Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  At last the great doors at the far end of the throne room opened wide, the heavy hangings were drawn back. A court functionary in knee breeches and gold braid appeared in the opening.

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Mary Constantia Deodora Theresa Eugenie Sylvia!” he announced in reverent tones.

  An aisle was opened from the doorway to the foot of the throne up on which a third chair had been placed for the princess. Every eye turned in the direction of the little figure walking slowly at the head of her ladies-in-waiting, and more than one Margothian smothered an exclamation of incredulity or horror as they saw the face of their beloved princess.

  Prince Boris of Karlova, prodded by Ivan Kantchi, rose as the Princess Mary entered the room, and, with the other Karlovians who had not before seen the Margothian princess, strained his eyes in her direction. Trained in the etiquette of courts, the audience gave no token of the true emotions which surged beneath their resplendent costumes, as Mary of Margoth approached the throne to meet her future husband.

  The Karlovians saw a small woman, bent, and supporting herself with a cane. The yellow skin of the forehead was lined with wrinkles. Dark rings circled the squinting eyes. The lower lip drooped, the upper was slightly raised, giving an expression of partial idiocy to the countenance, and exposing a dark spot where a front tooth was missing. The low cut bodice revealed a yellow, scrawny neck, creased with many lines.

  Ivan Kantchi gave a mental gasp; but to all outward appearances he might have been looking for the first time upon the most beautiful woman in the world. Not so Prince Boris, however. His eyebrows went up, and he raised his palm to cover the grin which he made no effort to suppress.

  “Name of a name!” he whispered to Ivan; “What a fright.”

  “Shut up, you fool!” snapped Kantchi. “She is a princess and a woman.”

  Alexis III rose to greet his daughter. A terrific frown darkened his brow; but he had seen the contemptuous smile upon the face of his royal guest, and anger and pride smothered the rebuke which he had been upon the point of delivering to his temerous daughter.

  True to his coaching, The Rider raised the hand of Princess Mary to his lips. Like a parrot he repeated the words which Ivan Kantchi had taught him; but the only reply was a vacant stare from the squinting eyes of the princess, and a still further droop of the lower jaw. It was evident to the Karlovians present that the Margothian princess was a hopeless idiot.

  At last the painful audience was terminated. The king, Princess Mary, Prince Boris, Stroebel and Kantchi withdrew. The assemblage separated into little knots of animated gossipers, and with the restraint of royalty removed long restrained laughter attested the appreciation with which the Margothians had viewed the daring ruse which their clever little princess had adopted to discourage the matrimonial advances of the crown prince of Karlova.

  As the king and Princess Mary passed out of the throne room together the former spoke in low tones to his daughter. His face was very white and stern; the arm upon which the little hand of Princess Mary rested, trembled to the anger which filled Alexis III.

  “You have accomplished nothing,” he said, “other than to make yourself and your king ridiculous in the eyes of our subjects and of strangers and to finally crystallize my determination that you shall wed Prince Boris. After seeing him I might have hesitated; but if he is a boor, what shall the king of Margoth say for his own daughter? It will be an excellent match, and I promise your highness that the betrothal shall take place upon the morrow.”

  In accordance with the program which the king and Prince Stroebel had arranged, Princess Mary and Prince Boris were to be given a half hour together alone, that they might become better acquainted, and pursuant to this idea the king, Stroebel, and Kantchi left them.

  No sooner were the two alone than the princess rose, and hobbled slowly across the floor, leaning upon her cane. Without a word of apology or adieu she passed through a small doorway, and was gone. The door opened into a corridor near the foot of a staircase, and as the portal closed behind her Princess Mary straightened up, the stupid squint in her eyes was replaced by a mischievous twinkle, and a merry smile transformed the sagging jaw into a well moulded, aggressive little chin.

  Gathering her royal robes half way to her knees, Princess Mary scampered up the stairway and along a wide hallway toward her own apartments. At a turning she came unexpectedly upon an officer on guard. Instantly the skirts dropped demurely about the trim ankles, the reckless gait became a dignified walk, though the roguish dimples still hovered about the corners of the piquant little mouth, and laughing eyes looked sideways at the stony-faced lieutenant standing rigidly at salute.

  Once inside her own suite, the princess ran quickly toward the frightened and nervous Carlotta who advanced to meet her, her arms outstretched, and a question on her lips.

  “Oh,” cried the princess, “he is awful — just simply awful; and Da-da is so mad at me he could eat me alive. And, Carlotta, I’m going to run away!”

  “Your highness!” almost screamed the scandalized Carlotta.

  “But I am. Da-da was so angry that he swore that I should be betrothed to that frightful Karlovian person to-morrow, and I simply must get out of his clutches until he has had time to cool off.”

  “Oh, your highness, it is awful!” moaned Carlotta. “I knew what would come of an American education. Never before has a Margothian princess thought to question the commands of her father, the king. It is all due to those frightful, democratic ideas which you picked up in the New World.”

  As she talked, the faithful Carlotta was busy removing the state robes of her mistress while the latter grimaced at herself in an adjacent mirror that she might enjoy the ecstasy of contemplating the missing tooth and the network of wrinkles before Carlotta removed the last vestige of them to leave the fair, young face as clear and blemishless as marble and the firm, white teeth glistening in an unbroken row. In half an hour Mary was herself again. Her aggressive spirit had swept away the weak remonstrances of Carlotta to the bold plan the girl had conceived, and now there remained but to discuss the details and make the final arrangements.

  As the two talked there came a knock upon the door and in reply to Carlotta’s summons the king’s secretary entered the chamber, halting inside the doorway and bowing very low. With a smile and a pleasant word the princess bid him advance. As she noted the man’s hesitancy and embarrassment she broke into a merry laugh.

  “I can guess your errand,” she exclaimed. “You bear word of my punishment from His Majesty — I am to be shot at sunrise.”

  The secretary, who was a young man, blushed and smiled sheepishly. Then he cleared his throat once or twice.

  “Not quite so bad as that, Your Highness,” he replied. “His Majesty commands that you remain in your apartments until he summons you tomorrow. I am to return with your assurance that the king’s command will be respected.”

  “And if I will not promise?” she asked, with one of her sweetest smiles.

  “Then His Majesty directs that you be placed under arrest and a guard posted in the corridor before your apartments,” replied the secretary.

  “You are to return at once to His Majesty, I presume, with my assurances?” she asked.

  “His Majesty has already departed for Klovia, where he dines this evening,” replied the secretary. “I am merely to act for him, Your Highness. If you give me your promise to respect the king’s wishes I am to receive them for His Majesty — if you do not, then I am to arrange for the guard.”

  “I see,” said Princess Mary, and she rose and walked to and fro as though in deep thought. At last she paused before a small door in that part of the room opposite from the doorway through which the secretary had entered.

  “I should like to have a few minutes in which to think the matter over, and talk with Carlotta,” she said in a voice so sweet and with a smile so winning that it would have been impossible to deny her had she been but a goose-girl instead of a princess; “so, if
you will step into this ante-chamber, M. Klein,” and she laid her hand upon the knob and partially opened the door, “Carlotta and I will discuss the matter.”

  Now what is there to do when a princess of the blood royal condescends to hold a door open for one but to pass through, backward, in as courtly a manner as possible? Nothing, of course; and so the king’s secretary backed into the little room, the Princess Mary cast a sweet smile upon, and the door closed — with an ominous click that was not entirely lost upon the gallant M. Klein.

  Then he turned and looked about him to discover that he was in a very small room with a single heavily grated window high in one wall above his head — a small window which let in air but none too much light. M. Klein scratched his head and let his eyes return to the closed door. He was half tempted to turn the knob; but no, to enter the presence of Her Highness until bid would be an unpardonable offense. So M. Klein waited, shifting his weight from one foot to another, the pleasure of the little princess whom all Margoth loved.

  And in the mean time the princess, aided by Carlotta slipped into a long, dark colored cloak. Carlotta, too, garbed herself in bonnet and wrap, and the two carrying themselves more like criminals than members of a royal household, sneaked out into the corridor and made their surreptitious way down back stairways to the rear of the palace. The royal stables lay not so far away, night was falling, and undetected the two fugitives presently appeared before a surprised and bowing chauffeur.

  “The open car, Stefan,” instructed Princess Mary; The old one without the arms, and take me west on the Roman road — I’ll tell you just where to go, later.”

  Chapter Seven

  HEMMINGTON MAIN rushed into the room of his new friend, Kargovitch.

  “They’re leaving this evening,” he cried. “They only stopped here because one of the maids is sick. Mrs. Bass wants to get on to Sovgrad as soon as possible. I got it all from their chauffeur. She’s heard rumors of trouble between Margoth and Karlova, and she’s afraid they may be detained here if they delay. They’re leaving both maids — the well one to look after the sick one — who are to follow on by rail later. You can’t miss’em — touring car with a chauffeur and two women. One of the women is middle age with greyish hair, the other is young and — beautiful.”

  “Good, I’ll get them,” replied Kargovitch. “Now you take the next train for Sovgrad — it leaves in about twenty minutes. As soon as you get there get a couple of horses and a priest, and ride to Peter’s Inn, anyone can direct you. Give this note to Peter, and he will send a guide with you who will conduct you to where I’ll wait for you with the future Mrs. Main — and ma-ma’s full and unqualified consent.”

  “Gad!” exclaimed Main, “she’ll never forgive me.”

  “Probably not; but now go, there’s no time to waste if you want to catch that train.”

  When his friend had departed M. Kargovitch strolled down to the hotel office, paid his bill, and walked out into the streets of Demia. There he bought a late afternoon paper in which appeared a carefully censored account of the visit of Crown Prince Boris of Karlova to the court of Alexis III. The article closed with the statement that “it is understood that Prince Boris will return to Sovgrad tonight following the banquet which the king is giving in his honor at the summer palace at Klovia.”

  There was no reference to the Princess Mary, or to the alliance between the two royal houses. In another column a few lines were devoted to the arrival of the wife and daughter of the famous American multi-millionaire, Abner J. Bass. M. Kargovitch was not the only person to read this latter item with interest. Princess Mary of Margoth saw it, and gave a little exclamation of surprise and delight, for she had known Gwendolyn Bass well at the select American boarding school to which the little princess had been sent at the instigation of Stroebel. The royal guest of Alexis III saw it, and licked his lips sorrowfully at the thought that he was a prince and not a bandit — what a rich haul would be the wife and daughter of an American millionaire!

  “Stefan,” called Princess Mary as the machine rolled from the palace grounds, “the Hotel Royal first.”

  Carlotta asked questions and interposed objections, saying that they surely would be recognized; but Mary, accustomed to having her own way, over-ruled them all.

  “I want to see Gwendolyn Bass,” she announced. “She knows me only as Mary Banatoff, so she couldn’t expose me even if she would. When I enter the hotel I’ll draw my veil. It’ll be safe enough.”

  When the car drew up before the hotel the two alighted and entered. At the office they obtained the number of the Bass suite, and saying that they were old friends, took the elevator and ascended without being announced.

  A maid admitted them, and as Princess Mary stepped into the room and threw back her veil Gwendolyn Bass gave a little cry of astonished pleasure as she ran forward to greet her friend.

  For half an hour the two girls chattered on as fast as their tongues would go. Mary Banatoff was “so sorry that you are not going to be in Demia longer, and next time be sure to let me know; and Mrs. Bass you must be very brave to travel the Roman road into Sovgrad at night, with The Rider abroad. He is a frightful wretch. Have your chauffeur drive at top speed after you pass the border.”

  While they talked Stefan sat rigidly in the driver’s seat of the waiting car. A horseman rode up from behind and at sight of the car drew rein. Then he approached close to Stefan’s side.

  “Whose car is this?” he asked.

  Stefan looked up to see a tall military figure bending toward. him. The man was not in uniform and Stefan did not recognize him; but Stefan had a guilty conscience because he knew that the excursion of his young mistress was entirely irregular. He hesitated.

  “I asked,” said the stranger, “whose car this is. Does it belong to the Americans by the name of Bass who are travelling to Sovgrad tonight?”

  Stefan grasped at the suggested straw.

  “Yes, monsieur,” he replied, “it is the Bass car.”

  “And are you leaving at once?”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Stefan could have strangled the man for his impudence. The very idea of questioning him, Stefan, the royal chauffeur, in this familiar manner!

  “Good,” said the stranger, and rode on leaving Stefan sputtering ragefully.

  Slowly he turned the next corner, and when out of sight of Stefan spurred his horse into a trot. At the end of the city street, where it broke into the open country and the Roman road, the trot was quickened to a gallop.

  “I’ll never make it,” muttered the rider. “What the devil are they leaving so early for? Well, I suppose one place is as good as another; but I should have preferred Karlovian territory — it might raise the devil should I happen to be caught in Margoth.”

  At about the same time Mary Banatoff bade farewell to her American friend and descended with the faithful Carlotta to the waiting car.

  “Drive slowly, Stefan,” she said, “for the night is beautiful. I am going to Vitza.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” replied Stefan.

  “S-s-sh!” cautioned the princess, “someone might hear you.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” said Stefan.

  Princess Mary sank back into the cushions of the tonneau with a smile and a sigh of resignation.

  “The safest thing, Carlotta,” she said, “is not to speak to Stefan at all.”

  The road to Vitza leaves the Roman road about ten miles west of Demia, and runs north through the mountains for another ten miles to the favorite palace of the king of Margoth. Stefan drove slowly as he had been instructed. The moon shown brilliantly down from a cloudless sky, and Princess Mary was enjoying to the full every moment of her adventure. She would remain in Vitza for a few days until the king’s anger had blown over, as it always did blow over when the Princess Mary transgressed. Then she would come back and forgive her father, and everything would be as it had been before. Da-da would never force her to marry that frightful, hideous Prince Boris!

  As t
he car turned north into the hills, and wound slowly back and forth up the steep grade just before leaving the Roman road to enter the road to Vitza a horseman drew rein at the summit of a particularly steep and tortuous stretch, and turning looked back into the valley beneath and behind him.

  The lights of a car shown for a moment far in his rear, and then were lost in a sudden turning of the road. The man drew a black mask from his pocket and adjusted it over the lower part of his face. Then he reined his mount close behind a shoulder of rock at a sharp turning of the road, whore the shadows veiled him from the sight of the approaching wayfarers. The fingers of his right hand gripped the butt of a long and formidable looking revolver, while those of his left curbed the nervous sidesteppings of his restive mount.

  Slowly the big car wound its way up the steep grade, the gears, meshed in second speed, protested loudly while the exhaust barked in sympathy through an open muffler. Stefan, outwardly calm, was inwardly boiling, as was the water in the radiator before him threatening to do. Silent, but none the less sincere, were the curses where with he cursed the fate which had compelled him to drive “the old car” up Vitza grade which the new car took in high with only a gentle purring.

  Almost at the summit there is a curve about a projecting shoulder of rock, and at this point the grade is steepest. More and more slowly the old car moved when it reached this point — there came from the steel and aluminum lungs a few consumptive coughs which racked the car from bumper to tail light, and as Stefan shifted quickly from second to low the wheels almost stopped, and at the same instant a horseman reined quickly into the center of the road before them, a leveled revolver pointing straight through the frail windshield at the unprotected breast of the astonished Stefan.