The dash of the three hundred through the gates and down the avenue was the most spectacular experience in Truxton’s life. He was up with Quinnox and General Braze, galloping well in front of the yelling troop. These mounted carbineers, riding as Bedouins, swept like thunder down the street, whirled into the broad, open arena beyond the Duke’s palace, and were upon the surprised ruffians before they were fully awake to the situation.
They came tumbling out of barns and sheds, clutching their rifles in nerveless hands, aghast in the face of absolute destruction. It was all over with the first dash of the dragoons. The enemy, craven at the outset, threw down their guns and tried to escape through the alleys and side streets at the end of the common. Firing all the time, the attacking force rode them down as if they were so many dogs. The few who stood their ground and fought valiantly were overpowered and made captive by Quinnox. Less than a hundred men were found in the camp. Instead of retreating immediately to the Castle, Quinnox, acting on the suggestion of the exhilarated King, kept up a fierce, deceptive fire for the benefit of the distant Marlanx.
After ten or fifteen minutes of this desultory carnage, it was reported that a large force of men were entering the avenue from Regengetz Circus. Quinnox sent his chargers toward this great horde of foot-soldiers, but they did not falter as he had expected. On they swept, two or three thousand of them. At their head rode five or six officers. The foremost was Count Marlanx.
The cannons were booming now in the foothills. Marlanx, if he heard them and realised what the bombardment meant, did not swerve from the purpose at present in his mind.
Quinnox saw now that the Iron Count was determined to storm the gates, and gave the command to retreat. Waving their rifles and shouting defiance over their shoulders, the dragoons drew up, wheeled and galloped toward the gates.
Truxton King afterward recalled to mind certain huge piles of fresh earth in a corner of the common. He did not know what they meant at the time of observation, but he was wiser inside of three minutes after the whirlwind brigade dashed through the gates.
Scarcely were the massive portals closed and the great steel bars dropped into place by the men who attended them, when a low, dull explosion shook the earth as if by volcanic force. Then came the crashing of timbers, the cracking of masonry, the whirring of a thousand missiles through the air. Before the very eyes of the stunned, bewildered defenders, dismounting near the parade ground, the huge gates and pillars fell to the ground.
The gates have been dynamited!
Then it was that Truxton King remembered. Marlanx’s sappers had been quietly at work for days, drilling from the common to the gates. It was a strange coincidence that Marlanx should have chosen this day for his culminating assault on the Castle. The skirmish at daybreak had hurried his arrangements, no doubt, but none the less were his plans complete. The explosives had been laid during the night; the fuses reached to the mouth of the tunnel, across the common. As he swept up the avenue at the head of his command, hawk-faced and with glittering eyes, he snarled the command that put fire to the fuses. He was still a quarter of a mile away when the gates crumbled. With short, shrill cries, scarcely human in their viciousness, he urged his men forward. He and Brutus were the first to ride up to the great hole that yawned where the gates had stood. Beyond they could see the distracted soldiers of the Prince forming in line to resist attack.
A moment later his vanguard streamed through the aperture and faced the deadly fire from the driveway.
Like a stone wall the men under Quinnox stood their ground; a solid, defiant line that fired with telling accuracy into the struggling horde. On the walls two Gatling guns began to cackle their laugh of death. And still the mercenaries poured through the gap, forming in haphazard lines under the direction of the maddened Iron Count.
At last they began to advance across the grassy meadow. When one man fell under the fire of the Guardsmen, another rushed into his place. Three times the indomitable Graustarkians drove them back, and as often did Marlanx drag them up again, exalted by the example he set.
“’Gad, he is a soldier,” cried Truxton, who had wasted a half dozen shots in the effort to bring him down. “Hello! There’s my friend Brutus. He’s no coward, either. Here’s a try for you, Brutus.”
He dropped to his knee and took deliberate aim at the frenzied henchman. The discovery that there were three bullets in Brutus’s breast when he was picked up long afterward did not affect the young man’s contention that his was the one that had found the heart.
The fall of Brutus urged the Iron Count to greater fury. His horse had been shot from under him. He was on his feet, a gaunt demon, his back to the enemy, calling to his men to follow him as he moved toward the stubborn row of green and red. Bullets hissed about his ears, but he gave no heed to them. More than one man in the opposing force watched him as if fascinated. He seemed to be absolutely bullet-proof. There were times when he stumbled and almost fell over the bodies of his own men lying in the path.
By this time his entire force was inside the grounds. Colonel Quinnox was quick to see the spreading movement on the extreme right and left. Marlanx’s captains were trained warriors. They were bent on flanking the enemy. The commander of the Guard gave the command to fall back slowly toward the Castle.
Firing at every step, they crossed the parade ground and then made a quick dash for the shelter of the long balconies. They held this position for nearly an hour, resisting each succeeding charge of the now devilish foe. Time and again the foremost of the attacking party reached the terrace, only to wither under the deadly fire from behind the balustrades. Marlanx, down in the parade ground, was fairly pushing his men into the jaws of death. There was no question as to the courage of the men he commanded. These were not the ruffians from all over the world. They were the reckless, devil-may-care mountaineers and robbers from the hills of Graustark itself.
Truxton King’s chance to pay his debt to Vos Engo came after one of the fiercest, most determined charges. The young Count, who had transferred his charges from the old tower to the strong north wing of the Castle, had been fighting desperately in the front rank for some time. His weakness seemed to have disappeared entirely. As the foe fell back in the face of the desperate resistance, Vos Engo sprang down the steps and rushed after them, calling others to join him in the attempt to complete the rout. Near the edge of the terrace he stopped. His leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. Truxton saw him fall.
He leaped over the low balustrade, dropping his hot rifle, and dashed across the terrace to his rival’s assistance. A hundred men shot at him. Vos Engo was trying to get to his feet, his hand upon his thigh; he was groaning with pain.
“It’s my turn,” shouted the American. “I’ll square it up if I can. Then we’re even!”
He seized the wounded man in his strong arms, threw him over his shoulder and staggered toward the steps.
“Release me, damn you!” shrieked Vos Engo, striking his rescuer in the face with his fist.
“I’m saving you for another day,” said King as he dropped behind the balustrade, with his burden safe. A wild cheer went up from the lips of the defenders, scornful howls from the enemy.
“I pray God it may be deferred until I am capable of defending myself,” groaned Vos Engo, glaring at the other with implacable hatred in his eyes.
“You might pray for my preservation, too, while you’re at it,” said Truxton, as he crept away to regain his rifle.
There were other witnesses to Truxton’s rash act. In a lofty window of the north wing crouched a white-faced girl and a grim old man. The latter held a rifle in his tense though feeble hands. They had been there for ten minutes or longer, watching the battle from their eerie place of security. Now and then the old man would sight his rifle and fire. A groan of anger and dismay escaped his lips after each attempt to send his bullet to the spot intended. The girl who crouched beside him was there to designate a certain figure in the ever-changing mass of humanity on t
he bloody parade ground. Her clear eyes sought for and found Marlanx; her unwavering finger pointed him out to the old marksman.
She saw Vos Engo fall. Then a tall, well-known figure sprang into view, dashing toward her wounded lover. Her heart stopped beating. The blood rushed to her eyes. Everything before her turned red—a horrid, blurring red. With her hands to her temples, she leaned far over the window ledge and screamed—screamed words that would have filled Truxton King with an endless joy could he have heard them above the rattle of the rifles.
“A brave act!” exclaimed the old man at her side. “Who is he?”
But she did not hear him. She had fallen back and was gasping supplication, her eyes set upon the old man’s face with a stare that meant nothing.
The corner of the building had shut out the picture; it was impossible for her to know that the man and his burden had reached the balcony in safety. Even now, they might be lying on the terrace, riddled by bullets. The concentrated aim of the enemy had not escaped her horrified gaze. The cheering did not reach her ears.
The old man roused her from the stupor of dread. He called her name several times in high, strident tones. Dully she responded. Standing bolt upright in the window she sought out the figure of Marlanx, and pointed rigidly.
“Ah,” groaned the old man, “they will not be driven back this time! They will not be denied. It is the last charge! God, how they come! Our men will be annihilated in—Where is he? Now! Ah, I see! Yes, that is he! He is near enough now. I cannot miss him!”
Marlanx was leading his men up to the terrace. A howling avalanche of humanity, half obscured by smoke, streamed up the slope.
At the top of the terrace, the Iron Count suddenly stopped. His long body stiffened and then crumpled like a reed. A score of heavy feet trampled on the fallen leader, but he did not feel the impact.
A bullet from the north wing had crashed into his brain.
“At last!” shrieked the old man at the window. “Come, Miss Tullis; my work is done.”
“He is dead, your Grace?” in low, awed tones.
“Yes, my dear,” said the Duke of Perse, a smile of relief on his face. “Come, let me escort you to the Prince. You have been most courageous. Graustark shall not forget it. Nor shall I ever cease thanking you for the service you have rendered to me. I have succeeded in freeing my unhappy daughter from the vile beast to whom I sold her youth and beauty and purity. Come! You must not look upon that carnage!”
Together they left the little room. As they stepped into the narrow hall beyond they realised that the defenders had been driven inside the walls of the Castle. The crash of firearms filled the halls far below; a deafening, steady roar came up to them.
“It is all over,” said the Duke of Perse, hobbling across the hall and throwing open the door to a room opposite.
A group of terrified women were huddled in the far corner of the spacious room. In front of them was the little Prince, a look of terror in his eyes, but with the tiny sword clutched in his hand—a pathetic figure of courage and dread combined. The Duke of Perse held open the door for Loraine Tullis, but she did not enter. When he turned to call, she was half way down the top flight of stairs, racing through the powder smoke toward the landing below.
At every step she was screaming in the very agony of gladness:
“Stand firm! Hold them! Help is coming! Help is coming!”
A last look through the window at the end of the hail had revealed to her the most glorious of visions.
Red and green troops were pouring through the dismantled gateway, their horses surging over the ugly ground-rifts and debris as if possessed of the fabled wings.
She had seen the rear line in the storming forces hesitate and then turn to meet the whirlwind charge of the cavalrymen. Her brother was out there and all was well. She was crying the joyous news from the head of the grand stairway when Truxton King caught sight of her.
Smoke writhed about her slim, inspiriting figure. Her face shone through the drab fog like an undimmed star of purest light. He bounded up the steps toward her, drawn as by magnet against which there was no such thing as resistance.
He was powder-stained and grimy; there was blood on his face and shirt front.
“You are shot,” she cried, clutching the post at the bend in the stairs. “Truxton! Truxton!”
“Not even scratched,” he shouted, as he reached her side. “It’s not my—” He stopped short, even as he held out his arms to clasp her to his breast. “It’s some one else’s blood,” he finished resolutely. She swayed toward him and he caught her in his arms.
“I love you—oh, I love you, Truxton!” she cried over and over again. He was faint with joy. His kisses spoke the adoration he would have cried out to her if emotion had not clogged his throat.
“Eric?” she whispered at last, drawing back in his arms and looking up into his eyes with a great pity in her own. “Is he—is he dead, Truxton?”
“No,” he said gently. “Badly hurt, but—”
“He will not die? Thank God, Truxton. He is a brave—oh, a very brave man.” Then she remembered her mission into this whirlpool of danger. “Go! Don’t lose a moment, darling! Tell Colonel Quinnox that Jack has come! The dragoons are—”
He did not hear the end of her cry. A quick, fierce kiss and he was gone, bounding down the stairs with great shouts of encouragement.
Leaderless, between the deadly fires, the mercenaries gave up the fight after a brief stand at the terrace. Six hundred horsemen ploughed through them, driving them to the very walls of the Castle. Here they broke and scattered, throwing down their arms and shouting for mercy. It was all over inside of twenty minutes.
The Prince reigned again.
* * * *
Nightfall brought complete restoration of order, peace and security in the city of Edelweiss. Hundreds of lives had been lost in the terrific conflict of the early morning hours; hundreds of men lay on beds of suffering, crushed and bleeding from the wounds they had courted and received.
“I knowed we’d whip them,” shouted the Prince, wriggling gleefully in John Tullis’s straining embrace half an hour after the latter had ridden through the gate. Tears streamed down the big man’s face. One arm held the boy, the other encircled the sister he had all but lost. In the Monastery of St. Valentine there was another woman, waiting for him to come to her with the news of a glorious victory. Perhaps she was hoping and praying for the other news that he would bring her, who knows? If he came to her with kisses, she would know without being told in so many words.
Truxton did not again see Loraine until late in the afternoon. He had offered his services to Colonel Quinnox and had worked manfully in the effort to provide comfort for the wounded of both sides. General Braze was at work with his men in the open city, clearing away the ugly signs of battle. The fortress and Tower were full of the prisoners of war. Baron Dangloss, pale, emaciated, sick but resolute, was free once more and, with indomitable zeal, had thrown himself and his liberated men at once into the work of rehabilitation.
It was on the occasion of the Baron’s first visit to the Prince, late in the day, that Truxton saw the girl he worshipped.
Prince Robin had sent for him to appear in the devastated state chamber. Publicly, in the presence of the Court and Ministry, the little ruler proclaimed him a baron and presented to him a great seal ring from among the ancient crown jewels.
“Say, Mr. King,” said Bobby, after he had called the American quite close to him by means of a stealthy crooking of his finger, “would you mind giving me my lucky stone? I don’t think you’ll need it any longer. I will, I’m sure. You see a prince has such a lot of things to trouble him. Wars and murders and everything.”
“Thank you, Prince Robin,” said King, placing the stone in the little hand. “I couldn’t have got on without it. May it always serve you as well.”
“Noblesse oblige, Baron,” said Prince Robin gravely.
“Hello!” in an excited whisper. “Here�
�s Baron Dangloss. He’s been in his own gaol!”
Truxton withdrew. Near the door he met Loraine. She had just entered the room. There was a bright look of relief in her eyes.
“Count Vos Engo has asked for you, Truxton,” she said in a low voice. A delicate flush crept into her cheeks; a sudden shyness leaped into her eyes, and she looked away.
“Loraine, have you told him?”
“Yes. I am so sorry for him. He is one of the bravest men I have ever known, Truxton dear. And, as it is with all men of his race, love knew no reason, no compromise. But I have made him see that I—that I cannot be his wife. He knows that I love you.”
“Somehow, darling, I’m sorry for him.”
“He will not pretend friendship for you, dear,” she went on painfully. “He only wants to thank you and to apologise, as you did, not so long ago. And he wants to ask you to release him from a certain obligation.”
“You mean our—our fight?”
“Yes. He is to lose his right arm, Truxton. You understand how it is with him now.”
CHAPTER XXIII
“YOU WILL BE MRS. KING”
Late that night it was reported at the Castle that a large force of men were encamped on the opposite side of the river. A hundred camp-fires were gleaming against the distant uplands.
“The Grand Duke Paulus!” exclaimed Count Halfont. “Thank God, he did not come a day earlier. We owe him nothing today—but yesterday! Ah, he could have demanded much of us. Send his messengers to me, Colonel Quinnox, as soon as they arrive in the morning. I will arise early. There is much to do in Graustark. Let there be no sluggards.”
A mellow, smiling moon crept up over the hills, flooding the laud with a serene radiance. Once more the windows in the Castle gleamed brightly; low-voiced people strolled through the shattered balconies; others wandered about the vast halls, possessed by uncertain emotions, torn by the conflicting hands of joy and gloom. In a score of rooms wounded men were lying; in others there were dead heroes. At the barracks, standing dully against the distant shadows, there were many cots of suffering. And yet there was rejoicing, even among those who writhed in pain or bowed their heads in grief. Victory’s wings were fanning the gloom away; conquest was painting an ever-widening streak of brightness across the dark, drear canvas of despair.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 104