The Puppet Crown

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER XXVI. A PAGE FROM TASSO

  For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coalblack mane of his gallant Mecklenberg. Twice he glanced back to see whofollowed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured allbehind. He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, minglingwith the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number ofpursuers. He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came noreport of firearms. The road presently described a semi-circle, passingthrough a meager orchard. Once beyond this he turned again in thesaddle.

  "Only one; that is not so bad as it might be. It is one to one." But asecond glance told him who this solitary pursuer was. "The devil!" helaughed--as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!--"The devil! howthat man loves me!" He was confident that the white horse would neverovertake the black.

  On they flew, pursued and pursuer. At length Maurice bit his lip andfrowned. The white horse was growing larger; the distance between waslessening, slowly but certainly.

  "Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg. "Good boy!"

  Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but still thewhite horse crept up, up, up. The distance ere another half mile hadgone had diminished to four hundred yards; from four hundred it fell tothree hundred, from three hundred to two hundred. The Mecklenburg wasdoing glorious work, but the marvelous stride of the animal in therear was matchless. Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on hishelmet spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later camethe report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a stream offire gassed along his cheek, and something warm trickled down the sideof his neck. Two, he counted, his face now pale and set. The thirdknocked his scabbard into the air.

  Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and drew hisown revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken prisoner. Beauvaisintended to kill him offhand. Only the dead keep secrets. Maurice flungabout and fired three consecutive times. The white horse reared, and theshako of his master fell into the dust, but there was no other result.As Maurice pressed the trigger for the fourth time the revolver wasviolently wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to bequivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.

  "My God, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"

  Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation somewhat likethat caused by a sound blow in the middle of the back. Strange, buthe felt no pain, neither was there an accompanying numbness. Then heremembered his cuirass, which was of steel an eighth of an inch thick.It had saved his life. The needles began to leave his right hand andarm, and he knew that he had received no injury other than a shock. Hepassed the saber back to his right hand. He had no difficulty in holdingit. Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.

  Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice. Had he been less eagerand held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been a dead man. Thewhite horse gained every moment. A dull fury grew into life in Maurice'sheart. Instead of continuing the race, he brought the Mecklenberg to hishaunches and wheeled. He made straight for Beauvais, who was surprisedat this change of tactics. In the rush they passed each other and thesteel hummed spitefully through space. Both wheeled again.

  "Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice. His coolness, however, wasproportionate to his rage. For the first time in his life the lust tokill seized him.

  "It shall be yours, damn you!" replied Beauvais.

  "The Austrian ambassador has your history; kill me or not, you arelost." Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.

  Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point ofMaurice's saber. He had only his life to lose, but it had suddenlybecome precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life, but all thatmade life worth living. His onslaught was terrible. Besides, he wasfighting against odds; he wore no steel protector. Maurice wore his onlya moment longer. A cut in the side severed the lacings, and the saggingof the cuirass greatly handicapped him. He pressed the spurs and dashedaway, while Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur. Maurice, by thismaneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the cumbersome steel.What he lost in protection, he gained in lightness and freedom. ShortlyBeauvais was at him again. The time for banter had passed; they foughtgrimly and silently. The end for one was death. Beauvais knew that ifhis antagonist escaped this time the life he longed for, the power andhonor it promised, would never be his. On his side, Maurice was equallydetermined to live.

  The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit. Sometimesthey carried their masters several yards apart, only to come smashingtogether again.

  The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed. Afar inthe field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to the sheds.Master and mistress had long since taken flight.

  The duel went on. Maurice was growing tired. By and by he began to relysolely on the defense. When they were close, Beauvais played for thepoint; the moment the space widened he took to the edge. He saw whatMaurice felt--the weakening, and he indulged in a cruel smile. Theycame close; he made as though to give the point. Maurice, thinkingto anticipate, reached. Quick as light Beauvais raised his blade andbrought it down with crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups.The blow missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in hisleft shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped within ahair of the great artery that runs underneath.

  The world turned red, then black. When it grew light again Mauricebeheld the dripping blade swinging aloft again. Suddenly the black horsesnapped at the white, which veered. The stroke which would have splitMaurice's skull in twain, fell on the rear of the saddle, and the bladewas so firmly imbedded in the wooden molding that Beauvais could notwithdraw it at once. Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yetMaurice saw his chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength atthe brown throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's bodystiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched wildly atthe steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it. A bloody foamgushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he swayed, and finallytumbled into the road--dead.

  As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own therepassed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in alonely convent, thousands of miles away.

  Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began tosteal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and theblood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust ofthe road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of thefallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated... He was dead, and the factthat he was a prince did not matter.

  It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, andhe vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He wassleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying.... No;he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber.Indeed, his hand was as if soldered to the wire and leather windings onthe hilt. Mollendorf had said that Beauvais was invincible.... Beauvaiswas dead. Was he, too, dying?... No; he would not die there. TheMecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.

  "No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I will notdie here!... Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off, loping easily.

  His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the centerof the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. He turnedand looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at his feet, andwhinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still remained in the stirrup.

  Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in thespirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid to his arm.It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in that burning fluid.He was recovering from the shock. With returning sense came the increaseof pain, pain so tormenting and exquisite that sobs rose in his throatand choked him. Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took wasa knife thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse,
gentle as it was,caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.

  Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought over andover. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to Bleiberg to warn her?What was he doing here, he who loved life so well? What had led him intothis?... There had been a battle, but neither army had been cognizantof it. He endeavored to move his injured arm, and found it bereft oflocomotion. The tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his gripon the saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung fromside to side.

  Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in hisneck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, into thedust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the way? God! for adrink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in his lips to neutralizethe pain in his arm and shoulder. His lips were numb, and the pressureof his teeth was as nothing. From one moment to the next he expectedto drop from the saddle, but somehow he hung on; the spark of life wastenacious. The saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. Theblood, drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.

  On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all trackof time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood out moreclearly.... He could look back on a clean life; true, there were somesmall stains, but these were human. Strange fancies jostled one another;faces long forgot reappeared; scenes from boyhood rose before him. Home!He had none, save that which was the length and breadth of his nativeland. On, on, on; the low snuffle of the horse sometimes aroused himfrom the stupor.

  "Why you do this I do not know, nor shall I ask. Monsieur, my prayersgo with you!"... She had said that to him, and had given him her hand tokiss; a princess, one of the chosen and the few. To live long enough tosee her again; a final service--and adieu!... Ah, but it had been a goodfight, a good fight. No fine phrases; nothing but the lust for blood;a life for a life; a game in which the winner was also like to lose. Agray patch in the white of the road attracted his attention--a bridge.

  "Water!" he murmured.

  Mottled with the silver of the stars, it ran along through the fields;a brook, shallow and narrow, but water. The perfume of the grasses wassweet; the horse sniffed joyously. He stopped of his own accord. Mauricehad strength enough to dismount. The saber slid from his grasp. Hestaggered down to the water. In kneeling a faintness passed over him; herolled into the brook and lay there until the water, almost clogging histhroat and nostrils, revived him. He crawled to his knees, coughingand choking. The contact of the cold with the burning wound caused adelightful sensation.

  "Water!" he said, and splashed it in his face.

  The horse had come down from the road. He had not waited for aninvitation. He drank thirstily at the side of his master. The watergurgled in his long, black throat.

  "Good boy!" Maurice called, and dashed water against his shoulder. "Goodboy!" he remembered that the horse in biting the white one had saved hislife.

  Each handful of the cold liquid caused him to gasp; but soon the feverand fire died out, leaving only the duller pain. When he rose from hisknees, however, he found that the world had not yet ceased its wildreeling. He stooped to regain his saber, and fell into the dust; thoughto him it was not he who fell, but the earth which rose. He struggled tohis feet, leaned panting on his saber, and tried to steady himself. Helaughed hysterically. He had dismounted, but he knew that he could neverclimb to the back of the horse; and Bleiberg might yet be miles away. Towalk the distance; was it possible? To reach Bleiberg before Madame....Madame the duchess and her army! He laughed again, but there was a wildstrain in his laughter. Ah, God! what a farce it was! One man dead andanother dying; the beginning and the end of the war. The comic opera!La Grande Duchesse! And the fool of an Englishman was playing Fritz! Hestarted down the road, his body slouched forward, the saber trailing inthe dust....

  "Voici le sabre de mon pere!"

  The hand of madness had touched him. The Mecklenberg followed at hisheels as a dog would have followed his master.

  Less than a mile away a yellow haze wavered in the sky. It was thereflection of the city lights.

  Maurice passed under the town gates, the wild song on his lips, his eyesbloodshot, his hair dank about his brow, conscious of nothing but themad, rollicking rhythm. Nobody molested him; those he met gave him thefull width of the road. A strange picture they presented, the man andthe troop horse. Some one recognized the trappings of the horse; halfan hour later it was known throughout the city that the king's armyhad been defeated and that Madame was approaching. Students begantheir depredations. They built bonfires. They raided the office of theofficial paper, and destroyed the presses and type. Later they marchedaround the Hohenstaufenplatz, yelling and singing.

  Once a gendarme tried to stop Maurice and inquire into his business.The inquisition was abruptly ended by a cut from the madman's sword.The gendarme took to his legs. Maurice continued, and the Mecklenbergtramped on after him. Into the Konigstrasse they turned. At this time,before the news was known, the street was deserted. Up the center ofit the man went, his saber scraping along the asphalt, the horse alwaysfollowing.