For the twentieth time he leaped for the grating of the window above him. His fingers caught and held. He drew himself up until his face was at the opening, and then he opened his mouth and gave vent to a piercing scream for help.
Below in the courtyard a sentry pacing to and fro heard the wild cry. Instantly his own voice rose in a sharp summons for the non-commissioned officer of the guard. The scream from above was repeated as a sergeant came upon a run from the guard house.
“Who calls?” cried the sentry.
M. Klein’s fingers were relaxing their hold upon the grating. He had only time to cry: “Princess Mary’s apartments!” before they slipped and let him drop back to the floor of his prison.
But the sergeant had heard, and so had the sentry; and a moment later an officer of the guard followed by a score of armed men were dashing through the corridors of the palace, up stairs, and along passage-ways until they came to the suite of the Princess Mary.
And here they permitted no courtly etiquette to detain them, but throwing open the doors bolted into the forbidden precincts of the royal apartments. A moment later M. Klein was released and, bundled into an automobile, was speeding toward Klovia, his heart in his mouth and his brain a-whirl with the stupendous fact that the Princess Mary had fled the royal palace.
At about the same time Stefan, mounted upon the abandoned horse of the highwayman, was spurring along the Roman road into Demia. Through the streets of the ancient capitol he raced, regardless of gendarmes and speed laws, upon his way to Klovia and his king.
Alexis III, relieved of the embarrassment of his royal guest, was giving himself over to the pleasures of the society of his own nobility, when a very much excited and disheveled young man dashed unannounced into the banquet hall, throwing aside and upsetting a couple of guardsmen who had thought to interrupt his impetuous progress. To the king’s side the young man made his way, while the guardsmen, picking themselves from the floor, pursued him.
“Klein!” exclaimed the king. “What is the meaning of this?”
“O pardon, Sire!” cried the excited secretary, falling upon his knees. “It is awful!”
“What is awful?’ demanded the king, rising.
The guests too rose from their seats. The guardsmen, seeing now who their quarry was, halted beside the kneeling Klein. The king extended his hand and lifted the trembling secretary to his feet.
“Quick, man!” he cried. “What brings you here? What has happened?”
“The Princess Mary!” sobbed the overwrought secretary, “She has run away. She locked me in a closet, and then she ran away.”
A poorly suppressed titter ran around the banquet board. Even the king smiled.
“I cannot say that I blame her, Klein,” he said, “can you?”
The secretary rose, dumbfounded. He had expected the wrath of his sovereign to be poured upon his head, and instead he found anything but anger in the aspect and the tones of the king.
“She would have been no Margothian princess had she willingly consented to mate with that Karlovian swineherd,” said Prince Stroebel, who sat at the king’s right. “Even I would rather have war with Constans of Karlova than see our beloved princess wed to the impossible boor whom we had among us this morning.”
“I am glad that you have come to your senses, Stroebel,” said the king, and then, turning to his secretary; “Come, Klein, don’t look so downhearted. We forgive you. Her Highness has doubtless, gone to Vitza — she always goes to Vitza when she is angry with me. Inform Captain Polnik that it is our wish that he ride at once to Vitza and see that her highness has arrived safely.”
The king was still speaking when an officer of the guard entered the room hastily and approached the ruler.
“And now what, Polnik?” asked Alexis, looking up at the white face and startled eyes of the officer.
“My God, your majesty,” blurted the guardsman, “it is awful. Stefan has just ridden in with the most frightful news of the Princess Mary—”
Alexis leaped to his feet. His face went as white as that of the soldier before him.
“What has happened?” he cried in a hoarse voice. “Quick, man! Tell me,” and then, his eyes chancing to glance in the direction of the doorway, he espied Stefan leaning, wide eyed, against the frame. “Here, Stefan!” he called. “Come here, man, and tell us your story.”
Hatless, dust covered, and trembling, Stefan staggered across the room where he would have fallen to one knee before the king had not the latter deterred him with an impatient snap of his fingers.
“Your story, Stefan!” demanded Alexis. “What has happened to the Princess Mary?”
“The Rider, Sire,” cried Stefan. “The Rider held us up upon the highway, and at the point of a pistol drove me away. Then he entered the machine and taking the wheel himself rode off with her highness and Mademoiselle Carlotta. It happened just before we turned from the Roman road into the Vitza way. I mounted his horse, Sire, and rode here as fast as the beast could go. That is all, Sire!”
“God knows it is enough,” cried Alexis. “Captain Polnik, turn out the guard, impress into your service as many of the private machines as you may need, in addition to the military and royal cars at your disposal here, to transport your men in pursuit. Lose no time. At the border scatter your forces in both directions, unless you strike the trail before, and search the mountains thoroughly — The Rider lairs somewhere not far from the Roman road. We will go at once to Demia where you will keep us advised of the progress of your search. Do not cross into Karlova except under the most pressing necessity, though I do not need tell you that I shall expect you to cross even into Hell, if necessary, to rescue Her Highness from the clutches of that Devil’s spawn.”
“No, Sire,” replied Polnik, “we of The Guard need not be told that.”
“Good! Now go. In the meantime we will wire Sovgrad to co-operate with us from their side of the border.”
Captain Polnik saluted and left the hall. The guests who had risen when the king rose, were now talking excitedly among themselves. Those who were officers of The Guard were hastening from the palace to join their men. All was bustle and excitement. The courtly form and ceremony of a royal function were forgotten or ignored. In the mind of each Margothian there but a single thought loomed, large and ominous — their beloved princess was in the hands of that notorious cutthroat and scoundrel, The Rider. In fifteen minutes from the time that Captain Polnik left the banquet hall twenty automobiles carrying a hundred and fifty officers and soldiers of The Guard were racing toward the Roman road on their way to the western frontier.
Chapter Ten
WHEN SEVERAL MILES AHEAD of them two other automobiles sped westward. In the foremost car rode Mrs. Abner Bass and her daughter, Gwendolyn — in the second the false Prince Boris with Alexander Palensk and Nicholas Gregovitch rode in moody silence, bound for the hunting lodge of the crown prince of Karlova, where The Rider and the prince were again to exchange identities and take up once more the particular roles for which each was best suited.
“I hope Boris will be there,” said Alexander.
“Peter can get word to him quickly enough if he is not,” replied the bandit. “If he is not there he will be in my camp — if the gendarmes haven’t got him.”
Nicholas laughed. “Gad!” he exclaimed, “what a joke on Boris, if they should.”
“And on us, too,” growled Alexander. “It would cost us our commissions should His Majesty ever learn our part in this affair. Say! what have we here?” as the car turned to one side and came to a stop beside another machine which blocked the road at a bad turn.
The royal chauffeur was excitedly berating the driver of the other car for stopping in such a place.
“Get out of there!” he cried. “Make way for His Royal Highness, Prince Boris of Karlova.”
“Gwan, you Dago,” growled the man addressed “Talk American. Wotinel do you tink I am?”
If her chauffeur had failed to understand the speech o
f the Karlovian, Mrs. Abner J. Bass had not. ‘His Royal Highness, Prince Boris of Karlova!’ Mrs. Bass was out in the dust of the Roman road in a second.
“McDougall” she cried sharply. “Have a care! Prince Boris of Karlova is in that car.”
“I don’t givadam whose in dat car,” grumbled the exasperated American who had been tinkering with a refractory magneto. “If he tinks I can pack a touring car off on me back he’s got annuder tink comin’.”
The three men had now descended from the royal limousine, the two officers having seen that a woman was in distress, and the bandit following their example from force of habit.
“I am so sorry, your highness,” apologized Mrs. Bass, looking questioningly from one of the men to another; but none of them seemed desirous of acknowledging himself crown prince of Karlova. It was at this moment that Gwendolyn stepped from the car to her mother’s side.
At sight of her face The Rider raised his military cap and bowed low.
“Permit me,” he said, “to offer my services. I am Prince Boris of Karlova.”
Mrs. Bass and her daughter curtsied. Alexander and Nicholas raised their helmets, bowing low from the hips.
“I am Mrs. Abner J. Bass of America,” said the wife of the multi-millionaire, “and this is my daughter.”
The Rider licked his lips. He had heard of the millions of the famous Abner J. Bass. What a haul!
“If you will permit me to offer you the use of my car,” he said, “I will gladly take you to Sovgrad. My aides will remain with your chauffeur and see that he gets in safely after he has made the necessary repairs.”
Alexander and Nicholas bit their lips and scowled. The effrontery of the man! Nicholas looked at Alexander. What were they to do? They had given their promises to respect the exchange which their prince had made with the highwayman, and to treat the latter as their lord and master until the true Boris claimed his rightful position. Alexander shrugged, and bowed in acquiescence. The Rider held open the door of the royal car, and assisted the two ladies to enter. Then he followed them.
“Good evening, my friends!” he called through the window to the two officers as the car started once more upon its interrupted journey.
As the car bowled along the road. The Rider thought rapidly. It never would do to enter Sovgrad in the royal car, nor could he hope to hold his precious prizes within the boundaries of the capitol city. Picking up the speaking tube he signaled the driver.
“To the hunting lodge,,” he said; “but stop first at Peter’s Inn.” And then to Mrs. Bass: “It is a long way to Sovgrad — we will stop for a moment at my hunting lodge for refreshments.”
Mrs. Abner J. Bass, quite overcome by this close communion with royalty would have agreed to anything.
“How thoughtful of your highness,” she murmured.
In the dim light The Rider could see that the younger of his victims was extremely beautiful. To her he addressed most of his remarks. He told her of the attempt to marry him to the Margothian princess, and during the narration an inspiration came to the unscrupulous scoundrel, which almost caused him to laugh aloud.
“You see,” he said, “I must marry at once, someone whom I could love, or I shall be forced to marry this hideous woman. Of course if I marry another I cannot marry the princess.”
“It would seem that it should be easy to find many desirable princesses who would be honored by such an alliance,” suggested Mrs. Bass.
“But she need not be a princess,” The Rider hastened to assure her. “In fact I should much prefer marrying one who is not a princess,” and he looked directly and pointedly at Miss Gwendolyn Bass.
Mrs. Abner J. Bass gasped and almost choked. For once in her life she was at a loss as to what to say. A real Prince — a crown prince! and he had as much as said that he would like to marry Gwendolyn. ‘Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess Gwendolyn!’ My! how wonderful it sounded! And later, Queen Gwendolyn! Mrs. Bass was thankful that she had chosen a really distinguished name for her daughter.
Miss Bass, who had seen quite all she desired to of the royal features, shrank far back into her corner of the car, a little shiver of horror playing up and down her spine. What had become of Hemmy? She was sure that she had caught a glimpse of him in Bucharest, and that her mother had seen him there, for immediately Mrs. Bass had altered her plans and turned back toward the west. She needed him now, if ever she had needed anyone, for she was not so blind but that she could read all too plainly the trend of the thoughts of the man at her side, and she knew her mother quite well enough to be sure that that ambitious lady would jump at the chance to become the mother-in-law of a prince of the blood-royal. But Hemmy might have been dead and buried, thought the girl, for all the good he could do her now. She hadn’t the faintest idea as to where she might reach him.
The man at her side had been talking earnestly with her mother, now he had turned and was speaking to her. At first she only half comprehended the words which fell so easily from his lips and which, although she had been expecting them sooner or later, came now with all the effect of an unlooked for nervous shock.
“Your mother approves,” he was saying, “and I hope, Miss Bass, that you will approve. It would be a very advantageous marriage.” He neglected to specify to whose advantage it would redound. “The ceremony may be performed at my hunting lodge tonight — should we delay the king might get wind of the matter, and that would be the end of it, for I assure you that he would prevent our marriage and immediately place me under arrest.”
“But I scarcely know you,” objected the girl, “and anyway I do not wish to marry.”
“Gwendolyn!” admonished Mrs. Bass. “His highness has honored you highly by asking your hand in marriage — of course you will accept him,” and, turning to The Rider, “She is so young, and this has come to her so suddenly, you cannot wonder, your highness, that she is quite taken off her feet; but of course she will do as I say — Gwendolyn always does, she is a very good and dutiful daughter.”
It was well for the peace of mind of Mrs. Abner Bass that she could not read what was at that moment passing through the mind of her dutiful daughter.
During the remainder of the ride the bandit regaled his mother-in-law-to-be with vivid word pictures of the wonders of his royal palaces, the power and glory of his house, and the riches of the domain over which he and the daughter of the house of Bass would one day rule.
Mrs. Bass became quite excited in anticipation; but Gwendolyn, inclined to cautiousness in all that pertained to her royal fiancée, saw only the crudeness of his grammar, the coarseness of his voice, and the boorishness of his manners.
Presently the car turned from the Roman road into a dark wood, and shortly after drew up before a squalid inn. The Rider excused himself and entered the place on the pretext of arranging for a messenger to fetch a priest from a near-by monastery.
Inside he sought and found Peter to whom he transmitted his instructions. “I shall be at the royal hunting lodge,” he said, “and when the priest comes here, have him brought there to me at once; but do not let him know where he is being taken. Lose no time about it either. If I have any other instructions for you I will send them in writing by a messenger,” and with that he turned and hurried back to the waiting car.
Chapter Eleven
NOW THE ROAD which leads north past Peter’s Inn toward the Hunting lodge of the king of Karlova is not an automobile road. It passes beneath the heavy foliage of a dense forest, and as a result is seldom thoroughly dried out. Ox carts with broad tires travel it, carrying provisions to the lodge, and market stuff to Sovgrad from the few wretched little farms which eke out a miserable existence upon the borders of the hunting preserve. Royalty and its guests pass to and fro upon horse back; but automobiles seldom if ever hazard the soft mud and the deep ruts of what is doubtless one of the most abominable roads in Europe.
Rain had not fallen for many weeks, and as a result the road was reasonably hard, but the deep chuck holes retarded
the speed of the car to such an extent that it traveled but little faster than a man might walk.
Peter had dispatched one of his dependents to fetch the priest The Rider had demanded, and was waiting for the man’s return when the door of his barroom opened to admit two strangers. The first to enter was quite evidently a foreigner — a young man in riding togs and with a face which betokened a super-abundance of initiative and determination. At his heels followed a dark robed priest. Peter eyed the two questioningly.
“Good evening!” said the young man. “Have I the honor of addressing the proprietor of this charming hostelry?”
Peter nodded.
“Then your name is Peter?” asked the stranger.
Again Peter signified an affirmative, and the other drew a folded note from his pocket, extending it to the inn-keeper. “For you, my friend,” he said.
Peter took the note, slowly unfolded it, and, with evident labor, spelled out the message it contained:
“Peter:
— Furnish the bearer with a guide who will conduct him and the priest to the spot where The Wolf lairs. Ask no questions.
The Rider.”
That was all. Peter turned the paper over; but it was blank upon the opposite side. He looked from it to the young man and then on to the priest. How the devil had this young fellow come to be here so soon with a priest, and what had become of the messenger whom Peter had sent to fetch a priest? But the note said plainly that he must ask no questions. Peter scratched his head. The whole thing was a puzzle to him. Well, it was none of his business anyway, and here was a priest, and here was a written command from The Rider himself — there was naught to do but obey. He stepped close to the young man and whispered in his ear. The latter looked relieved, for Peter had just told him that his new friend had passed the Inn but a short time since and that he had come in an automobile which had remained in the darkness of the trees beside the road.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 726