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:

“No; I did not want you to take the Count’s horse.”

“I gathered that,” he said with a smile; “and I have been puzzled for a reason, which perhaps I have no right to seek.”

“The explanation is quite simple,” she replied, smiling now in her turn. “I did not wish the Count detained here till you could bring his horse back.”

“The Count,” he said, “did not seem to share your idea that it would be inconvenient to him.”

“To him? Did I say so?”

“Ah, then to you. You do not like Count Zarka?”

Without looking at him she gave a little impatient shake of the head. “Not very much.”

“I thought so yesterday.” The girl was silent. “Perhaps,” he added, “I can guess why.”

“It is scarcely worth speculating about,” she said with a touch of pride. “Ah, here is my father.”

Herr Harlberg had sauntered from the house, and now came towards them with a not particularly gracious look on his discontented face. Von Tressen paid his respects, explained the object of his call, and expressed his relief at the doctor’s favourable report. Then, accepting a hint from Harlberg’s manner that he had stayed long enough, he took his leave.

“Tell me about this Count Zarka,” Galabin asked Von Tressen as they drove out to the forest together. “A wonderful fellow, is he not?”

“My dear man, I know little more than you. He has at least a wonderful house. Why are you so curious about the fellow?”

“Oh, I have heard of him in town,” the other answered carelessly. “He is reported to have become rich in an astonishingly short time, and no one can tell how.”

“He has the reputation of being a great gambler, and, what seldom follows, a successful one.”

“So I have heard.”

“And do you not believe it?”

Galabin gave a shrug. “I have no grounds on which to form an opinion. Yet I confess a man may well be sceptical. The gambler’s trade hardly pays so prodigiously—at least when he plays fair.”

They soon reached Von Tressen’s encampment, and after luncheon took their guns and strolled out.

“If it is all the same to you,” Galabin suggested, “suppose we shape our course in the direction of the Schloss Rozsnyo. I am rather curious to see the place.”

“I think, my friend,” Von Tressen returned slily, “you are very anxious to see it, and are much interested in Count Zarka. Why, I do not know. To me he is not an attractive person.”

Galabin gave a shrug. “I am a student of human nature, my dear Osbert. This man is a curiosity. At least you will allow that. Most men are negative characters. I love a positive, whether it be good or evil.”

“The positive characters in general are evil, are they not?”

“True. And I imagine our friend over there in particular. Still he will be a study.”

“Mark!” Von Tressen’s gun rang out, and a black-cock fell twenty yards in front of them. “But, my good Horaz,” he said as he reloaded, “you did not come out here to study character. You came for sport, did you not?”

Galabin pointed to the fallen bird. “There are more kinds of sport than that, my friend,” he returned.

Von Tressen looked at him sharply, and, as the eyes of the two men met, the light of a mutual understanding seemed to fill them. “Now, Horaz,” he said with a laugh, “is it worth while wasting time by playing at cross purposes? We are old comrades; you can trust me.”

“Yes,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation, “I can trust you. We both serve the same master, and it is on his business that I am here. Besides, you should be able to help me; there is no reason why we should not work together.”

“State service? My dear Horaz, you may be sure I shall only be too ready.”

“We diplomats,” Galabin observed cautiously, “have to be more than ordinarily careful. Gersdorff would say it is a mistake to trust one’s dearest friend. The very essence of our work is secrecy. Still, confidence here is less dangerous than the risk of our playing at cross purposes; for there, my friend, you might easily and quite unwittingly spoil my game.”

“No doubt,” Von Tressen agreed. “Nevertheless, you must not take me into your confidence against your better judgment.”

“I would not. Still I feel sure you can help me here if you will. It is a business where pluck and nerve are likely to be needed. You will give me your word of honour to be secret?”

“Certainly. You have my word of honour. Beyond that, if, as I understand, it is a state affair, and no private business, I am already bound by my oath of service.”

“Of course, my dear Osbert, I know you would be loyal to the death.”

“Now what is this mysterious undertaking?”

“Principally to find out all about your friend at Rozsnyo.”

Von Tressen laughed. “As I had already guessed. He is suspect?”

Galabin nodded. “There is an idea that he is in the pay of Russia. And, incidentally that he knows as much, or rather more, than anybody else about the disappearance of Prince Roel of Rapsberg.”

“And your mission is to convert the conjecture into a certainty.”

“Precisely. Now, tell me what you know.”

He threw himself down on the natural bank which rose towards the trunk of a great pine, and Von Tressen followed his example.

“Very little,” the Lieutenant replied. “And about Count Zarka, except that I have made the man’s acquaintance, probably much less than you. My meeting him was the result of a rather curious adventure yesterday.”

“Tell me.”

Von Tressen thereupon related the story of his unlucky shot, and his meeting with Fräulein Harlberg, telling everything with perfect frankness. When he had come to an end Galabin remarked:

“So you were not favourably impressed with the Herr Graf, and the young lady shares your repugnance. Harlberg? H’m! It is curious that an elderly man should drag his daughter out to a lonely farmhouse in these wilds for sport. You have come across him in your shooting excursions?”

“No. But I have been here only a few days.”

“You have no corroborative evidence that he does shoot?”

Von Tressen laughed. “No. Nor can I say that he looks a keen sportsman. One thing I did notice about him, though.”

“That he had the air of a military man?”

The Lieutenant stared. “Why, Horaz, how did you guess that?”

“You shall know before long. I have an idea. These people are intimate with the Count, and mein Herr comes here for sport. The Count, their friend, has a great house quite near. Why does he not invite them to stay at Rozsnyo instead of allowing them to undergo the discomforts of an old farmhouse?”

He seemed to be arguing the matter with himself rather than putting the question to his companion.

Von Tressen shook his head. “It is very singular.”

“Not so very strange,” Galabin returned with a laugh. “If you are an admirer of Fräulein Harlberg, my dear friend, I dare say there is no reason why you should not continue your admiration.”

Von Tressen was silent for a few moments.

“Why are they here?” he asked.

“Ah! That is a question which perhaps no one could answer so satisfactorily as Count Zarka. But if we have patience we may find it out for ourselves. At present I can only hazard the merest guess.”

“And that is——?”

“That the Count may share your and Prince Roel’s admiration for the young lady. Is it too improbable?”

Von Tressen shook his head resentfully. “No; I fear it is quite likely.”

“At least it supplies a motive. I fancy Rozsnyo is the central point of a very pretty series of conspiracies, public and private, one within the other, which it will be my task to unravel.”

“I shall only be too glad to help you,” Von Tressen declared heartily.

“Very well, then. We will make a reconnaissance of Rozsnyo to-night.”

CHAPTER V
THE MYSTERY OF ROZSNYO

At about nine o’clock that evening the two friends set out through the forest for the Schloss Rozsnyo. They had been careful to utter no hint of their intention which might be overheard by Bela, Von Tressen’s soldier servant, and their nocturnal expedition was ostensibly to the feeding grounds of the deer, which in those regions are stalked at night.

A cloudy sky with occasional bright intervals suited their purpose well, and the forest paths had become sufficiently familiar to Von Tressen to enable him to guide his companion without difficulty across the wooded valley to the elevation on which Rozsnyo stood.

As they drew near the castle the moon shone out brilliantly for a few minutes, affording them, from their dark covert, a magnificent view of the romantic building perched high above them. A curious edifice blending, as it did, antique and modern styles of architecture, the rough solidity of the ancient fortified dwelling with the fantastic pretentiousness of the Gothic of yesterday. But the whole effect was picturesque enough, especially as seen by moonlight.

“A fine lair for a beast of prey,” was Galabin’s comment. “What if the inside should be as foul as the outside is fair?”

“Not an easy place to reconnoitre,” Von Tressen observed, having taken in with a professional scrutiny the situation of the castle and its points of approach.

“No,” Galabin replied; “the undertaking is by no means easy or safe, as the Chancellor gave me clearly to understand. Still, I mean to go through with it, although there is no reason why one need act with precipitation.”

Keeping within the dark fringe of the wood, they began the ascent of the hill and soon had reached the small plateau on which Rozsnyo stood. As the castle came into view from the side approach the two men could get a very good idea of its real size and form. It was a large rambling structure, covering far more space than apparently its real size and capacity would warrant. Indeed, the idea in its construction seemed to have been distance; for one part, that is, to lie as far from the other extremity as possible. From their point of observation in the valley below, the two men had noticed a light in one of the windows; here on the inner side all was dark: there seemed no sign of life about the place.

The principal approach to the castle was by a great bridge of wood and iron thrown over a moat drained of its water and planted with flower-beds in curiously modern contrast to the grey massive walls which rose from it.

All was still and silent save for the rustling of the pines as an occasional gust swept through them. The two men emerged boldly into the open which divided the surrounding wood from the castle precincts.

“We are doing no harm in strolling round the place,” Galabin said. “Let us make a tour of inspection and keep our eyes open.”

Keeping on the outer edge of what had been the moat, they followed the circuit of the building until they came round again on the farther side of the declivity of rock which dropped almost sheer down to the valley. Nothing but a general idea of the castle rewarded their scrutiny. All was dark and silent.

“Not a very promising place to investigate,” Von Tressen laughed. “We had better go back again as we came. To try and get down into the valley from this side looks like breaking our necks.”

“Yes,” Galabin assented grimly. “The vulture has well chosen his eyrie. But for a great house there seems to be a singular absence of life about the place.”

A heavy bank of clouds had now drifted over the moon, and the darkness, intensified by the wall of pine woods, was so thick that the two men had some difficulty in finding their way round the moat again, at least without stumbling down the grass-grown bank.

Suddenly Von Tressen, who was in front, stopped, so abruptly that Galabin cannoned against him.

“Look!”

A ray of light had shot out across the moat at a point some twenty yards in front of them. It came from the castle, and was rendered more vivid by the intense darkness elsewhere. The two diverged from the path now until they came opposite to the spot whence the light proceeded. It streamed from a window at some distance from the ground in an otherwise blank wall which connected two Gothic towers. There was nothing, of course, mysterious or even remarkable in the appearance of the light, which was, indeed, rather to be expected than the utter darkness in which all the back part of the castle had been shrouded, yet somehow both men felt that there was an element of mystery about it. For one thing, the room whence it came was situated at about the most distant point from that other lighted window they had seen from below, while all the intervening block of buildings seemed dark and silent as a ruin.

“I should like,” said Galabin, “to take the liberty of looking inside that room.”

“Impossible, so far as one can see,” Von Tressen replied. “There is nothing but sheer wall. Still, we might creep across and examine it.”

Keeping well outside the band of light which stretched slantwise across the moat, they descended into its hollow and crept up the other side. So much of it, that is, as they found practicable. For the angle made by the inner bank only rose about eight or ten feet from the bottom and then continued in sheer, straight stone wall. The two men were now directly underneath the window from which the light passed high over their heads; but, although they listened intently they could detect no sound from the room above them. To think of climbing the wall was absurd. At that part, at any rate, the stones were smoothly laid and faced, no hold for hands or feet was possible. After a thorough examination both men agreed that it was not feasible.

“If only some of yonder trees grew this side of the moat,” Von Tressen observed.

“Ah!” An idea occurred to his friend. “Suppose we climb one as it is and try what we can see. We shall at least get on a level with the window.”

Von Tressen nodded, and they stealthily recrossed the dip and regained the shelter of the wood.

“Let me go up and take an observation,” Von Tressen proposed. “I used to be a good climber.”

Selecting the foremost tree opposite the window, the Lieutenant with some little difficulty swarmed up the bare trunk. Galabin stood below eagerly watching his progress, which became easier as he got higher and the stem grew narrower. At length he calculated that Von Tressen must be on a level with the window, and drew back to measure the distance with his eye. As he did so, suddenly and silently the light vanished. He turned quickly, only to see nothing but a mass of black wall rising indistinct in the darkness. It was some minutes before he heard his companion descending; perhaps he had lingered in the hope that the light might re-appear, for assuredly nothing was to be seen in its absence.

“Just too late,” Von Tressen exclaimed regretfully, as he reached the ground. “It was provoking; but, never mind, we may have better luck another night.”

“Yes; we will come to-morrow,” Galabin said. “Although, after all, there may be nothing worth troubling to see. But I must confess——”

He stopped as Von Tressen knocked his arm sharply. An extraordinary thing had happened. For the moon coming out in its full brightness showed the wall blank now, without a trace of the window whence the light had shone.

At first neither man could realize it nor believe his eyes. Then, as they became certain of the strange disappearance they looked at each other in amazement.

“Where has the window gone to?” Von Tressen exclaimed, with a short laugh.

Galabin shook his head. “Rather mysterious, is it not? Let us cross over again and make sure that it is not an optical delusion.”

In a few seconds they were under the wall, looking in vain for a sign of the window.

“It was directly above us here,” Von Tressen said. “I would swear to that. I marked it by the triangular flower-bed. But where is it now?”

The dark wall above them presented an unbroken surface of stone. The moon shone out for a moment and proved it clearly. There was no window.

“Well,” observed Galabin, as they turned away from their puzzled search, “at least we have found something mysteriously interesting to follow up. Count Zarka is evidently a man worth the trouble of watching. We will come again to-morrow night, and may have better luck.”

So without seeing anything further to excite their curiosity they returned through the forest to their camping-ground.

CHAPTER VI
ZARKA PLAYS TERRORIST

Next day, as the two friends were preparing for a morning’s sport, they were surprised by a visit from no less a personage than Count Zarka himself. He came in, all smiles, to invite them to Rozsnyo.

“I really cannot allow you to live here like gipsies,” he said, “when I have a great, almost empty house, within a stone’s throw. You must be my guests while you stay in the forest.”

His manner was polished and civil to a degree which with some people would have seemed charming, yet somehow to the two men it was in the matter of sincerity absolutely unconvincing. The invitation was declined as gracefully as possible, but without hesitation. They liked the free life of the forest, Von Tressen said, the novel change in their mode of existence. Moreover, they were not prepared for visiting, and would feel uncomfortable in a big house.

Zarka forebore to press the invitation beyond the slight combating of their excuses which the appearance of sincerity demanded.

“At least,” he said with his somewhat sinister smile, “you must let me make you free of that part of the forest which is my preserve. I can promise you good sport there.”

They thanked him and could not well refuse.

“Now,” he continued, “if you will not stay at my somewhat formidable house, you will at least not refuse to come and see it. You have doubtless an hour to spare this afternoon. I have some curiosities which may interest you, and the view from my Belvidere is magnificent. I may expect you? Yes?”

Von Tressen glanced at Galabin, who, without hesitation, accepted the invitation. Whereupon with a parting volley of polite remarks and small-talk the Count wheeled his horse and with a flourish rode off.

“An interesting specimen of character,” Galabin observed as they stood watching him down the forest road. “I wonder why he wanted us to stay at Rozsnyo; that is, if he did want us, which I doubt.”

At that moment the Count turned in his saddle and, looking back, saw they were watching him. He waved his riding whip. It was a mere flourish to cover his action of curiosity, and as such the two men recognized it. Then he put his horse to a trot and was quickly out of sight. The two looked at each other and laughed.

“I am glad, anyhow, he asked us up there,” Galabin said. “I want to take every opportunity I can get of examining the place. And I have a curiosity to see what our mysterious window looks like by daylight.”

Count Zarka rode on to Gorla’s Farm and announced himself with, for a ceremonious person, scant ceremony to Philippa Harlberg, whom he found in the house. Perhaps he had an idea that a more formal entry might result in his not seeing her.

“My father is smoking his cigar outside,” she said, as they shook hands.

He returned a protesting smile.

“I did not come particularly to see the General. I came to see you.”

Her reception of the announcement was hardly encouraging, yet she had to submit to the visit with as good a grace as possible.

“I have had news to-day from town,” he observed; then stopped, watching her.

“Ah, yes?” There was repressed apprehension in her tone which he was too clever to fail to notice.

“Prince Roel has not yet been found—dead or alive.”

“Poor fellow!” Her pity was genuine enough, yet there was something behind it.

“The search,” Zarka continued, still eyeing her keenly, “is being energetically carried on by his family as well as by the Government. It is just as well that you did not stay in the city.”

“Yes.” She responded mechanically without conviction.

“A great friend of Prince Roel’s is reported to have set out for Paris.”

“Ah!” She looked at him enquiringly, yet unwilling to show how great her curiosity was.

“Yes,” he proceeded with his evil smile. “Perhaps after all you may have been very wise in changing your intention of going to Paris.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed in the same preoccupied tone. Then with a flash her manner changed. “No. I was wrong to leave town. You should know perfectly well, Count, that I was neither directly nor indirectly the cause of Prince Roel’s disappearance.”

She spoke vehemently, as though lashed by the man’s insinuations into taking a stand against him. He merely smiled, more inscrutably than ever.

“Of course if you will tell me so I am bound to believe it,” he replied. “Only, other people might not be so easily convinced.”

“And why not, pray?” she demanded, with a touch of haughtiness.

“The Prince was well known to be rather more than an admirer of yours, Fräulein.”

“Absurd!” she burst out. “An admirer, perhaps, but nothing more, and you have no warrant for supposing such a thing. Do men make away with themselves for unreturned admiration? I am not to be at the mercy of such a suggestion, Count.”

Behind the tolerant smile of a strong-willed man who holds, or thinks he holds, a winning card, there was a look of intense, hardly disguised admiration in Zarka’s eyes. The girl had at last roused herself to face him; instead of mere avoidance she had sounded now a bold note of open defiance. He realized that, perhaps he had expected it, anyhow he was prepared to meet it.

He replied quietly, veiling the sentiment her outburst had called up—

“It is most unfair,” he said insinuatingly, “that you should be the victim of an unfortunate suspicion; particularly hard that the crime of which you stand accused is simply that of exciting in this man an admiration which you were unable to return. My dear Fräulein, it must often have been your fate—and will be—to commit that offence, if it be one.” As she was not looking at him, he saved himself the trouble of pointing his compliment with one of his characteristic smiles. “But in this case,” he went on suavely—“you will, I am sure, forgive my hinting at it—have not Prince Roel’s friends perhaps something more to go upon than a mere suggestion?”

She turned upon him sharply, and met the insinuating smile she so detested.

“What do you mean, Count?”

He spread out his hands deprecatingly.

“I mean,” he continued in the same quiet voice, subdued because the words themselves carried sting and point sufficient, “have they not evidence of a pre-determination on the Prince’s part not to survive your cruelty?”

“My cruelty!” she cried, and her face went white. “What evidence?”

“The evidence,” he answered quietly and unhesitatingly, “of the roses.”

She was at a loss, that was plain. And the idea of a false underhand accusation struck more fear to her than the certainty of her visitor’s determined persecution.

“The roses?” she repeated.

“The red and the white,” he answered, with an almost mocking seriousness. “The white signifying life, and the red, death. It was perhaps a cruel choice to force upon you.”

“Choice?” she exclaimed in blank amazement. “I know of no choice.”

“Surely!” he insisted blandly. “And you wore the red roses at the Margravine von Reuspach’s ball.”

“I wore——” she replied. “Yes, I remember wearing red roses which Prince Roel sent me. I hesitated whether I should put them in my dress, and only did so because I thought it would be ungracious to refuse.”

Zarka raised his eyebrows in affected astonishment.

“Ungracious, Fräulein? To refuse to send your lover to his death?”

“Prince Roel was not my lover,” she retorted indignantly. “And how could wearing his roses send him to his death?”

“The red ones, Fräulein,” he answered with suave insistence. “The red were for death, the white for life. And you chose to wear the red.”

The girl looked at him half in doubt, half in consternation.

“I know nothing of any white roses,” she replied steadily, although her heart began to be full of a sickening fear of treachery, “nor of any particular significance attached to my wearing red ones.”

The Count looked incredulous.

“Indeed! But Prince Roel is known to have sent roses of both kinds, with a note intimating the significance to turn of which colour you should choose to wear that night.”

She shook her head.

“I know nothing of this. All I received was a bunch of red roses.”

“And no note?”

“And no note. Perhaps, Count,” she went on, with a touch of scorn, “as you know so much more of the affair than I, you will tell me the words of the note.”

Zarka gave a slight bow of acceptance.

“A copy of the note addressed to you is in the hands of the Chancellor, as having been found among Prince Roel’s papers,” he replied. “I have, as you know, had to interest myself in the matter from political reasons. So far as my memory serves me, the words were these:

“‘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.’ Those,” he added with a smile, which seemed to deprecate further denial on her part, “were the words. And you wore the red roses.”

She met his look and replied, unfalteringly—

“Count, I can only repeat I never got the note you speak of, nor the white roses. You, who seem to know so much, should at least know that.”

Her manner was one of defiance rather than defence or explanation, and Zarka felt that intimidation here would hardly serve his purpose. Accordingly he changed his tone.

“I am very glad to hear it,” he said sympathetically, “and more especially for your own sake. But it seems to me that some hideous mistake has been made, possibly by an enemy of the Prince’s, a mistake which is likely to have cost him his life. It strikes, as I have hinted, a particularly cruel blow at you, Fräulein. For the world will hardly believe that you wore the red roses by accident, not design. And—I do not wish to alarm you, but it is necessary to realize and face the situation—the effect on the Prince’s family and friends must be bitter enough to lead to danger to yourself.”

“Danger!” the girl echoed scornfully. “I am not afraid, knowing that I have done nothing to deserve their ill-feeling. What do you mean by danger, Count? It is, as you say, best to know how one stands.”

Zarka affected to hesitate, as shrinking from a truth which might alarm her.

“These Eastern Huns,” he replied slowly and with an assumed deliberation, “are a peculiar race, given to fits of ungovernable passion, and actuated by a blind spirit of revenge for a wrong, fancied or real. They are dangerous people to cross, hot-headed and unreasoning, and there is no knowing to what length their vindictiveness may carry them.”

“I understand your suggestion,” the girl said almost coldly. “Do these people wreak their vengeance on women? I always thought they were chivalrous.”

Zarka’s eyes were fixed on her like those of a snake, ever ready to dart in the direction his prey might try to escape.

“You have never heard,” he replied, almost softly, “of the Blutrache, the blood vengeance?”

“A kind of vendetta,” she replied, in a tone approaching indifference. “Yes. But you will hardly expect me to stand in terror of that.”

“Ah!” he returned. “Then you know little of it.”

“If I knew everything I should not fear it.”

“Indeed, Fräulein?” His exclamation was an incredulous protest.

“No. For two reasons,” she went on. “In the first place, I am entirely innocent of Prince Roel’s death, and in the second, even did it lie at my door, I can hardly suppose that the most blood-thirsty of his avengers would seek retribution against a woman.”

Zarka gave a shrug of doubt.

“Perhaps not. Although I have never heard that these people allowed the sex of their wronger to stand in the way of their vengeance. What I wish to say, Fräulein,” he continued with a change of tone, “is, that I hope I shall be permitted to stand between you and any danger which may exist. Let me assure you of my devotion both to your safety and happiness as to yourself.”

He spoke earnestly, with a touch of repressed passion in his voice. Before she could reply, to her great relief her father came in, and no more on the subject could be said.

CHAPTER VII
THE CASTLE BY DAY

That afternoon, as arranged, Von Tressen and Galabin paid a visit to Rozsnyo. Count Zarka received them with every sign of hospitality, and led them through a wide corridor lined with statues and bronzes, to an octagonal belvidere room where, somewhat to the visitors’ surprise, they found two ladies. The Count presented them to his cousin, Madame d’Ivady, a stately, picturesque woman, and her daughter, Fräulein Royda, a dark, rather handsome girl.

“My cousins,” Zarka said, with his easy, tactful, man-of-the-world air, “are kind enough to take compassion on my loneliness in this rocky stronghold, and give me as much of their company here as my conscience will allow me to take, knowing as I do that I am thereby depriving them of the joys of the outer world of gaiety and fashion, and that world of their presence.”

The elder lady swept her hand towards the windows which filled nearly three-quarters of the side of the room.

“We have at least nothing like this in Paris or Vienna,” she said with a sort of stately patronage, which made the two visitors struggle with a smile.

Perhaps the girl noticed their repressed amusement, for she moved to the window, saying—

“I don’t know where in the whole of Europe another view like this is to be found. Is it not magnificent?”

She turned her head in invitation to the young men to join her, and they moved to her side. There was no gainsaying the paramount loveliness of the panorama beneath and around them; the multitudinous shades of colour, ranging from the purple black of the pine woods to the red gold of the mountain tops; the spray of the torrent catching the sunlight, the deep glassy mirror of the lake, the luscious, restful green of the valley, and the brilliant flower-clad bank from which the castle rose—all made it indeed a position of surpassing beauty.

“Before we go over the place,” Zarka said, “you must have some refreshment. Walking in the forest is so fascinating that one is apt to forget how exhausting it may be. Now you shall try some Imperial Tokay.”

A large salver with cakes and flasks of wine had been brought in, and Zarka did the honours with a flourish and excess of politeness which hardly left room for the suspicion of a grim nature beneath.

“I tried to persuade our friends to take up their abode here for a while,” he observed to the ladies. “But they preferred the simplicity of a tent in the forest.”

“More natural than gallant,” Madame d’Ivady commented, in her grand manner.

“Hardly ungallant,” Galabin objected laughingly, “since we did not know of the presence of ladies at Rozsnyo.”

“And now you are aware of it,” the old lady said with the same pompous rigidity, “will you not change your mind?”

Zarka interposed.

“We must not worry our young friends, Cousin Gertrud. It is only natural that they should like the free life of the forest, and it would be unfair to make them lead, even here, the very existence from which they have for the time emancipated themselves.”

The girl laughed.

“Mother can hardly understand any one preferring life in a tent to being snug in a house.”

Certainly the imagination would fail to picture the majestic, formal Madame d’Ivady roughing it under canvas, and they smiled at the idea.

“Now,” exclaimed Zarka, as having finally disposed of the subject, “shall we stroll round and see the few curiosities my poor house has to show? Come, Royda. I suppose we cannot tempt you, Cousin Gertrud?”

The old lady excused herself with a dignity out of all proportion to the matter, and they went off on a tour of inspection, the host leading the way, and keeping up a running description of the place as they proceeded, explaining how he had, so to speak, grafted a new house on the remains of the mediæval castle. All the rooms through which they passed were decorated and furnished in a manner suggestive of considerable wealth.

Presently they crossed a small inner courtyard, and Zarka paused before a door of ecclesiastical design.

“This,” he said, “is a necessary adjunct to a house so isolated as mine.” He threw open the door, and they found themselves to their surprise in an elaborately fitted private chapel. It was perhaps as well that their voluble host did not catch the glances exchanged between his two visitors; he might not have felt flattered by the implied sarcasm on his religious arrangements. Perhaps their silence was significant; anyhow the Count did not detain them in the chapel longer than was needed to glance round it.

“Now,” he said, as they turned from the door, “one more room, and I will not bore you by playing the showman any longer, at least indoors. I must take you down into the rock and show you my armoury. I think you will admit it is worth seeing.”

Indeed it was. The Count led the way down a broad winding staircase cut between walls of solid rock. Deep loopholes, lined with reflectors, gave light at intervals, and the roughness of the steps, evidently hewn in the rock-bed, was covered with thick carpets of Oriental design. Arrived at the bottom the Count pressed a knob, and the great barred doors in front of them opened, disclosing an unexpected sight.

It was a great room, constructed deep in the rock; its stone walls, hewn smooth and polished, were hung with arms and trophies of the chase. Suits of armour of various descriptions and ages were arranged on stands round the room, from regal suits of mail to the habergeons of humble pikemen and arquebusiers. Above were suspended helmets, the crested, gold-inlaid casques of warrior kings and knights, as well as the sallet of the free-lance and the plain skull pieces and morions of foot-soldiers. Shields of various shapes and emblazonry formed a frieze round the upper part of the walls; below were swords, rapiers and daggers, lances gay with pennons, murderous pikes, daggers, gauntlets, all in artistic array. The great room, hewn out almost to the face of the rock, sloping almost sheer down from beneath the castle, was lighted by deep windows opening on to the side of the precipice, and commanding the sunlit valley which stretched away below.

Zarka watched his visitors’ surprise with his habitual smile, a smile which seemed to serve as a mask for possibly darker thoughts behind.

“This room,” he observed, “is my favourite toy, and it has afforded me more amusement than most toys.”

“An innocent amusement,” Galabin thought; “yet, truly with a grim significance behind it.”

“The room was made before my time,” Zarka continued, in answer to a question of Von Tressen’s. “It was excavated by my great-grandfather and used as a sort of strong room; perhaps”—he gave a shrug—“who knows? a hiding place in those troublous times. All I have done is to have it enlarged and fitted up as you see. Yes; it is my hobby. I have fallen a prey to the collector’s mania, and I fear have wasted much time and good money over it.”

Presently, when they had gone round the room, and cursorily inspected its contents, their host proposed, what his visitors were really eager for, a stroll round the outside of the castle.

“You have a most interesting abode,” Galabin remarked, as they found themselves in the hall again. “I suppose there are further curiosities to be seen above stairs?”

The Count’s urbane smile widened into a half comic grin of apology.

“All modern! Alas! all modern,” he exclaimed. “The lower part of the castle alone is old. I will not destroy the effect of the few quaint things you have seen by contrasting them with the bedroom appointments from the Königstrasse. Unless, that is, you shall change your mind and care to spend a few nights here. Perhaps if the weather breaks I may have the pleasure of being your host.”

They strolled out and made the circuit of the castle. It was with no small curiosity that the two visitors sought the window where they had seen the light, and which had seemed to disappear so mysteriously. It had vanished indeed. A blank wall ran from tower to tower without an opening or break of any kind. Unseen by Zarka the two men exchanged glances of wonder. Surely, they thought, the window itself with the light streaming from it across to the very spot where they were standing had not been a delusion of their brain. At any rate, now in the broad sunlight, there was no sign of it to be detected. The wall, massive and thick, seemed to put out of the question the idea of an opening into it. No particular examination could, of course, be hazarded, but a glance was enough to show how unaccountable was what they had seen the night before.

As they strolled on, Fräulein d’Ivady lingered behind to point out to Von Tressen a rare species of flowering plant which was growing in the old moat. This manœuvre, for it seemed designed, threw them a little way behind the other pair.

“You have been long encamped here in the forest?” the girl asked as they turned to follow.

“Hardly a week.”

“I heard,” she seemed to lower her voice guardedly, “I heard of your adventure the other day.”

“My adventure?”

“Surely!” she laughed, “The rare game you flushed and hit. The mysterious lady who has taken up her abode at the old farmhouse.”

“Ah, yes. That was an unfortunate mistake of mine.”

“Tell me of this Fräulein Harlberg,” she said quickly. “I have never seen her.”

“I have only seen her twice,” he replied, “and know nothing about her except that she is staying there with her father.”

“For what reason?”

“For sport, I understood. But I am sure the Count could tell you far more about them than I.”

“Aubray?” She nodded at Zarka. “He is there often? He knows them very well?”

“I think so,” Von Tressen answered. “He seemed the other day on quite familiar terms with them. I imagined they were old friends.”

He was a simple, straight-forward fellow, Von Tressen, and innocently saw nothing beyond curiosity in his companion’s questions. Perhaps, though, had he looked in her face during his last words he might have realized that there was something more serious in those almost breathless inquiries.

“This Fräulein Harlberg,” she went on; “is she very handsome?”

“Yes; very good-looking, I think.”

He hesitated a little awkwardly over his answer, and, woman-like, she instantly divined the reason.

“Ah,” she returned, with an affectation of banter in her tone, “I understand, do I? The romance is not to end with the healing of the lady’s wounded hand?”

He laughed.

“You go too fast for me, Fräulein.”

“At least you are interested in—your victim?”

“Could I be otherwise? Still I regret that my knowledge is not equal to my interest, or I could better gratify your curiosity.”

“Curiosity about what?”

The Count had turned suddenly—he evidently vibrated with alertness and had quick ears. The restless, glittering eyes and wolfish teeth faced them.

“Curiosity about what?” he repeated, as each hesitated for the other to reply.

“Nothing, Aubray,” the girl answered quickly, as though to anticipate Von Tressen. “I was asking the Lieutenant about his adventures in the forest.”

The eyes fixed on them seemed to grow stern, although the smile did not relax.

“Has the Lieutenant had any adventures, then?”

“Nothing worth relating,” Von Tressen answered. Somehow he felt he did not care to allude to the one episode the girl and he had been speaking of.

Zarka’s grin widened as his eyes looked more insistent. “What is the mystery?” he demanded, addressing his cousin rather than Von Tressen.

“No mystery, Aubray,” she replied, with a little show of impatience, “but what you already know. Lieutenant Von Tressen’s unlucky shot.”

“Ah? You do not deserve to hear tales if you allude to them so indiscreetly, my good cousin.”

He spoke playfully, but there was an evil gleam in his eyes. The girl bit her lip in self-annoyance, and said nothing. Von Tressen interposed.

“I can assure you, Count, that so far as I am concerned, there was no reason why Fräulein d’Ivady should not allude to that unlucky episode. At least I deserve to be for ever reminded of my carelessness.”

Zarka made a gesture of protest. “You are my guest, Herr Lieutenant, and I do not wish you, here, at any rate, to be twitted with a mistake which might have had very serious consequences.”

It seemed to Von Tressen that his host was making much more of the business than had the girl. There was a scarcely veiled sharpness in Zarka’s tone which seemed meant to sting his cousin.

“But I assure you, Count——” Von Tressen began, when Zarka interrupted him.

“Let us dismiss the subject, please,” he said almost peremptorily. “It is happily at an end.”

CHAPTER VIII
A TELL-TALE LIGHT

“I cannot make out our friend the Count,” Galabin observed, as the two walked back to their temporary home. “The whole business is a puzzle, but I must say an interesting one, and I am not sorry for having set myself to unriddle it. He is sharp and clever—unpleasantly so—but I do not think he has any idea that I am here less for sport than to keep an eye on him.”

“No,” Von Tressen agreed. “I could have kicked the fellow, though, for the bullying suggestion in the way he spoke to that girl. I fancy, by the way, one of the hardest riddles you have to solve, my friend, is whence he, lately a poor man, has got all the money of which that place gives evidence.”

“Yes; the Herr Count is interesting game to stalk, and not easy. But a slight chance may show us a way of coming close to him and getting in a shot. We must go back there to-night for a further examination of that mysterious window. You’ll come?”

“Decidedly. I shall not rest till I have found out at least that secret.”

When they got to the tent it was already dusk, and they found Von Tressen’s man Bela lamenting an over-cooked dinner. During the meal their talk was guardedly of a simpler kind of sport than they were in reality pursuing. Presently Bela, who was waiting on them, observed—

“There is another gentleman shooting in this part of the forest. Yes,” he went on, in answer to their exclamation of surprise, “he passed by here this afternoon.”

“Herr Harlberg, no doubt,” Von Tressen said to Galabin. Then to Bela: “A short, elderly, gentleman, with a military air, was it not?”

The man shook his head. “Military, perhaps,” he replied. “But not old or short; he was tall and fierce looking, with black eyes that looked through one.”

The two men glanced at one another. “Who can this be? A sportsman, you say, Bela?”

“Yes, mein Herr; he had a sporting gun.”

So the stranger’s identity was a puzzle. “After all,” Von Tressen said at length, “we have no monopoly of the forest; it is open to all as to us. There may be other sportsmen about.”

Darkness having fallen by the time the meal was over, they lighted their cigars and strolled off again towards Rozsnyo. The sky had become cloudy and threatened rain; it was, however, a night well suited to their purpose. This time they made their way directly to that side of the castle where they had seen the mysteriously lighted window. No; not a trace of it was to be noticed; the wall was dark and presented the blank, unbroken surface they had seen there in the afternoon. Even in the darkness an unlighted window could not have escaped their scrutiny, and there certainly was none. They had the bearings exactly from the tree which Von Tressen had climbed; but opposite to it now was nothing but bare wall.

“I cannot understand it,” Galabin said.

“Could we have made a mistake about the light?” Von Tressen suggested.

“Both of us? Impossible! And yet—ah!”

He was looking towards the spot as he spoke, and now, breaking off suddenly, clutched his companion’s arm. The Lieutenant turned eagerly.

“What is it?” he asked, after looking in the direction for a few moments. “I can see nothing.”

“Wait! Watch!” Galabin returned in an excited whisper. “There! Look! Above the wall,” he continued as Von Tressen made no response. “There! again!”

“It was nothing but a bird flying over——”

“Yes, a bird. You saw it plainly?”

“Quite.”

“For how long?”

“For a second.”

“Why no longer?” Galabin asked, with the triumphant satisfaction bred of a discovery.

“The bird was lost in the darkness.”

“And yet it flew nearer to us. Ah, there is the same thing again! How did we see it at all, my friend? I’ll tell you. The bird was attracted by and flew over a light. A vertical shaft of light this time; not strong enough to be apparent of itself from here, and only to be detected by the evidence of an object passing through it. Now, watch again.”

They remained intently looking for a few seconds when the phenomenon was repeated. A large bird became suddenly visible for an instant out of the darkness and then disappeared.

“Now are you satisfied, my good friend?” Galabin asked.

“Perfectly. And the light——?”

“Must come from a skylight. There is a room below there. And if a room, why not a concealed window? though how contrived in that thick stone wall, I cannot tell. At the same time that is to me less interesting than to discover what the room is used for, who inhabits it, since it clearly is inhabited.”

“If we could only get up there and look down,” Von Tressen said. “But it hardly seems possible, at least from this point.”

“No,” his friend agreed. “Our only chance will be to scale the wall at some place farther along if we can find one practicable, and so make our way to where the light shines.”

“Come,” Von Tressen said; “let us set about finding a likely place. Who knows what discovery may be in store for us? It is an altogether unjustifiable liberty we are taking with our friend the Count’s domestic arrangements, but State service must over-ride that consideration.”

“You may take my word for that,” Galabin replied. “The Chancellor would blame us if, having seen this much, we were to neglect to find the explanation. In these secret services the authority cannot give explicit instructions; nearly everything must be left to one’s own discretion and enterprise.”

Cautiously they crossed the disused moat, and began a close inspection of the walls in search of a place where a climb might be feasible. They had not proceeded far when Von Tressen turned and held up his hand with a warning gesture.

“Hist! I thought I heard something,” he said under his breath. “It sounded like a man’s footstep in the wood.”

They listened intently, the stillness preceding the threatened storm making it easy to hear a very slight sound.

“There!” ejaculated Von Tressen, in scarcely a whisper.

Now from the other side of the moat came distinctly a slight cracking noise of footsteps on the twigs and dead leaves that carpeted the wood. They strained their eyes in the direction of the sound, but could make out nothing. The person, whoever it was, seemed to be stopping and then moving on, for the footsteps would cease for a time and then be heard again. Presently they could just see a black figure moving against the dark background of trees at the edge of the wood. Then it seemed to come boldly forward, and stood out in the open space between the trees and the moat. A man evidently, a tall man; that was all they could discern. He remained there for a while motionless as the two, who watched him with intense curiosity. Soon he moved and began to walk slowly along the edge of the moat, as though making the circuit of the house. The two men looked after him until he disappeared in the darkness, then Galabin said in a low voice—

“I think we had better abandon our attempt for to-night. I do not know who our friend may be; one of Zarka’s men on the watch, most likely. Anyhow, it will not do for us to be caught. The sooner we get across the wood the better.”

“He evidently did not suspect we were here,” Von Tressen said.

“No; and should we be seen it will be less suspicions if we are found over there than here under the wall. Now, as quietly as we can.”

They crept for a short distance round by the wall in the opposite direction to that which the man had taken. Then, stooping, they ran across the moat and gained the shelter of the wood.

“I should like to see what that fellow’s game is,” Galabin said, as they halted under cover of the trees. “After all, we are doing no harm here, and have a right to an evening stroll even in the precincts of our friend Count Zarka’s stronghold.”

Accordingly they began to move slowly and alertly after the man. They had not gone far when they stopped simultaneously, for his figure had suddenly appeared out of the darkness a few yards in front of them. Luckily he was just outside the edge of the wood, they just within, consequently he was much more easily visible to them than they to him. The two friends stood still, pressed close against a tree. Evidently the man had no idea of their presence, for he passed slowly on without any sign of suspicion, and they could hear his footsteps until he had gone some distance. Then Galabin touched his companion.

“Did you make him out?”

“Hardly. Could you?”

“I think I know something,” Galabin answered. “It is the fellow your man saw passing the tent this afternoon.”

CHAPTER IX
ZARKA ON THE ALERT

“I am going,” said Von Tressen to his friend next morning, “up to the farm to ask Herr Harlberg to shoot with us.”

Galabin laughed. “And the Fräulein?”

“It would only be polite,” the Lieutenant replied in the same tone, “to make a point of enquiring whether her hand is healed.”

“Good! You can do no less.”

“You will come, too?”

“I shall be in the way.”

“Nonsense! You don’t want to rouse suspicion by making yourself mysterious.”

So they set out together for the farm.

“I wonder if we shall come across our friend of last night,” Von Tressen observed, for while the servant, Bela, had been near they had not spoken on the subject.

“Ah,” Galabin replied thoughtfully. “I have been thinking it over, and have come to the conclusion that the fellow is a patrol, a spy of Zarka’s. What else could he have been prowling about for?”

“That might be said of us. We were doing the same.”

“True. But it is hardly likely that another man would have the same purpose as ourselves. No; the other solution is far more probable. Now, what does Count Zarka, ostensibly a rich nobleman living on his country estate, want with a patrol, or a spy?”

Von Tressen shook his head. “The Count is deeper than I can fathom.”

“Or I. We must wait for eventualities, and meanwhile keep our eyes open.”

They soon reached the farm, and found father and daughter in the little enclosed shrubbery before the house. Herr Harlberg excused himself from joining their sport on the plea of a gouty foot, but welcomed his visitors and insisted upon their drinking a glass of wine with him. Presently Von Tressen found himself strolling with Philippa Harlberg in the half-cleared woodland which surrounded the old farm, Galabin, with an eye to the situation, having plunged deep into a political argument with his host.

“So you have found another friend to join your gipsy life,” she remarked. “The attractions of the forest must be great indeed, or is it the charm of friendship?” she added banteringly.

“The charm of the forest life is delightful,” Von Tressen replied. “One cannot wonder at its being an all-powerful attraction. If my friend only enjoys it half as much as I he will not repent having cut himself off for a time from cities and civilization. I am so glad, Fräulein, that the hand is well again.”

She held it out. “Yes; quite healed. Look. Already scarcely a mark to be seen.”

He took it, and by an impulse, natural enough, raised and pressed it to his lips.

“All’s well that ends well,” he murmured. “Ah, I hate myself for having hurt you, Fräulein.”

As she withdrew her hand their eyes met. It gave him a thrill of delight to see there was no anger or offence in hers, only a touch of restraining sadness. She gave a little sigh as she replied, hardly above a whisper: “If no one might ever hurt me more than that!”

To his chivalrous nature her words were as a call to arms, for there was manifestly something behind them. “Who would dare to harm you, Fräulein?”

With an effort, it seemed, she recovered her gaiety. “Who, indeed,” she laughed, “would be so unmanly? I only meant to tell you how lightly I regard that little wound.” But she had meant more than that, he was sure.

“All the same, if the unchivalrous man should ever cross your path,” he said with a touch of youthful romance in his tone, “I only hope it may be my privilege to be there to defend you.”

She laughed again. “Perhaps you may be. Who knows?”

“My friend and I were at Rozsnyo yesterday,” he observed, following the train of thought suggested to his mind by her words.

She turned quickly in surprise. “You went to Rozsnyo?” He nodded. “At the Count’s invitation?”

“At his pressing invitation. Is that strange?”

“Oh, no. Why should it be?”

“You seemed surprised.”

“No. Perhaps—I—” she stopped in some confusion.

“The Count is a peculiar man, you meant, perhaps?”

“You may know him now as well as I,” she returned with a forced smile. The mention of Zarka seemed to chill her.

“I do not know him at all well,” he rejoined. “I should much like to know him better.”

She started in apprehensive surprise. “To know him better? Count Zarka?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he answered. “For there seems a mystery about the man which, between ourselves, Fräulein, I should like to solve.”

“Oh, no, no!” She glanced round instinctively, as though in fear that the man they spoke of might be lurking near them. Then as she turned again to her companion, he saw in her eyes a look of dread which did not tend to mitigate the feelings he entertained towards the lord of Rozsnyo.

“You had better not be curious about Count Zarka,” and as she spoke the name she lowered her tone almost to a whisper. “He is a dangerous man and, I fear, unscrupulous. You will only bring harm on yourself by seeking to know too much of him.”

The feeling of terror with which Zarka had evidently inspired her roused the young soldier’s indignation.

“I am not afraid of Count Zarka,” he returned boldly, “and I hope I never shall be. You may trust me, Fräulein, to take care of myself—and you,” he added tenderly, “if you will let me.”

She coloured a little. “I am sure I could trust you,” she said softly. “But I hope,” she added with more vivacity, “there will be no need for me to enlist you as my defender.”

“Not even against Count Zarka?” he asked searchingly.

She met his eyes unfalteringly now. “Not even against him.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said slowly, “for I had an uncomfortable idea in my head.”

“Pray what was that?” She seemed quite to have regained command over herself.

“I have of course,” he replied, “as a comparative stranger no right to interfere or show curiosity in the matter. Still, I could not help fancying that the Count persecuted you. Am I right or wrong?”

For a moment she looked serious, then she smiled.

“Hardly right, Herr Lieutenant; and if you were, why, a woman can usually protect herself from persecution.”

“When the man is dangerous and unscrupulous?”

“Ah, perhaps that is different. But my case is scarcely as bad as that.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said gravely. “Will you pardon one question, Fräulein? It is, perhaps, impertinent, but you need not answer it.”

“Yes?”

“This Count Zarka—is there any warrant for his pretension? Is he your lover?”

She was looking away, perhaps half anticipating what he would ask. For a moment or two she did not reply, then without turning she said in a low voice: “My lover? No. He never could be that—with my consent.”

Von Tressen’s face brightened. “I am glad,” he said, “for I feared.”

The path had led them back to the house, and in another moment would bring them in sight of the two men whom they could hear chatting in front of it.

“You are not offended, Fräulein, at what I am afraid must be my unwarrantable curiosity?” Von Tressen asked hurriedly, before they should turn the angle of the house and confidential talk should be at an end.

“If you had offended me,” she replied with a look which was yet more convincing than her words, “the question would have been unnecessary.”

Their steps had lingered, had become slower and slower, till now they stopped by the corner of the house which just screened them from Harlberg and Galabin.

“You are too good,” Von Tressen said in a half whisper, “to let me speak to you like this. You will not forget, Fräulein, if ever you are in trouble, you owe me the privilege of coming to your help.”

She gave a little laugh which stopped short of gaiety. “Let us hope,” she said, “it will not be necessary.”

“And if it be?”

“Then I shall call you.”

There was earnest beneath the half jest, and each intuitively recognized it, although perhaps neither quite imagined how near the surface it lay. As Philippa spoke the last words she put out her hand to emphasize, as it were, the promise. Von Tressen grasped it in both his, and was lifting it to his lips, when he suddenly raised his bent head almost in dismay. Philippa had snatched her hand back. A shadow darkened the angle of the wall, and Count Zarka stood before them, the ever-ready smile on his face, this time a smile of detection.

“You are fond of playing hide and seek, gnädige Fräulein,” he said.

CHAPTER X
WHO IS THIS MAN?

“Your taste, my dear Osbert, is unimpeachable,” Galabin remarked as they left the farm; “the Fräulein is delightful. And yet——”

“And yet, Mr. Secret-Agent? A new mystery?”

“Perhaps. For I do not quite make out your friends. Herr Harlberg comes for sport, here to a wild farmhouse, yet he does not shoot, nor does he seem very keen about it. For I made a point of talking sport and he yawned; he was as bored as a man can well be. Then their connexion with our amiable friend from Rozsnyo.”

“What do you make out of that?” Von Tressen asked eagerly.

“Nothing,” was the blunt answer; “nothing as yet, that is. But I shall hope to unriddle that little enigma before long. For I fancy there is some peculiar bond between them. They are rather more than acquaintances or even friends, or my faculty of observation is less than I take it to be.”

“What reason have you for that idea?”

“Merely certain signs that came under my observation, slight enough in themselves, but together quite significant. I am accustomed to putting two and two together, and I don’t want to boast, but if I had been a dense numskull, who could not take in what was going on before his eyes, why, our Chancellor would hardly have chosen me for the business. I can tell you one thing, my friend. The Count looked black when he heard you had strolled off with the young lady. Yes; there was murder in his eye, for all the grin on his lips.”

“And he immediately came after us?”

“Like a panther. I called him back, just for the fun of the thing, and as he turned impatiently I saw the face without the grin. It was not pretty.”

The subject was broken off by an exclamation from Von Tressen.

“Look! Is not that yonder our friend of last night?”

From the glade along which they were sauntering a track led up to a small eminence, beyond which was a space of lawn and underwood extending to the house they had just left. On the summit, at the edge of the wood, leaning against a tree, stood a man; the same, they felt sure, whom they had seen at Rozsnyo in the darkness. He held a gun by his side, the butt resting on the ground, and by his attitude he seemed to be watching the farm. His face was set in that direction as he stood motionless, except that once or twice he moved his head as though following some object with his eyes, or to get a better view.

For a while the two friends stood observing him, then by a common impulse they stepped back out of the line of the path, so that if the man turned he should not see that he was being watched.

“What is he doing there?”

“Watching the farm.”

“Why should he watch it?”

The question was not to be so easily answered. For a few moments neither man spoke. Then Galabin said—

“We must inquire into this, and find out who the fellow is. It is absurd to continue in our present ignorance without making an effort to dispel it.”

Von Tressen nodded his agreement. “Let us accost him now, eh?”

“Yes; but not from behind. Don’t let him suspect we have been watching him. We had better stalk him round and come upon him along the ridge of the hill.”

“We may frighten him away.”

“I hardly think so. In that case we must follow him up or wait for another opportunity.”

Galabin’s anticipation was correct. When they had reached the high ground by a detour, they could see through the trees the man still standing there in his watchful attitude.

“Now,” Von Tressen murmured, “let us get almost up to him without attracting his attention, and then show ourselves. It will be too late for him to run away then.”

The plan was carried out with perfect success. The man was evidently too absorbed in his watching to be aware of their approach; giving no sign of alertness or of moving from his station. Only when they suddenly emerged into the open did he withdraw his gaze from the farm lying below in the valley, and turn it quickly, with a kind of fierce suspicion, on the figures which had come within its focus. He made a quick movement and instinctively lifted his gun from the ground, only to replace it and resume his attitude, as watching till the two should have passed on.

But that was scarcely their intention.

“Good-day, mein Herr,” Galabin said as they both saluted the man. “You are a sportsman like ourselves. May we hope that you have been more successful than we?”

They rather expected a churlish reply; but, as Galabin spoke, the somewhat fierce, stern expression on the man’s face relaxed, and he answered almost laughingly—

“We are companions in ill-luck. I, too, have nothing to show. Perhaps in my case it has been bad markmanship, want of skill rather than of luck. What I have hit has not been worth the picking up. But then the forest is so beautiful that it repays one for bad sport.”

He made a sweep with his hand towards the valley stretching away below them.

“You are staying in the forest, mein Herr?” Galabin enquired with careless politeness. “At the Schloss Rozsnyo, perhaps?”

The man darted a keen glance at him. “At Rozsnyo? No. My quarters are at a little inn. A wretched place frequented only by woodcutters and charcoal burners. But what would you have?” he added with a shrug. “Sport does not always go with comfort.”

“Its absence makes the zest for sport all the keener,” Von Tressen remarked.

“If that is your opinion,” the stranger returned, “I shall not perhaps be wrong in hazarding a guess that the tent I have seen hereabouts forms your shooting quarters.”

“You are quite right,” Galabin replied. “We follow our pleasure gipsy fashion. If you would stroll back with us and join our mid-day meal we should be honoured. Our little encampment is but a stone’s throw from here, and your inn must be some distance.”

The man bowed with an excess of courtesy. “The honour is mine,” he responded. “I shall be charmed, if I am not putting you to inconvenience. My inn is far from here, and, apart from that, to a lonely man the chance of a chat in congenial company is not to be despised.”

He shouldered his gun and they turned down the hill again. Walking with a quick, impatient stride, their new acquaintance seemed now a restless, energetic man, and this made his late motionless, patient attitude the more unaccountable.

“The Schloss Rozsnyo,” he said presently, in his abrupt quick way, “it is a fine place, but in a curious situation here in this wild forest. You know it?”

“We have been there,” Galabin answered.

“Inside?”

“We spent a couple of hours there yesterday.”

“Ah, then you know Count Zarka?”

The man turned with a fierce eagerness to him as he put the question.

“We know him slightly from a casual meeting in the forest.”

“So!” He said no more, for they were within a few yards of the tent. But after luncheon, when they were sitting with their cigars and coffee in the open, their guest, who had told them his name was Abele d’Alquen, brought up the subject again, as, indeed, both men felt sure he would.

“This Rozsnyo,” he began, waving his hand in the direction of the Schloss, “it is a very wonderful place?”

They gave him a simple description of its principal objects of interest. He listened with a sort of sharp curiosity, and seemed particularly struck by their account of the underground armoury.

“An extraordinary place,” he exclaimed. “Quite a curiosity; you are fortunate to have seen it. I suppose there are other rooms dug out in the rock, eh?”

“There may be,” Von Tressen replied. “We did not see any.”

“Unheard-of labour to construct them, eh?” D’Alquen continued, in the fierce abrupt way which seemed more natural to him than the tone of somewhat exaggerated courtesy he had used when they had originally accosted him. “You think, though, there might be other apartments down there?”

“Possibly,” Galabin replied. “Why? Are you particularly interested in underground dwellings?” he added with a laugh.

“Oh, no—yes, I am fond of engineering,” the other answered. “Did you see doors or passages in the rock?”

His two hosts glanced at each other, repressing a smile. Galabin replied: “I noticed nothing of the sort; did you, Von Tressen?”

“Nothing,” the Lieutenant corroborated.

For a few moments their guest was silent. Then he suddenly asked: “You went all over the Schloss?”

“Hardly all over; but we saw everything which, according to the Count, was worth seeing. I do not think we told you of the beautiful private chapel in the——”

A loud laugh from D’Alquen made him stop short. It was a curious laugh of derision on a single sustained note, and it rang through the forest, so as to be almost startling in the silence around.

“A chapel!” he exclaimed in reply to their stare of astonishment. Their guest was every moment becoming more of a puzzle. “A chapel! That is a comical idea. The Count is pious, then?”

“We can hardly answer for that.”

D’Alquen laughed again, this time not so loudly, but with a jarring, sarcastic note.

“No; we can answer for no man outside our own skin, not even for the honourable Count Zarka. And if my estimate of that nobleman is not wrong, the man would be rash indeed who would answer for his piety.”

“You know him, then?” Galabin asked, still more mystified.

D’Alquen threw out his arms with a gesture of protest. “Not I. Only by sight, that is, unless I have set down the wrong man for the Count. A dark man, handsome, yes, if it were not for a sinister expression and the grin of a wolf. He rides a roan horse often in the forest.”

“That is the Count,” Von Tressen assented.

“I saw him,” the other continued, “this morning, shortly before I had the pleasure of meeting you gentlemen. He rode over to that old house in the valley.”

“Yes; we saw him there.”

“Ah!” The intense, fierce curiosity seemed to surge back into their guest’s face. “You were there, at that curious house? You have friends there?”

Galabin hesitated a moment, then, judging it safest to be straight-forward, he answered: “We happen to know the people who are staying there.”

“Ah, yes?” The man’s curiosity was insatiable; it seemed to increase with every fresh point it seized upon. “An old gentleman and a young lady. May one without offence ask who they are?”

He had suddenly checked the vehemence of his manner, and the last question was put almost carelessly.

“I do not suppose there is any harm in my mentioning their name,” Galabin replied. “It is Harlberg.”

“Harlberg? So! Harlberg. Herr and Fräulein Harlberg? The lady is his daughter?”

“Yes.” D’Alquen had repeated the name curiously. There was hardly offence in his intonation, but it brought a frown to Von Tressen’s face.

“They live here? No?”

“Herr Harlberg stays in the forest for sport.”

“For sport? Indeed?” The exclamation was almost offensive in its suggested incredulity. “He is a great friend of the Count Zarka—or the lady is, eh?”

“I really cannot tell you, mein Herr,” Von Tressen answered sharply, with rising irritation as the other’s inquisitiveness now touched him more nearly. “I made the acquaintance of Herr Harlberg and his daughter only a few days ago, and my curiosity is hardly as keen as yours.”

For an instant D’Alquen seemed as though he would be provoked to a hot retort; his eyes had an angry gleam, but he checked the impulse, and his expression changed to a smile as he made a deprecating wave of his hand.

“Pardon, Lieutenant. I did not intend that my curiosity should exceed the bounds of good taste. I cannot afford”—he gave a laugh—“to risk giving you offence. Only here in this wild part everything seems so strange that one feels bound to ask questions of the rare human beings one meets. Let me not abuse your hospitality by asking another.”

Von Tressen could but make a good-humoured reply, even though he felt the guest’s explanation was hardly convincing, and after a little desultory chat D’Alquen rose and took his leave, saying he had a long walk to his inn, but would hope to meet and shoot with them on the morrow or the day after.

“I cannot make him out,” Galabin said when they were alone, in answer to Von Tressen’s question. “He is another enigma added to our stock awaiting solution. But of one thing I am quite certain.”

“What is that?”

“It is that our new acquaintance had as little thought of sport when he came to the forest as had Herr Harlberg or even I myself.”

CHAPTER XI
A STRANGE PRESERVER

Next morning Philippa, taking a book with her, set off for a quiet stroll in the forest. The unaccustomed monotony of her life at the old Grange, shut up with her step-father, whose temper, always inclined to peevishness, the boredom of the situation did not improve, was irksome to her. But beyond and above this negative evil was the positive one of Zarka’s constant visits and veiled persecution. Against the idea that he had any hold over her she fought strenuously; she would not allow it, even to herself, yet she had an uneasy consciousness that the Count’s language was apt to take the form of a scarcely disguised threat. And here, in the vast lonely forest, under the dominating seigniory of Rozsnyo, it seemed difficult to fight against the strong hand backed by the resolute will. Civilization here hardly counted; might was still right as in feudal days, and the only chance of safety seemed to lie in temporizing and not driving the enemy to extreme measures. The oppressive vastness, the weird silence and gloom of the forest lay on her nerves; Zarka seemed to be the evil genius of that great region of mountain woodland, and nature here to be his ally.

Anyhow that morning, she told herself, she would be free from him, and with that object she avoided the open tracks along which he was wont to ride, and kept well within the thickness of the wood where never even a bridle-path was to be found. The Count’s favourite roan would hardly thread its way amid that tangle of brushwood and maze of trees. When Philippa felt she had wandered far enough, she chose an inviting bank with a tree to lean against and sat down to read. She had turned but a few pages when she looked up with a start. There was a stealthy rustling in the undergrowth near. After a few moments of alarmed expectancy Philippa sprang to her feet with a look of terror. Two fierce eyes were glaring at her from behind the fringe of brushwood some ten yards away. She kept sufficient presence of mind, however, to be able to tell that, for good or ill, they were not human eyes. A snarling grunt confirmed this; the intruder was a wild boar. Philippa instinctively gathered up her dress and turned to run; at the movement the animal with a louder growl broke through into the open space. She caught one glimpse of his ugly tusks, his bristling hair and ears, his savage little eyes, and in utter terror rushed in a panic away through the trees. Escape from the brute seemed out of the question; she felt it was coming on in hot pursuit, could hear it brushing through the leaves, and its peculiar savage cry, ever nearer, made her sick with fear. It was close on her; she darted to one side, and, facing the animal, hopelessly tried to dodge it among the trees. Furious at being thus baffled, the boar made deadly charges, running round the trees with head lowered, and hunting the girl viciously from one to another. She was becoming exhausted with the unequal strife; it was a wonder she had avoided the fatal tusks so long, every fresh rush she felt must end the business. She cried out despairingly, sending up shriek upon shriek. Faint with the terror of death, now so imminent, she had actually ceased to try and avoid the brute, when suddenly a man’s voice cried out with startling clearness—

“Get away from him! Quick! I am going to shoot!”

With a supreme effort Philippa made a vigorous spring, by which she put a yard or so between her and the boar just as his tusks had come within striking distance. A shot rang out, the brute rolled over, not killed outright, but at least disabled from further attack.

With a gasping cry of relief and thankfulness Philippa sank down half fainting, as the man who had fired the shot ran quickly forward. It was Abele d’Alquen.

His first act was to satisfy himself that the boar’s power for harm was at an end. Perhaps he forebore giving the animal its coup-de-grâce out of consideration for the girl’s presence. Taking out a flask, he dropped on one knee beside her.

“A narrow escape, Fräulein. Drink this; it will revive you.”

“Thank you,” she said, declining the flask with a slight motion of the hand. “I shall be all right again directly. But it gave me a terrible fright.”

D’Alquen laughed. “Small wonder. You were not far from death, Fräulein, and hardly a pleasant one. Ah!” he looked round at the writhing animal. “It was a pretty shot; I was glad to have the chance of making it.”

“How can I thank you?” Philippa said gratefully, sitting up now and passing her handkerchief over her face.

“There is no need to thank me,” he returned with what seemed a strange brusqueness. “All the same, you may as well thank fate that decreed I should be passing this way in the nick of time.”

“You have saved my life,” she said warmly, setting down his deprecation to a natural modesty.

“Let us hope,” he replied, in the same almost ungracious tone, “that it has not been preserved for a worse misfortune.”

The sentiment was obvious and unanswerable, but hardly gallant. His manner seemed to check rudely the flow of her gratitude. Still she made yet another effort to thank him.

“Anyhow,” she said, “I hope you will believe that I am very, very grateful to you.”

“I can believe it,” he returned curtly, with an almost formal bow.

Philippa had risen to her feet now, and for a few moments they stood together in an awkward silence. Then D’Alquen spoke, in his quick, fierce way.

“You are Fräulein Harlberg, living at the old farm in the valley?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a touch of surprise.

“Your father, Herr Harlberg, comes here for sport, does he not?” She nodded an affirmative. “Has he shot much?”

“Not much,” she answered, in rising wonder. “My father’s health has not been very good.”

D’Alquen smiled, and the incredulity in his smile left, on the score of politeness, something to be desired.

“You are great friends of Count Zarka of Rozsnyo?”

A strange, not yet accountable apprehension was beginning to steal over her. But she answered the man’s catechism unfalteringly, feeling that he had perhaps a right, since she owed him her life, to put questions which nothing but his manner suggested were prompted by more than simple, if insistent, curiosity.

“We know Count Zarka.”

“Yes.” His tone indicated that he was sure of it. “You know Count Zarka,” he repeated. Then his manner changed abruptly, and for the better. With an apologetic smile he said, “I ought to ask pardon for all these rude questions. I have only one more, mein Fräulein.”

She glanced at him as he stood before her, almost with a suggestion of barring her way. The smile was still on his lips, but the reassurance caused by his last speech died away as she noticed that his eyes were not in accord with it. Their expression was stern and malignant.

“And what is the last question?” she asked, smiling to cloak her uneasiness.

D’Alquen drew a deep breath, as a man will before taking a plunge or dealing a blow.

“You know—you knew Prince Roel of Rapsberg?”

His eyes were fixed on her face with a glittering eagerness. Somehow, by a strange prescience, she had felt that the question would refer to the vanished prince. So, fortunately, she was hardly taken by surprise, and could answer steadily—

“I have met Prince Roel in town and have danced with him.”

“You know he has mysteriously disappeared?”

“Mein Herr,” she returned, with a touch of bantering reproof, “you said there was only one more question to conclude your catechism.”

“You cannot answer this?” he demanded sharply and fiercely.

His manner gave her a thrill of fear, but she fought against betraying it. “Answer it, mein Herr? There is not much to answer. I have heard the report like the rest of the world.”

He gave a toss of the head. “Yes, yes. Before you left the city?”

“Yet another question? Certainly. One hears nothing here?”

“Not from Count Zarka?” His questions flashed out like the quick thrusts of a rapier.

“Will the examination be much longer?” Philippa asked with a little grimace of impatience. “For I must be going homewards; my father will be anxious.”

“Herr Harlberg—that is your father’s name?” he asked with dart-like suddenness. Philippa nodded assent. “Herr Harlberg may be glad that he sees you at all.”

“That is true.”

“Shall I tell you,” he continued, in the same sharp, masterful tone, “why I have detained you to ask these questions?”

Had she dared she would have declined to hear the reason, but she was in the power of this strange questioner, and knew it would not serve to ignore the curiosity which, indeed, she felt.

“You at least owe it to me to tell that,” she replied with a smile.

CHAPTER XII
AFTER THE PERIL

He drew a step nearer to her and fixed his dark eyes piercingly on her face. His manner was not rough; hardly, in its outward form, uncivil; yet there was in it a suggestion of a wild purpose, a strong reckless will that overmastered her. Still she fought against her fear and his indefinable mastery, facing him boldly for the explanation which she dreaded.

“Yes; I will tell you.” As he spoke there came through the wood the sound of an approaching presence. Both looked quickly round, and D’Alquen caught up his gun. It was, however, no wild animal this time, but a man, Osbert Von Tressen.

He greeted them in surprise. “Fräulein Harlberg! Herr D’Alquen!” he exclaimed.

There was genuine relief on the girl’s face, a lowering annoyance on her companion’s, who, however, met the situation unhesitatingly.

“You are well met, Herr Lieutenant,” he cried with a half sneer. “But you would have come too late. You are surprised at finding us here together. The explanation lies there.”

With a slightly theatrical action he pointed to the boar. “I have had the honour of relieving the honoured Fräulein from the too pressing attentions of that fellow,” he continued, in reply to Von Tressen’s exclamation of surprise. “Half an hour ago three were better company than two; that exigency is past, and now two are preferable to three. I bid you good-day.”

He raised his hat, made them each a ceremonious bow, turned abruptly, and walked resolutely away. For some moments they both watched him in astonished silence; although his face had betrayed no feeling, his manner of leaving them was altogether strange; very soon the depth of the wood hid him from sight, and they could look round inquiringly at each other.

“I am so glad you came,” Philippa said.

“I came?” Von Tressen returned a little ruefully. “No; he. He saved you from that ugly brute.”

She nodded. “Yes; he saved my life. And frightened me horribly afterwards.”

“He did? Yes, I can understand it. He is a queer fellow.”

“You know him?”

He told her of their meeting on the previous day.

“Neither Galabin nor I could make him out,” he added. “How did he frighten you?”

“Oh, perhaps I ought not to have been afraid,” she answered with a laugh. “Only he asked me questions in such a fierce, strange way.”

“Ah! As he did yesterday when he was with us. If he did not frighten us, at least he puzzled us horribly. I fear that, what with that fellow and this,” pointing to the boar, “and Count Zarka, you will be glad when your stay in the forest comes to an end, Fräulein.”

“Perhaps. And yet, how lovely it would be if one might only enjoy it unmolested.”

“By man and beast,” he laughed. “I would take your hint, Fräulein, if I did not consider it my duty to stay near for your protection.”

“I did not mean it as a hint,” she replied simply.

“Then you do not wish me to go?”

“No,” she said, “stay. At least, no; it is getting late, and I must go.”

“Not for a few minutes,” he urged. “You are hardly recovered from the shock of your danger. Sit down here and rest first.”

A bank rising to the gnarled tree-roots made an inviting couch, and they sat down.

“I wish,” Von Tressen said, “I had come along this way half an hour earlier.”

“I, too, wish you had,” she replied frankly. “Still I ought to be thankful that some one was at hand to save me.”

“And may I not be thankful, too?” he said warmly. “Only, if it had been my luck to have been the man, it might have expiated the wound I inflicted by saving you from a worse.”

“I have told you that your act is already expiated,” she said softly.

“It might have been wiped out, forgotten.”

“If I do not want to forget it?”

“Fräulein! You like to remember that I gave you pain?”

“Are we not told that pain often brings good in its train?”

“Ah, if you thought that!”

“A sting on my fingers has brought me a friend.”

“More than that, if you will see it.”

“More than a friend?”

He took her hand. “Much more, unless that is enough.”

She let her hand stay in his, although her head was turned from him as she sat looking away into the thick phalanx of trees. A weasel ran out into the little open space before them, looked inquiringly at Philippa, as though wondering what her answer would be, and then with a zig-zag flash vanished into covert again. Every added moment of silence strengthened Von Tressen’s hope.

“Philippa,” he pleaded, drawing her hand to him, “may I be no more than that?”

Now that she turned her face to him he was sure of her answer, for he could see nothing but love in her eyes. Next instant he was on his knees by her side kissing her.

“You love me, Philippa? You must tell me that.”

“I love you,” she whispered; “could I help loving you?”

Then suddenly she rose and stretched out her hands to keep him from her. “Ah, but this is madness,” she cried. “The passing romance of a forest holiday.”

“No, no,” he protested. “Philippa, my love, how can you say that?”

“What could you do,” she went on, “but make love to me, after our first strange encounter and our meetings in the glamour of the forest. And then under the shadow of the dragon’s castle of Rozsnyo. Is not Perseus bound to imagine himself in love with Andromeda? Ah, Osbert Von Tressen, do not deceive yourself.”

So fearing, questioning, protesting, she kept him, all to prove his love, at arm’s length, till at last conviction was so insistent that she could no longer even pretend a doubt.

“Ah, love me, dear one,” she whispered, as his arms were round her again, “for my love is more than I can tell.”

“Not the romance of the forest,” he murmured slily.

“Ah, darling, yes; for that is you. I should hate the forest instead of loving it had you not been in it. Now, dear,” she continued with a serious face, “our love must be a secret—hush! only for a little time; just while we are here.”

“A secret?” he exclaimed in surprise. “From your father?”

“Yes, even from him. It is only for a little while. You will not mind, dear?”

He was troubled at the idea of a secret where no mystery should be. Galabin’s suspicions about Philippa and her father came to his mind; and yet, when he looked into her eyes they seemed to give the lie to any suggestion of wrong or deceit.

“Of course, dearest,” he replied, “it shall be as you wish.” She gave him a little grateful nod and smile. “Shall I not be allowed to know why?”

Rather to his surprise Philippa did not withhold a reason. “My father,” she answered with a touch of diffidence, “has views for my future; he makes plans——”

“Is Count Zarka comprised in them?”

She laughed. “My father likes the Count better than I do. There! is not that enough, Osbert? We need only keep our secret till we leave here. In the city Count Zarka’s power will go for little.”

“I do not allow him to be omnipotent even in the forest.”

“Ah, but,” she remonstrated with fearfulness, “you do not know how great his power for evil is.”

“No more than any other man’s.”

“No, and yes,” she replied. “For he is false and unscrupulous, and lets nothing stand against his will. Osbert,” she laid her hand beseechingly on his shoulder, “you must promise not to be rash, not to offend Count Zarka. I know you are brave and care nothing for him, but your very straight-forwardness makes you no match for his methods. Promise me, dearest. You must not run into hidden danger like that.”

Impatient as he was to lay bare the mystery, he yet felt that patience was the wiser course, and he could but give his word not to come to open defiance of the Count. So the promise was given and sealed.

CHAPTER XIII
WHAT ZARKA FOUND

Count Zarka had paid his accustomed visit to Gorla’s farm, and was far from pleased to find Philippa absent, and no hint left behind of her whereabouts. He chatted for a while with her father, but the talk on either side was hardly of an exhilarating nature, both men having in their hearts a cause for annoyance.

“Has your friend, the Lieutenant, been over here this morning?” Zarka asked unceremoniously.

Harlberg shook his head ill-humouredly. “No. I have seen nobody, but Philippa for a moment. This is exile, indeed.”

His guest gave a shrug. “Unhappily a necessary evil, although one which you may hope need not last much longer. But we will try and make it as pleasant as you will allow us. My cousin Royda d’Ivady is anxious to come over and see your daughter. Fräulein Philippa seems to avoid company, and we do not like to intrude.”

Perhaps it occurred to Harlberg that his guest was hardly the man to let any diffidence on that score stand in the way of his pleasure; but he merely replied by a few words of protest.

“I had, indeed, a message from my cousin,” Zarka said, rising to conclude an interview which bored him. “Have you any idea which direction Fräulein Philippa took?”

“No. She said nothing to me, except that she was going. Will you leave your message, Count?”

No; it was hardly worth while. The Count would probably meet the Fräulein, as he was going to ride home by the forest. So, with an impatience he scarcely troubled to disguise, he took his leave.

But he did not meet Philippa as he expected. She and her lover avoided the open rides on their walk homewards, for interruption was just then the last thing they courted. Within a radius of a good mile from the farm the Count cantered, up one path, down another, ever keeping his sharp eyes on the alert, but all to no purpose. Not a sign of her whom he sought was to be seen. He was, assuredly, not a man who took baffling well, and his expression as he urged his horse in and out the woodland tracks was not an amiable one.

Suddenly something happened which intensified his alertness. As he rode down a somewhat wilder and more intricate path his horse jibbed and shied slightly, showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness. Knowing that the well-trained animal would not behave thus without good cause, Zarka took notice of the side from which the disquieting influence proceeded, and then, dismounting, he pushed his way through the undergrowth to discover the reason. It lay but a few paces before him—the wild boar which D’Alquen had wounded, and which now lay dead where he had fallen. A very cursory glance enabled the Count to take in the fact that the animal had been shot. He looked round for farther evidence; he listened eagerly for voices. Nothing unusual was to be seen or heard. To his sportsman’s eye the track of the boar was plainly indicated. He followed it for a short distance and came upon a book lying on the ground. He eagerly picked it up. It was a novel, and on the fly leaf was written in pencil “Philippa Carlstein.” He shut the book with an impatient flick, and looked round with lowering face. For a while he stood in thought, as though imagining what had occurred there. The fancy was not a pleasant one, to judge by the deepening frown and the set jaw; presently he roused himself to action, thrust the book into his pocket, went with quick, purposeful step back to where he had tied his horse, mounted and rode off towards the grange. He trotted his horse up to the door at a pace which spoke of haste and importance.

“Herr Harlberg!” he shouted. “Herr Harlberg!”

Harlberg hurried out with more eagerness than he was used to show about anything. “What is the matter, Count?”

“Fräulein Philippa? Has she returned?”

“Not five minutes ago.”

“Heaven be thanked,” Zarka exclaimed with simulated relief. “I feared an accident had befallen her. General, you ought to warn her against solitary strolls in the forest.”

“Why, what made you think anything was wrong, Count?” Harlberg asked, in a tone which did not indicate that he was absolutely convinced of his visitor’s sincerity.

But Zarka knew both his man and the power of a surprise. He was not going to discount the effect of his discovery upon Philippa by allowing the knowledge of it to filter through her father.

“Ask Fräulein Philippa to come to us,” he said almost peremptorily, as he swung himself out of the saddle and entered the house, “and you shall hear.”

Harlberg called her, and she came into the room where Zarka stood impatiently playing with his riding whip. His quick eye detected a certain only half hidden radiance in her face, and he felt that he could guess its cause. Harlberg turned to him invitingly for his explanation.

“I think,” Zarka began, “I have to congratulate you, Fräulein, on a lucky escape.”

He told himself that he was right to have taken her by surprise, for she looked at him with a start of obvious discomposure.

“How, Count?” she asked.

“From the tusks of one of the most formidable wild boars I have come across for many a day.”

“Ah, you know?” she said with a smile, having recovered command of herself.

“Yes,” he returned almost viciously, “I know. Know enough to be sure that I might easily at this moment be condoling with the General rather than congratulating you.”

She was puzzled to know how he had found it out, and he intended that she should be in the dark till he was master of the facts. He turned to Harlberg.

“Fancy, General. A monstrous brute, with fangs as long as that”—he indicated a length on his riding whip. “No unarmed man would have had a chance against him. It was a providential escape, Fräulein, and one which might hardly happen twice.”

“You told me nothing of this, Philippa,” Harlberg said, in a tone of aggrieved reproach.

“I had not seen you, father,” she replied. “My dress was torn and I had to change it. Of course I was going to tell you.”

Zarka laid his hat and whip on the table. “Pray let us hear the full account of it now,” he said.

Philippa told the story shortly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that the Count’s conjectures as to her preserver were upset when she described him as a stranger. Indeed, D’Alquen’s identity seemed to concern him more than her safety, or the danger she had courted.

“But the man who shot the brute?” he asked, as the story came to an end and Harlberg had rounded it off with a reproving comment. “A stranger, you say? You had never seen him before?”

“Never,” she answered. “Nor, but for the fact that he saved my life, should I wish to see him again.”

Zarka was all curiosity. “Why not?”

“His manner was disagreeable.”

“My dear child,” Harlberg objected, “under the circumstances you can hardly criticise his manner.”

“I do not,” she replied; “only, when it was all over, he frightened me almost as much as the boar had done.”

“Ah! Will you describe the fellow to me,” Zarka said, “that I may know him if we meet, as is probable?”

Philippa did so, relating also the way in which D’Alquen had questioned her. The Count was darkly suspicious.

“Anything to do, think you, with the Prince Roel affair?” Harlberg asked, impressed by the other’s gravity.

“Hardly,” Zarka replied with a tolerant smile. He was not playing the game with this dull, uninteresting old soldier, but with his step-daughter. Presently the opportunity came for which he had waited. Harlberg left them together.

“You have passed through a great danger to-day, Fräulein,” Zarka said, changing his manner to one of intensely sympathetic interest. “I blame myself that it is I who am indirectly responsible for it. I wish you would give me the right to protect you from all these risks in future.”

“I am not likely,” she replied coldly, ignoring his tone of caress, “to put myself in the way of such danger again.”

“From wild animals, no; let us hope not. But from men hardly less dangerous. You cannot feel safe there.”

“I hope,” she rejoined, “my life will not be passed in a place like this, where protection seems so necessary.”

He leaned forward. “Why should it not?” he asked earnestly. “Why should it not, much of it, be passed here, as mistress of Rozsnyo?”

She rose, not trusting herself to look at him. “No, no,” she answered. “That cannot be.”

“It may be, easily,” he persisted, following her. “You have only to say the little word, Yes. You will say it, Philippa? You must know how devotedly I love you. Dearest, you will be my wife?”

She shook her head. “I cannot be.”

“Ah!” he cried impatiently, “you do not know what you say. You will be my wife, be queen of this great forest, and of all that is mine.”

He took her hand but she drew it away. “No,” she said. “It is good of you, Count; I appreciate the honour you offer me. But I cannot accept it.”

“Cannot be my wife?” he exclaimed, with the evil gleam in his eyes which opposition to his will ever brought there. “You do not think what you refuse.”

“A great honour; yes.”

“A man who loves you truly with heart and soul.”

“But whom I cannot love.”

“Cannot?” The draught he was swallowing was not a pleasant one, and his face showed it. “Not for your father’s sake, if not for your own?”

“My father,” she replied, “will hardly wish me to marry a man I cannot love.”

He knew, even better than she, that her step-father was the last man in the world to trouble about that side of the question, providing other considerations were favourable; but he could not say so.

“Your father, I know,” he returned positively, “would be glad to see you Countess Zarka.”

“I am sorry,” she replied simply, leaving the unsatisfactory topic of Harlberg’s views, “but it cannot be.”

“And why not?” he demanded, hardly keeping down his chagrin. “There can be but one reason. Your love is, or you fancy it is, given to another man. Tell me if it is so,” he added sharply, as she kept silence.

“It is useless to discuss that,” she answered, meeting his persistency with a touch of dignity. “You must be content with the knowledge that what you wish cannot come to pass.”

“Content!” he echoed. “Content is scarcely the doctrine to preach to me. You might know that, Philippa, and my character better than to suggest it. I do not take your refusal, for it is not logical; it is—I know, though you may not—it is against your best interests. No,” he continued, with the set tone of a determined will, “I am not the man to be content to let another snatch the prize I covet. You will reconsider your answer, Philippa? Yes?”

She shook her head. “No, Count.”

He laughed. “Then let your lover look to himself. He will need great resources and the Devil’s luck into the bargain who enters the lists with Aubray Zarka.”

She looked at him, half fascinated by the power of his remarkable personality. But she did not falter when he held out his hand.

“I do not despair, Philippa,” he said with mock deference.

“I should be sorry to think you did,” she returned, meeting his eyes boldly.

“Ah!” he rejoined, understanding the words as she meant them. “We shall see.” Against her will he kept her hand in his. “It is a pity,” he added suddenly, “that, instead of your uncivil preserver, the gallant Lieutenant Von Tressen did not come along and shoot the boar. That shot would have paid for the other. Is the finger healed?”

He bent down as though to examine her hand, and suddenly, before she could prevent him, pressed it to his lips. Then he laughed again. “Don’t be offended, mein Fräulein; I shall kiss your lips before this day week,” he said.

CHAPTER XIV
THE COUNT AND HIS SHADOW

On leaving the farm Count Zarka rode straight to Rozsnyo. In the hall he encountered Royda d’Ivady, and they went into the library together.

“I, too, have been riding in the forest,” the girl said, “and met your friend, Lieutenant Von Tressen.”

Zarka looked at her sharply. “Ah? Where?”

“He was coming from the direction of the farm, where your friends the Harlbergs are staying.”

Watching him expectantly, she saw his face grow dark. “He had not been to the farm,” he said, for once off his guard.

“Ah, then you have been there, Aubray?” she returned, forcing a laugh.

“I had good reason to go there,” he replied. “A serious thing has happened to Fräulein Harlberg. She was attacked by a wild boar in the forest.”

“So! Then that is what the Lieutenant meant.”

“The Lieutenant?” Zarka exclaimed sharply. “What did he know? What did he say?”

Jealous herself, Royda divined the same feeling in him, and, though it stung her, she rejoiced at it.

“Only that I was wise to ride rather than walk, since there was danger from wild boars.”

“You think he knew that the Fräulein had been attacked?”

She delighted in feeding his jealousy since it soothed her own and seemed, vaguely, to work towards the end she desired.

“I did not understand then,” she answered, “but now have no doubt the Lieutenant knew all about it. Who was privileged to rescue the poor Fräulein?” she went on, with a touch of banter. “You or he?”

“Neither,” he returned curtly.

“She vanquished the animal herself, unaided?”

“What nonsense, Royda!” he exclaimed impatiently. “A stranger shot the brute.”

“A stranger!” she echoed incredulously. “A providential stranger. Did the Fräulein tell you so?”

“Certainly,” he snapped. Then suspiciously: “Did the Lieutenant say he shot it?”

“Oh, no. He said nothing about the affair, except to warn me.”

“But you think he knew of it?”

“I am sure of that,” she answered. All the same she was not quite so sure as her tone implied.

Zarka walked to the window and stood looking out. For a while there was silence, then Royda said, half timidly—

“Aubray, what is this mystery about the Harlbergs?”

He looked round sharply, then turned his head away again. “Mystery? There is no mystery. What makes you think so?”

“It is odd for them to live at that half-ruined farmhouse.”

“They are poor.”

“But none the less attractive.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are there every day, Aubray.”

“I have business with Herr Harlberg.”

She gave a sigh. “It is a strange business——”

“How?” he interrupted sharply.

“That can change you and make you so unkind to me.” A tear glistened in her eye; her pride made her dash it away swiftly ere he turned. He came towards her, the deceitful face smoothed into tenderness, although the irritation was not quite successfully obliterated.

“Unkind, little one?” he protested caressingly. “You are mistaken. I could not be that. Only I have been worried lately by political matters. A man who plays for a great stake must not expect to have command either of his time or his moods. You must forgive me, Royda.”

He spoke in a tone of easy confidence, very different to his strenuous pleading with Philippa Harlberg. He put his arm round his cousin’s shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her. “Am I forgiven, little one?” To a third person the tone of the question would have sounded indifferent as to its answer.

“Aubray, I feared she was trying to take you from me.”

“No; you are utterly wrong,” he assured her quite truthfully. “That is the last thing she would try to do! I swear it, Royda. There is no love between us.”

She gave a sigh of relief.

“Now I must be off again,” he said, releasing her. “You need not be afraid,” he added with a smile. “I am going in the opposite direction to the farm.”

Royda would have liked him to stay, but she knew by experience that he was not to be turned from his intentions, and so forbore to try and keep him. When the door had closed behind him she walked to the window, intent on watching his departure. On a table lay his riding whip. Impulsively she caught it up and kissed it, pressing to her lips that part where his hand must have held it. Then from the window she waved her hand to him, and stood watching till the wood hid him from sight.

“Aubray, Aubray, my darling!” she cried, as she turned away; “you shall be mine. If this woman had come between us and taken your love I would have killed her.”

Gun on shoulder, Zarka had set off on foot towards the higher mountain range which backed with abrupt and majestic elevation the dark forest uplands as they rose towards it. He strode resolutely on, soon leaving the warmer and more smiling valley behind him, following a scarcely perceptible path through the superb terraces of woods, making his way through dense thickets, and taking all the while little heed of the furred and feathered inhabitants of those regions as they scampered or whirred away on his approach. His course was continually on an ascending gradient, and after a good half-hour’s walking it became quite steep. Presently the woods grew thinner and lighter, the air cooler. A quarter of an hour more brought the Count to the verge of the forest on the greatest height at which it grew, and he emerged into the blood-red sunshine and keen, cold air above the summit of the great timber-line. Beneath him, as he stood for a few moments to gain breath, stretched away downwards the vast pine forests, like a green velvet robe reaching to the bosom of the mountain; above him majestically towered the bust and head in the dazzling complexion of their eternal snows, and just then brilliantly decked with prismatic gems under the glittering sunlight.

But Zarka seemed in no mood that day for sight-seeing. After his impatient halt he went on, no longer straight upwards, but by a jagged path formed by a ledge on the side of the mountain. There was no fear about the man; his nerves were as strong as the rock he was climbing. Taking his way up the slippery and uneven mountain track, having on one hand a wall of rock and on the other space with a sheer precipice below him, he never seemed in any danger even when most surrounded by it: his character manifestly dominated the inert threatenings of Nature around him. He was master of his fate and, humanly speaking, could defy it to run counter to his will.

Presently his path broadened, descended abruptly, and finally led on to a mountain road evidently the approach to a pass, one of the few points of communication from one side of the great range to the other. Here were, at least, some signs of life and occasional traffic, although dreary and primitive enough. A walk of a few hundred yards towards the pass brought Zarka to a wretched building which served in that desolate region for an inn. He walked into its one public room, called for a glass of brandy, and threw himself on a bench. A bearded man in a rough country dress, sitting with his head resting on his arm, seemingly half asleep over his glass, was the only other occupant of the room.

“A fine autumn day, friend, but cold,” Zarka observed to him carelessly.

Scarcely troubling to change his attitude, the man replied: “On the mountains, where ’tis never hot, we know not cold.”

When he had spoken he raised his head, and the two men glanced keenly at one another. Then they nodded significantly, resuming their indifferent attitude as the innkeeper came in with the Count’s refreshment. When they were alone again the man rose, crossed the floor with heavy step, and flung himself down on the other end of the bench on which Zarka was sitting. He slid his hand stealthily along the space between them; the Count’s came out furtively to meet it, both men the while looking in front of them across the room. When the hands were raised a little two small envelopes lay on the bench. Talking the casual gossip of an inn, each man moved his hand to the paper which the other’s had held, and so drew it back and slipped it into his pocket. The Count sipped his brandy, or at least made a pretence of doing so, for the rough spirit was not likely to be to his taste.

“We live in dangerous times,” observed the man in a casual tone, which, however, was contradicted by the intense meaning in the look he gave his companion; “dangerous times, and there are many events happening and going to happen which may not be written.”

“That is true enough,” Zarka assented, responding to the look, but speaking in the same phlegmatic tone. “When once it is certain that it is nobody’s business to inquire into matters, why, anything, be it ever so desperate, may be done with impunity.”

“You are right, friend,” the man replied. “But not till then. They who take forbidden paths must walk warily. They know better than to hurry. To rush forward is to court discovery and its consequences.”

Looking straight in front of him Zarka nodded twice, and the action was calculated to leave no doubt in his companion’s mind that he comprehended the drift of his somewhat general remarks, and was fully able to apply them to a particular case. “Whereas,” he said with a half-yawn, “by taking his time a man may tire out the vigilance of his watchers and get through unseen. Yes, my friend, that is very true, and is, no doubt, perfectly understood by those whose secret actions make our history.”

The man, affecting to change his position, touched him sharply. Zarka glanced at him, and then at the door. Probably none but an eye sharpened by suspicion would have detected a form behind it as it stood slightly open. With an alert movement of the arm Zarka knocked over his glass.

“Landlord!” he called, watching the door.

It was pushed open and the man who had stood behind it came in, followed by the innkeeper. Zarka ordered his glass to be refilled, then carelessly turned his attention to the newcomer, and conceived a shrewd idea as to his identity. The astute Count was right in his surmise. It was the man who had shot the boar, he who called himself Abele d’Alquen.

“I always maintain,” Zarka observed, as though resuming a subject interrupted by the accident with the glass, “that the less a man speaks the safer he is. It is best to know nothing; it is next best to keep others ignorant of what we know.”

“A wise saying, friend,” his companion responded. “Since we never know who are our friends and who are our enemies.”

Zarka turned quickly to him, his mouth drawn back in a sinister smile. “Sometimes we do,” he remarked, and the other understood him.

D’Alquen had taken his seat at the long narrow table opposite. He was clearly watching them with hardly a pretence of doing otherwise; there was nothing furtive about those fierce, eager, reckless eyes. Zarka took out a cigar and lighted it.

“How long,” he asked his companion, as he lay back lazily puffing the smoke to the low ceiling, “may we expect the present unsettled weather to last?”

“Who knows?” the other answered. “Come back here this day week, then ask me again,”—he laughed—“and I may tell you for certain.”

After a few casual remarks Zarka rose. “I must be going,” he observed, “if I would be home by nightfall. Luckily my way is downhill. Good-day to you, friend.”

As the Count took up his gun, D’Alquen spoke for the first time. “Have you had sport, sir?”

“Very fair,” Zarka answered, with a particularly courteous bow. “In the forest.”

“You have not brought your bag with you!” D’Alquen remarked, and Zarka thought he understood the half sneer on his face.

“I shoot for sport, not for food,” he retorted. “Good-day.”

As he came out upon the wild road the autumn sun was already well on its downward course, and the mountain peaks had begun to grow indistinct in the gathering mist. Walking at a brisk pace, he soon reached the rocky spur which interposed between him and the great forest. Gaining the precipitous path that led round the chasm he followed it as familiar ground in its windings, its sudden falls and rises. At one point it ran for a few dozen paces across an open plateau where for a short space the wall of rocks was broken. As Zarka advanced across this, suddenly there rose from the great abyss a gigantic figure terrible in its size, awful in its weirdness, a very horror in its human image yet ghostly form, more terrible still in its spectral likeness to the man whom it confronted.

Zarka, startled by the suddenness of the apparition, stopped dead with an involuntary gesture, then laughed aloud, and his laugh was half that of self-derision, half of greeting; a laugh in crescendo, and it seemed as though the spectre joined in and flung back its loud ending.