“Stand and deliver!” cried a menacing voice that sent a delightful little shiver through the frame of Her Royal Highness, the Princess Mary.
The horseman was directly in front of the car. Stefan was both quick witted and courageous. One single burst of speed and both horse and man would be ridden down. The gears were in low, the car was just at a standstill. Stefan pressed his foot upon the accelerator and let in the clutch. The car should have jumped forward and crushed the life from the presumptuous bandit; but it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it gave voice to a pitiful choking sound, and died.
“Get out!” commanded the brigand.
Stefan set the emergency brake and climbed down into the road. He had played his last trick — there was nothing left to do but obey. Princess Mary was beside him almost as soon as he touched the ground.
“Don’t let him know who we are,” she warned in a low whisper.
Carlotta followed her mistress, and as she took her place beside her she clasped the latter’s hand in hers. The robber dismounted and approached them, and for a moment examined his captives intently.
“One is young and beautiful,” was his mental comment; “the other of middle age, with greyish hair,” and then, aloud: “Mrs. Bass, you and your daughter will kindly re-enter the machine.”
Princess Mary gasped, and squeezed Carlotta’s hand. He took them for the Americans! Princess Mary could have danced, so elated was she. So long as the bandit was ignorant of her true identity the chances of trapping him were greatly enhanced; and, too, while the ransom for a rich American’s daughter might be large, that which he would demand for a princess of the royal blood would be infinitely greater.
She wondered if this could really be the notorious Rider, this quiet-voiced man, who held open the car door for her and assisted Carlotta and herself back into the tonneau. She had always pictured The Rider as a low and brutal type of man, ignorant, unlettered, boorish; but this bandit had spoken to them in the purest of English. Could it be that The Rider was an American or an Englishman. If so he would speak the common language of Karlova and Margoth in the low vernacular of the underworld, if he spoke it all. She would try him.
“To whom,” she asked in her own tongue, “are we indebted for this little surprise? Can it be that we have been honored by the famous Rider?”
The man laughed.
“You have been honored more than you can know mademoiselle,” he replied. “Yes I am The Rider; but you need have no fear if you do as I ask — I only kill those who disobey me,” — the last in a very fierce and terrible voice.
Princess Mary felt a tremor of nervous excitement — a delicious little thrill — run up and down her royal spine. Ah, here was Romance! Here was Adventure! She wished that he would remove his mask — she would like to see the features of this redoubtable brigand who was the terror of two kingdoms — the scourge of the border. Doubtless, she thought, the revealment would prove most unpoetic — a pock marked face, brutal features, the lines which Crime and Vice stamp indelibly upon the countenances of their votaries. On second thought, she preferred that he remain masked, for even though he had answered her in as good Margothian as her own she could not believe that so low a fellow could fail to reflect in his personal appearance his degraded associations and environment.
And now The Rider turned to Stefan. “My man,” he said, “we are about to effect an exchange. For the honor of driving your mistress and her daughter I shall relinquish to you my faithful steed. Be careful of him — he possesses a pedigree which fills four large volumes and runs back to the royal stud which The Great King presented to the emperor Diocletian after the victories of Galerius in Persia. When you are through with him return him to the royal stables of the King of Karlova, from which he was stolen. Mount, Stefan, and ride back to Demia.”
The royal chauffeur hesitated. The Rider raised his revolver until the dark hole of the muzzle was on a line with Stefan’s diaphragm.
“Hasten, Stefan,” he admonished, and Stefan hastened.
The Rider watched the chauffeur until the latter had covered several hundred yards of the road toward Demia; then he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car once more upon its interrupted journey.
As they passed the road leading to Vitza, and the princess realized that their captor was keeping to the Roman road in the direction of the border the gravity of her predicament was borne in upon her. At first she had viewed the affair as one might view a pleasurable adventure which broke the dull monotony of existence; but as the minutes passed and gave her opportunity for reflection she saw all too plainly the grave dangers of her position. Her one thought, now was of escape; and the wild nature of the country through which the road passed, together with the many steep ascents which often brought the car almost to a dead stop, offered her every hope of success.
And so it was that near the summit of a particularly bad grade, while the chugging of the exhaust and the grinding of the gears obliterated all lesser sounds, the two doors of the tonneau opened simultaneously. The Princess Mary leaped lightly out upon the right and Carlotta essayed the same feat upon the left. All would have gone well and their escape, doubtless, been assured had Carlotta been favored by the advantages of an American education, which teaches one many things that may be found in no text book or in the curriculum of any college.
But Carlotta’s education had been sadly neglected, in some respects at least, which may account for the fact that she stepped from the slowly moving car with her face to the rear. The result was only what might have been expected; and Carlotta, to avoid the wheels, rolled quickly to one side and just far enough to come within the range of the tail of the bandit’s left eye. It was just a glimpse he got of something moving in the road behind him; but it was enough to bring his head around and reveal to his view the scrambling figure of Carlotta as she staggered to her feet and bolted down the hill in the direction from which they had just come.
Another glance’ showed the brigand that the tonneau was empty. The car stopped with a jerk, and almost in the same instant The Rider was in the road, his revolver in his hand, and his quick eyes piercing the night for a sign of his escaped prisoners.
The Princess Mary, crouching close to the rocky side of the cut through which the road passed at this point, saw the car stop, and guessing that their escape had been discovered, turned and ran after the fleeing Carlotta.
She had covered but a few yards when there came from behind her a sharp, peremptory command to halt. The Princess Mary, unaccustomed to obeying commands of any nature, ignored this one. It was repeated once, immediately followed by the report of a shot. The Princess Mary came to a dead stop, and turned upon her pursuer. Her little chin was high in the air, her eyes flashed; but her lower lip trembled just a trifle as she faced the man who now came running up.
“How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you fire upon—” and then she hesitated. For the moment she had forgotten that she was only Miss Bass of America.
Carlotta, turning at the sound of the shot, came quickly back to the side of her mistress. The bandit looked at the two, and even in the darkness Princess Mary thought that she detected the shadow of a smile beneath his black mask.
“I am very sorry, Miss Bass,” he said; “but really you mustn’t try that again — it’s awfully dangerous, leaping from a moving car. Permit me,” and he offered his arm to escort her back to the machine.
The girl ignored the little gallantry, and very stiffly and haughtily walked back up the hill, while the bandit followed at her elbow. He made her take the seat beside him this time, while Carlotta resumed her place in the tonneau.
“It will be safer thus,” he explained. “I should hate to have you risk your life again in an attempt to escape, and I can watch you better here. You’ll have to act as hostage, you know. I’m sure your mother won’t try to get away again as long as I have you safely beside me. Hadn’t you better put this robe around your shoulders? the night air is a trifle chill,” and h
e turned and attempted to place the robe for her.
“I do not wish a robe,” snapped the Princess Mary.
“You will kindly confine yourself to your proper role — that of brigand and captor. You will get your ransom money, and in the mean time you will oblige me by not speaking to me — I have no desire to converse with a thief and a murderer.”
“You mustn’t be too hard on me, Miss Bass,” expostulated The Rider; “I haven’t killed anyone for a week, really. You can’t imagine how hard times have been, and the last one not only bled all over me but when I came to empty his pockets I found that he didn’t possess the price of a bottle of good wine. You have no idea, Miss Bass, how discouraging this business is at times.”
Princess Mary shuddered. The fellow was a hopeless brute. Carlotta, in the tonneau, trembled. What, O what would the man not do to them when he discovered that they were not the wife and daughter of the rich American? He would never get a royal princess off his hands without jeopardizing his head, and Carlotta was convinced that he would murder them both and bury their bodies in some mountain ravine to hide the evidences of his guilt when he should discover the terrible mistake he had made.
The Rider, after several ineffectual attempts to draw Miss Bass into conversation, desisted; and in silence the little party sped onward toward the mountains which form the natural boundary between Margoth and Karlova.
At a point just beyond the frontier, the bandit turned the car into a narrow wagon road, where it was hidden from the main highway by a screen of trees and undergrowth. The road upon which it stood was little more than an opening among the trees. Once it had been used as a wood road, but since the king of Karlova had forbidden the further cutting of timber in this district it had been unused by others than The Rider and his disreputable following.
A few yards from the Roman road the car was brought to a stop. The bandit extinguished the lights and turning to the captive at his side announced that they would be compelled to complete their journey on foot, as no machine could travel the rough and precipitous trail ahead of them.
“You expect me to walk?” she asked, icily.
“Unless you prefer to be carried,” he replied.
“I shall neither walk nor be carried,” she announced.
“Yonder,” said The Rider, pointing through the darkness amidst the surrounding trees, “is a little mound of earth. Beneath it lies a misguided lady who refused to walk. Unfortunately she was too heavy to carry. I can carry you; but in the mean time your mother might escape and lead the gendarmes to my hiding place; so, if you refuse to come with me, I shall be compelled to kill your mother and carry you.
Carlotta felt the cold shivers run up and down her spine. Princess Mary turned upon The Rider.
“You beast!” she exclaimed.
“You will walk then?” he asked, suavely.
Upward through the impenetrable blackness the three stumbled. Even The Rider seemed to know the path none too well, and the Princess could not but wonder at his obvious ignorance of the way. Often he stopped and examined the ground beneath the rays of a small pocket flash-lamp, and twice they were compelled to retrace their steps when it became evident that they had lost the trail.
Romance and Adventure were commencing to pall upon the Princess Mary. Her back ached and her legs were like two heavy logs of wood.
Chapter Eight
WHEN, earlier in the day, Prince Boris of Karlova had been released for a few hours from the appalling ceremonies of royal hospitality, and was alone in his apartments with the faithful Ivan, Nicholas, and Alexander he had begged of them to save him from a repetition of the frightful experiences of the morning.
“I’d rather go to the gibbet,” he growled.
“Which you would doubtless grace to advantage,” replied Ivan. “Each of us has his appointed place in the universal scheme of things — yours is not the throne.”
The prince scowled, and then, after a moment’s silence: “At least I make as good a prince as that hideous little half-wit does a princess.”
“Granted,” exclaimed Ivan with a grimace. “If Boris could but see what was destined for him! Thank the Lord he was spared the ordeal, for he is such a good natured fellow that he might have acquiesced out of pity for her and brought a toothless idiot to the throne of Karlova. As it is our little substitution may save Karlova from a war with Margoth, since there is little likelihood that his majesty, Alexis III, will be over keen to have you for a son-in-law, and so will view with relief your indifference to his royal daughter. If Boris himself had come things would have been different. Alexis could not have but looked with favor upon him, and his refusal to marry the Princess Mary would have resulted in precipitating the long-brewing war — not, however, that we would not welcome a war with these contemptible Margothians.”
“I am not interested in history,” growled the crown prince. “At present I am interested in but one thing, and that is to get as far away from that frightful state dinner at Klovia as possible.”
“You wished to be a prince, my friend,” Nicholas reminded him, “and state dinners are a part of the penalty of being a prince.”
“I have had all of this prince business that I care for,” replied the other, scowling. “Get me out of here. Get me back to Peter’s Inn, and let me go my way. I am sick of seeing people laugh at me behind their hands, and even openly as they did in the streets this morning. If you do not get me out of here I will reveal the truth to the king of Margoth before I am an hour older.”
The three noble conspirators saw that the man was in earnest. They were far from loath to humor him, since they themselves had felt the sting and the burden of embarrassment since they had entered Margoth in his company.
It was Alexander Palensk who first suggested a feasible plan of escape from the impossible position in which the levity of the true Boris had placed them all. It was, in short, to wait until dark, and then hurry away on the Roman road for Sovgrad, after sending word to Alexis at Klovia that Prince Boris had been taken suddenly ill with what appeared to be a mild attack of ptomaine poisoning. Ivan Kantchi was to bear the message and apologies.
And thus it was that the pseudo prince and his two companions rode out of Demia under the cover of darkness that very evening while Ivan Kantchi made his way to Klovia with the excuses of his royal master to the king of Margoth.
It was evident to the young noble that Alexis was far from displeased to be rid of his gauche guest, and as a result Ivan could not resist the temptation to bait the Margothian ruler.
“It is evident, Sire,” he said, “that the charms of her royal highness, Princess Mary, have captivated my prince; and I trust that I may be the bearer of the glad tidings to him that his suit is looked upon with favor by both your majesty and her royal highness.”
For a moment Alexis III was silent. It was apparent that he labored under the stress of powerful emotions which he would have gladly hidden; but at last indignation got the better of diplomacy and he blurted out his true feelings to the friend and confidante of the Karlovian prince.
“My god, sir,” he cried,”do you think for a moment that I would give the hand of my daughter to the ill-bred boor who disgraced my capitol today, to the monkey who was the laughing stock of all Demia?”
Ivan Kantchi forgot for the moment the truth of the other’s statements. He thought only of the affront that had been put upon the name of his friend and prince. His face went white, and he straightened very stiffly as he replied in a cold, ironic tone.
“By leaving thus under the cloak of simulated illness Prince Boris but endeavored to spare you the knowledge of his true sentiments — sentiments which were shared by all those Karlovians who looked upon the Princess Mary to-day. Do I make myself quite plain, Your Majesty?”
Alexis III flushed, rose from his chair, and without another word turned his back upon the ambassador of the Karlovian prince and left the apartment. Ivan shrugged and turned away toward the door that had opened to admit him to th
e presence. As he passed out of the palace his lips formed a sentence in which at least one word was repeated several times — a word which sounded much like ‘war.’
Chapter Nine
FOR A MATTER of half an hour M. Klein awaited the pleasure of the little Princess Mary of Margoth; but receiving no summons and hearing no sound from the chamber beyond he at last ventured to knock upon the door of the tiny room into which the princess had herself ushered him. There was no response to his knocking, which he repeated at intervals for several minutes. Then he called aloud the name of his princess, to be answered only by silence. M. Klein became more and more perturbed in spirit. He still hesitated to turn the knob and enter the apartment of her royal highness without first obtaining permission, but at last he grew desperate. The knob turned beneath his fingers, he pressed outward with increasing vigor, but the door did not open — M. Klein was a prisoner. It came to him with the sudden shock of an unexpected douche of cold water; and it made him tremble all over and gasp, too, as the water might have.
For a moment or two he stood looking dumbly at the blank panels of the door. Knowing the Princess Mary as he did he was quite positive that his imprisonment was not a matter of chance; but what would the king say! At the thought M. Klein went white, and commenced to beat violently upon the door, shouting in the mean while at the top of his voice. There was no response.
The afternoon waned, and darkness came. M. Klein was exhausted by his vain efforts at attracting attention. The little, grated window had proved too high for him to reach and had only served to admonish him of the flight of time as the afternoon light which it shed within his tiny prison waned and faded into the blackness of night.
The secretary became frantic. His calls for help rose finally to wild shrieks. He pounded upon the door. He kicked it, and continually he cursed himself for a silly ass in thus permitting a slip of a girl to put him in so ridiculous and dangerous a position. The king would never forgive him — he would be lucky if Alexis did not throw him into prison.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 725