take the trouble. I have a horse at my camp and——”

As he spoke he felt a pressure on his arm. The girl had given him a warning touch. Zarka signified by an indifferent bow that he accepted Von Tressen’s suggestion. But his face grew a shade darker as Fräulein Harlberg said:

“There is really no hurry. We can easily send from the farm. My father will naturally think it right, Herr Lieutenant, that you should come and make his acquaintance.”

The Count gave a tolerant smile, which probably served to mask some darker expression, and the three went on together a short half-mile to the house, Zarka chatting volubly and Von Tressen wondering why the girl had so manifestly objected to his leaving them.

CHAPTER III
A MOMENTOUS MEETING

Gorla’s Meierhof, or Grange, was a picturesque house which had been converted into a kind of shooting-box from a farmhouse, which, in turn, had been adapted from the ruins of an ancient building left centuries before by the Turks. It was a rough and primitive abode, but one which in that wild country would be considered comfortable enough and a not undesirable summer mountain residence, situated as it was on the fringe of the vast hill forests and commanding a view along the great sweep of the valley.

As the three approached the house they saw a man sitting before it smoking and reading a newspaper. At the sound of their voices he turned his head, then rose and sauntered to meet them. He was small but well set-up, somewhat dandified even in the loose lounging suit he wore; there was a good deal of the town man, Von Tressen thought, in his appearance and manner, and, what struck him forcibly, a decided military air in his carriage. This rather surprised him, for had the other been a soldier he would surely at his age have borne a high military title, whereas the Count had distinctly alluded to him more than once as plain Herr Harlberg. But that he had seen enough soldiering to have acquired a manifest military bearing was to the Lieutenant’s mind a certainty.

“At last!” Harlberg exclaimed, a little peevishly Von Tressen thought. “My dear Philippa, where have you been wandering?”

“Not so far, father,” she answered, with a laugh, and she introduced Von Tressen, who had been the object of his rather suspicious scrutiny.

The accident was related and the Lieutenant’s apologies accepted not ungraciously; the Count, who had dismounted and led his horse up the ascent to the house, standing in silence with his lips drawn back in the inevitable smile. At length he spoke, and it was to the purpose.

“The Herr Lieutenant has most kindly offered to ride into Kulhausen for a doctor to see Fräulein Philippa’s hand. Dare one suggest that the sooner it is professionally examined the better it will be?”

“There is no hurry; it hardly pains at all,” the girl protested.

For an instant the expression on the Count’s sharp face was not a pretty one. But he replied merely by a shrug of mingled protest and annoyance.

“Certainly. I am going at once,” Von Tressen said, watching the girl’s face involuntarily for a sign. “I only came so far, sir,” he added to Harlberg, “at the desire of the Fräulein, who was good enough to express a wish to present me to you.”

“But how will you get to Kulhausen?” Harlberg asked, with what seemed to the young man a rather too suggestive glance at the Count’s horse.

Anyhow Zarka accepted it with some alacrity. “If the Lieutenant will honour me by making use of my horse, it will be the quickest way, and I shall be only too charmed.”

As he turned to the animal to bring him over, Von Tressen instinctively glanced at the girl. She was biting her lip, and as their eyes met she gave a little, almost imperceptible, shake of the head.

“The Herr Lieutenant,” she said, “tells us he also has a horse close by. If he is kind enough to ride over to Kulhausen it would be perhaps a pity to deprive the Count of his means of getting home.”

The Count, however, did not seem to look at the proposed arrangement in that light. “I should be only too content and pleased to wait,” he protested. “There, Herr Lieutenant——”

He brought the horse round for Von Tressen to mount. But the hint had not been lost.

“I could not think of inconveniencing the Count,” he objected resolutely. “And it is absurd when my own horse is so near.” He made as though to move off. Zarka for a moment forgot his somewhat oppressive politeness.

“It is waste of time, man!” he hissed rather than spoke. “Take the horse; he will carry you well.”

But the other was resolved he would not be forced. He could not quite guess the reason of the girl’s anxiety, but he did not like the Count, and could understand that he might not be singular in his antipathy.

“No, no! Not for the world!” he cried, backing off. “Herr Harlberg, Fräulein, I have the honour. Auf Wiedersehen!” He turned and ran off, divided between amusement at the Count’s furious disgust and pleasure at the look of thanks in Fräulein Philippa’s eyes.

Zarka smoothed the strong muscles of his expressive face.

“An obstinate young Bursche,” he observed spitefully. “I hope the dangers of our forest are not to be increased by these mad marksmen.”

“It was entirely my own fault that he fired and hit me,” the girl said emphatically, as though annoyed at his tone. “You, Count, or any other sportsman, would have fired under the same provocation.”

The Count could smile again; he had evidently quite recovered his equanimity. “Then I can only congratulate myself that I was not in a position to inflict harm on you,” he returned. “You are not going, Fräulein?” for, with a slight bow as disdaining further argument, she had turned towards the house.

“Yes. I am tired with my long walk. I bid you good-evening, Count.” And she left them.

The two men did not speak till she was out of earshot. Then Harlberg remarked:

“It might have been an awkward contretemps, Count. As it is, I used to know this young fellow’s father. He was a cavalryman.”

Zarka gave a shrug. “It is nothing. The Lieutenant is of no account and an unsuspecting”—soldier, he was going to say, but substituted—“young swaggerer. I shall keep my eye on him. I gather that he is camping in the forest alone.”

“I hope he likes it,” Harlberg said wearily. “I find it dull enough.”

The Count laughed unsympathetically. “You miss the Königstrasse, my friend. Patience! It will not be for long. The grass will soon have grown over this excitement.”

“You have heard no news?”

“None. Except that the search is active. Naturally. A prince is a prince even though he be a fool, and cannot be allowed to disappear like a rag-picker. Well, good-evening, General——”

“Hush!” Harlberg held up a silencing hand.

“Oh, it is all safe here,” Zarka laughed in his masterful fashion. “There is no one to overhear us. You may trust me not to make a slip at the wrong time. I shall see you to-morrow, and, I hope, Fräulein Philippa.”

So with a sweeping glance at the house he mounted and rode off.

Harlberg went in and, lighting a fresh cigar, took up a novel and proceeded to make himself as comfortable as the place permitted. He had scarcely settled himself in the easiest chair the room afforded when his step-daughter came in.

“The Count has gone?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered casually, glancing up from the book. “He talks of coming again to-morrow. He is an agreeable fellow and will enliven our exile. By the way, my dear girl,” he went on in a voice of languid expostulation, “you must take care of yourself in the forest. How foolish of you to play the water-rat. Lucky the fellow was a bad shot and only hit your hand.”

“It was hardly a question of his being a bad shot,” the girl replied indifferently. “He could see nothing to aim at except the movement of my hand, and he hit that.”

“It is unfortunate.”

“No; the wound is absurdly slight.”

“I meant,” he said a little querulously, “the fact of the Lieutenant’s breaking in upon our privacy.”

“I do not see,” she returned, “that we have anything to fear. I thought you would be glad of company beyond our own.”

“Quite so. But under the circumstances, perhaps the fewer acquaintances we make the better. We have always the Count.”

“Yes,” she repeated, “we have always the Count. Father,” she added suddenly with a change of tone, “I do not care for Count Zarka’s attentions.”

His look of surprise was rather obviously unreal. “Have they been very marked?” he asked.

“No,” she answered drily, “because I have not given him the chance. Only I think it well you should know I do not care to see very much of Count Zarka.”

He threw out his hands deprecatingly. “Of course you know best, my dear. Only,” he added, changing from a resigned to a persuasive tone, “I should have imagined you would not have slighted the chance of an alliance with a man of the Count’s wealth and position.”

“And character?” The sharp question made him feel uncomfortable.

“Do you know anything against his character?” he inquired blandly.

“Nothing definite,” she answered quietly. “But I am not a fool, and Count Zarka’s personality does not seem to me to belie a certain evil reputation which I believe he enjoys.”

“Philippa——” he began, but she cut him short.

“Apart from this, father, I do not like Count Zarka, and I think he knows it. Anyhow, I have told you now so that there may be no misunderstanding or cross purposes between us on the subject.”

Philippa spoke quietly, but with a slight tremor in her voice which betrayed the feelings she repressed. She knew well how little affection her step-father really had for her. A handsome, vivacious girl, much admired wherever she appeared, her companionship was far less irksome to her sole guardian than might have been the case had she been plain and uninteresting. She knew all this, and although she accepted it as the inevitable logic of her step-father’s character, which was to have a real affection for no one outside his own skin, yet she rebelled at the idea of being disposed of to suit his convenience.

Harlberg spread out his hands in a gesture of protestation. “I have nothing to do with it, my dear,” he said, almost petulantly. “You are quite old enough to choose for yourself; and if our friend Count Zarka wishes to marry you, why, he has a tongue in his head, and a pretty glib one too.”

“I only wish you not to encourage him in that idea,” Philippa said.

“You may be sure I shall not,” he replied, taking up his novel again with a suggestion that argument was fatiguing, and he did not feel just then in the humour for it. The girl was far from sure, but, realizing the uselessness of further discussion, she said no more.

Meanwhile Lieutenant Von Tressen had saddled his horse and ridden post haste in search of the doctor. Having found the only practitioner of which the little place boasted, and arranged for him to come out to Gorla’s Farm without delay, he was starting back again, when he saw on the other side of the street a face which he recognized.

“Galabin!” he shouted. “So it is, by Jupiter. Why, Horaz, my friend, what on earth brings you here?”

The other man, on hearing his name called out, had glanced up quickly with a look of mingled suspicion and annoyance. But on recognizing Von Tressen his expression changed to a smile; he went across and shook hands.

“What on earth are you doing in these outlandish parts?” the Lieutenant repeated.

“Is it only in the military service that men take holidays?” Galabin retorted.

“A holiday?”

“Why not, my friend? Do we spend our leave in town?”

“But here? Why, Horaz, you are never married?”

“And on my honeymoon? No, thank you. I have come for the mountains and a little sport in the forest.”

“So? That is good to hear. I, too, am staying in the forest under canvas for sport. You must join me. The deer-stalking will begin in a few days. It will be glorious. You know Molvar of my regiment? He has deserted me. We arranged the expedition together, and at the last moment he cried off. Ah, well, he could not help it. If you are in earnest you shall take his place. I can promise you fine sport.”

Galabin’s face had become thoughtful, almost business-like. “You are camping in the forest?” he asked. “Anywhere near the Schloss Rozsnyo?”

“At present I am within half an hour’s walk of it. By the way, do you know Count Zarka?”

“Not I. Perhaps you do?”

“I met him just now for the first time.”

“An agreeable fellow, eh?”

“H’m! Yes, doubtless. Now, my dear Horaz, will you join me?”

“To-morrow? Yes, I shall be delighted.”

“Very well. I will come in the morning and fetch you and your traps.”

CHAPTER IV
THE UNACCOUNTABLE

Next morning, as in duty bound, Von Tressen stopped on his way to Kulhausen to inquire after Fräulein Harlberg’s injury. The surgeon had pronounced it to be trifling, had extracted a shot and answered for a speedy healing.

“So you see,” Philippa said to the Lieutenant, “you have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

She had come out of the house to greet him, her father not being visible.

“I have indeed,” he returned, “when I think how awful the result might have been.”

“It was a curiously informal introduction,” she said laughingly.

“That is to me the only pleasant aspect of the affair. I feel inclined never to fire a gun again.”

“You must not say that. You should have good sport to-day if my wishes were of any avail.”

“I don’t deserve,” he said self-reproachfully, “that you should be so forgiving.”

“A woman,” she replied—and as she spoke her eyes rested on him with a sort of wistful trust—“can afford to overlook in a man slight failings in consideration of qualities she respects.”

He coloured a little at the implied compliment.

“You are good to say so,” he murmured.

“Oh,” she said lightly, “it is nothing. You are a soldier; I am sure you are brave and true and loyal, that you have a sense of duty. What is a moment’s carelessness to set against that? There! Perhaps I have said too much for the proprieties, but I can’t bear to see you weighed down by unnecessary self-reproach. Now you must go and shoot away with a clear conscience.”

Respecting her motive for frankness, he only gave her a grateful bow.

“I am not going to shoot this morning,” he informed her. “I have been lucky enough to find a companion.”

“Ah!” She turned quickly to him with a look of something more than curiosity. “Here in these wilds?”

“Not exactly here,” he laughed. “But in Kulhausen last evening. An old friend of mine. I am going now to fetch him over to my gipsy camp.”

“A brother officer?”

“No, a civilian. His name is Horaz Galabin. He is one of the secretaries in the Chancellor’s Bureau.”

He spoke quite carelessly, as though his friend’s identity were scarcely a matter to interest his companion, and he was surprised to notice a rather anxious look on her face.

“What in the world,” she asked—and he could not help thinking her voice rather betrayed an unsuccessful attempt at indifference—“is a secretary of the Chancellerie doing out in these uncivilized parts?”

“He comes for sport, he tells me.”

“Ah! And you both by lucky chance find a companion.” She had regained her self-possession now. “Come! Here is another reason why you need not regret that mistaken shot. If you had not ridden into town for the doctor you would not have met your friend.”

A chance which he had been hoping for had presented itself, and he seized it.

“If I had taken the Count’s horse,” he said with a reminiscent laugh, “I should have got to Kulhausen sooner, and thereby should have probably missed Galabin.”

“No doubt,” she agreed. “I am glad you did not take it.”

“Not for that reason alone, Fräulein?”

For a moment her eyes rested on him searchingly as though to determine whether she might trust him. Evidently the result of the scrutiny was favourable, for she answered: