“Search him!” cried several voices, and at a gesture from their leader, they fell on their knees beside him.
It was rough handling Ellerey received for the next few minutes. His coat was torn open; rough hands were thrust into his pockets, and even his under-garments were rent apart lest by any means he should have secured the token next his skin.
“There is nothing,” they said, rising to their feet one by one. The last man knelt a moment longer, and turned an evil eye toward his chief.
“May it not happen by an accident?” he said. “An accident would be forgiven, and it would be so much safer.”
The dim light shone on the keen blade the man had ripped eagerly from his girdle, and Ellerey doubted whether the chief's word would have power to save him; whether, indeed, it would be spoken. His salvation came from quite an unexpected quarter.
“Why that knife, Nicolai?” said a voice which caused the man to spring to his feet, and made Ellerey turn his head. “You would dare to disobey my commands, Nicolai? Stand aside. I have no faith in you.”
The ruffian slunk back into the shadows of the room without a word. Ellerey was astonished that so mild a reprimand should have so great an effect. He looked at the dim figure, which the mean light of the lantern revealed; a woman's figure, closely cloaked from head to foot, while an ample scarf was wound round her head, and her face hidden by a silken mask. She had entered by a door somewhat behind him, and he and the man who was so desirous of killing him were the last to become aware of her presence.
“Have you found it?” she demanded, after a pause.
“No; he declares no token was given. At any rate, it is not upon him,” answered the man who was in charge of the ruffians.
The woman took the lantern from the man who carried it, and, as she held it up, saw more distinctly the faces of the men about her.
“He has given you trouble, it seems. You bear marks of the conflict. Eight of you.”
“And two on the stairs who have not yet recovered,” said one.
“He should be a good man, then, for a hazardous enterprise,” and the woman bent down, holding the lantern low to look into Ellerey's face.
Ellerey could see the eyes through the holes in the silk mask, but they told him nothing. He had hardly noticed the eyes of the woman who had stopped him at the corner of the Altstrasse; he did not know whether they were the same. This woman seemed taller; yet there was a familiar ring in her voice. She gazed at him for some moments in silence, and then, standing erect, handed the lantern to one of the men. Behind the mask she smiled. “Your cut-throats, madam, have made a mistake. I have no token,” said Ellerey.
“Do any of you know this man?” she asked, turning to her followers.
“A foreigner,” growled one. “A soldier,” said another.
“A King's man,” said a third, “and better put out of the way, if I may advise.”
“You would be as Nicolai yonder, under my displeasure,” she answered sharply. “Have a care. I shall know how to deal with the first man who disobeys me.”
Was this the Queen? Ellerey thought she must be, half-believing he recognized something familiar in her manner. Was this her method of proving his daring before she fully trusted him?
“You have no token?” she said, addressing Ellerey.
“No, madam.”
“Yet you went on a secret mission to the Altstrasse to-night?”
“I went openly.”
“Openly! To visit whom?”
“Surely, one who lives in the Altstrasse,” Ellerey answered.
“And were graciously entertained?”
“I ate and drank, madam, and both food and drink seemed to me of excellent quality.”
“And afterward?”
“We talked.”
“Monsieur De Froilette, you, and—”
“Yes, madam, we talked, and smoked, but the matter of the token surprises me. I heard no word of such a thing mentioned.”
“I am inclined to believe you,” she answered. “You have not yet been sufficiently proved” “I would bow my thanks for your compliment, were I able. I make but a sorry picture at the moment, I fear, but my ragged and hardly respectable appearance you will excuse. May I know to whom I am indebted for this adventure?”
“Not yet. I may have need of you again.” “An invitation less hastily devised would please me better,” said Ellery. “I am not rich enough to adventure such good garments as these often.”
“A bullet would certainly have made less havoc with them, Captain Ellerey,” she returned.
The mention of his name startled him.
“A word of warning,” she went on. “Beware of Monsieur De Froilette, and of any enterprise he may handle. There will be specious promises, but small fulfilment. Beware of the lady who visited the Altstrasse to-night. Hesitate to do her bidding. Unless I mistake not, you will thank me for the warning one day,” and then, turning to the men about her, she said, “Unloose him.”
They hesitated, and did not move.
“Unloose him, I say,” and she stamped her foot sharply.
Two or three fell on their knees beside Ellerey and unfastened the cords, and, stretching his limbs to take some of the ache out of them, he rose to his feet.
“You are free,” she said; “but for the safety of these men, you must consent to be blindfolded, and led to the place you came from.”
“By the same lady who brought me here?” Ellerey inquired.
“That might hardly be to her liking,” was the answer.
At a sign from her, Ellerey's eyes were bound with a scarf, and in a few minutes he was being guided along the streets.
“One moment, monsieur,” said one of his guides, presently. “There are footsteps, surely!”
Ellerey stood still and waited, listening. He heard no footsteps, and presently did not perceive the breathing of the man beside him. Then he understood the ruse, and tore the bandage from his eyes. He was alone at the corner of the Altstrasse, and the rain was beating slantwise into his face.
CHAPTER IV. THE COURT OF STURATZBERG
Ellerey's servant had fallen asleep on a settle, partly induced, perhaps, by the liquor the empty tankard beside him had held, but he started, wide awake on the instant, as his master entered. Ellery expected him to remark upon his sorry condition, as he threw off his cloak, but the man did not do so.
“There has been some rough handling in my neighborhood to-night, Stefan.”
“That's plain enough, Captain,” was the answer. “They were good clothes, too.”
“And interest you more than the man inside them,” said Ellerey, grimly.
“For the moment, yes. The man is unhurt, while the clothes are only fit for the rag-shop or to be given to me.”
“And, for choice, you would sooner have a corpse to deal with, so that the clothes were untorn?”
Stefan shrugged his shoulders.
“I could spare most of my acquaintances to be made corpses of, for acquaintances are easier come by than good clothes. It was a street attack, Captain, I suppose?”
“They are common enough in Sturatzberg,” Ellerey answered lightly.
“The tale will serve as well as another,” Stefan returned. “If I tell it, I am not compelled to believe it, and if I chance to be lying, it is no sin of mine.” “Why, rascal, what else should it be?”
“It might be a friend turned enemy, or the pursuit of a woman, or the touching of one of the many intrigues in Sturatzberg; but let it be a street attack. Was any man left sobbing out his life in the corner of the wall? It is well to have the story complete.”
“No; it was an encounter of blows and bruises only.”
“In such a plight as yours most men would have had some boast to make, pointing to their own condition to prove their statements. I have heard of half a dozen men lying dead, or dying, at a street corner, victims to a single sword, yet was there never a corpse to be found in the morning. Your easy boaster is ever a ready liar.”
“Patch up the clothes and wear them, Stefan, if you can persuade your bulk into them,” laughed Ellerey. “Some day, perhaps, when I am certain of your affection, I may tell you more of the adventure, and ask your help.”
The man took up the tankard, looked into its emptiness, and put it down again. Then he turned round suddenly: “Some time since I was offered higher pay to serve another master, Captain.”
“Why didn't you go?”
“I'm beginning to think I was a fool, since you trust me so little,” Stefan answered; “but I may yet prove a better comrade in a tight place than many. Good-night.”
A soldier, one of his own troop of Horse, Stefan had drifted into Ellerey's service, perhaps because he was a lonely man like his master. He appeared to have no ties whatever, nor wanted any, and declared that the first man he met in the street who was old enough might be his father, for anything he knew to the contrary. His mother, he knew, had died bringing him into the world; a wasted sacrifice, he called it, since the world could have done very well without him and he without it. Being in it, he took all the good he could find, and if he held his own life cheaply, he was even less interested in the lives of others. Women he hated, and his good opinion could be purchased by a man for a brimming tankard, and lasted, as a rule, so long as any liquor remained.
It was hardly wonderful that Ellerey should not trust such a man with any secret of his. Yet the soldier's parting words, and the look on his face as he spoke, made him thoughtful.
“I shall want at least one stout companion on whom I can rely” he mused. “I might choose a worse man than Stefan.”
He spoke of his adventure to no one else. He did not even attempt to locate the house into which he had been decoyed. To show too much interest in the affair would only be to attract attention to himself and his movements, which was undesirable, whether it were her Majesty who had taken occasion to test his courage, or others who, knowing the Queen's schemes, sought to defeat them. One thing appeared certain. Some token was to come into his possession, and was to bring peril with it.
On the second evening, Ellerey accompanied Monsieur De Froilette to Court.
“You are prepared to be frivolous, monsieur, as her Majesty wishes?” said De Froilette, as they went. “You will find it tolerably easy, but, pardon the advice, make few friends; they are a danger to one with a secret mission.”
“Do you speak of men, monsieur, or women?” Ellerey asked.
“I spoke generally, but perhaps I was thinking of women,” was the answer. “Of one man, however, beware. There is a little, ferret-eyed devil at Court who can spy out secrets almost before they are conceived—the English Ambassador, Lord Cloverton. He is a great man, and I hate him.”
Ellerey had no time to ask questions, for the carriage stopped, and the next moment he was following De Froilette up the wide staircase which many people, men and women, were ascending. His companion spoke to no one as he went up, nor did anyone address him. To the casual observer, he might have passed for an unimportant personage in that gay throng, but Ellerey, who had every reason to be interested in the Frenchman, noticed that many people turned to look after him, whispering together when he had passed. Ellerey himself attracted some little attention, due, he imagined, to the fact that he was in De Froilette's company, until he chanced to be left alone for a few moments at the head of the grand staircase. Some half-dozen paces from him four men were engaged in earnest conversation. From their position they could scrutinize every one who ascended the stairs or crossed the vestibule, and it seemed to Ellerey they were there of set purpose; more, that his arrival had been expected and waited for. One of the four was a man of about his own age, richly dressed, and of distinguished bearing. He appeared chief among his companions, who addressed him with a certain deference, and followed his movements, so that when he turned to look at the newcomer, Ellerey found himself the focus of four pairs of eyes. He met their searching looks with equal inquiry, but experienced a certain attraction toward the man who led the scrutiny. He might be an enemy, but he looked as though he would prove an honest and open one, incapable of anything mean or underhand. Presently he made some remark to his companions, who nodded acquiescence, and then they separated, and were lost in the crowd crossing the vestibule, just as De Froilette returned.
“Pardon me for leaving you, monsieur; shall we seek her Majesty?”
Ellerey passed with the Frenchman into a magnificent room, brilliantly lighted from a domed roof, one of a suite of rooms which were all of splendid proportions. From the distance came soft, dreamy music, hushed in the murmur of voices. There were a great many people present, and dancing had commenced in the ball-room. It was a brave assembly, men wearing brilliant uniforms and the decorations of every nation in Europe, and women beautiful in themselves, glorious in sheen of satin, rustle of silk, and flash of jewels. Women's light laughter answered men's jests—on every side were gayety and careless acceptance of the pleasures of the passing hour. It was difficult to believe that under it all lay deceit and treachery. Ellerey was inclined to doubt it, as he followed his companion.
In one of the rooms, surrounded by a group of men and women, with whom she turned to speak and laugh between the welcome she extended to each new arrival, sat her Majesty. She was even more beautiful to-night than when she had come to the Altstrasse, and, surrounded as she was by beautiful women, seemed to hold by right the central position of the group. Jewels glistened at her throat and in her hair, and across her breast she wore the scarlet ribbon of the Golden Lion of Sturatzberg.
“Ah, Monsieur De Froilette, you are welcome,” she said. “I was just saying that your countrywomen are the most accomplished, the most fascinating, in Europe, and Count von Heinnen laughs at my opinion.”
“Your Majesty will not understand,” said Von Heinnen, in guttural tones which ill agreed with a compliment; “I loved the women of France until I arrived in Sturatzberg.”
“I would narrow the Count's limit, and say the palace of Sturatzberg,” said De Froilette, bending over the Queen's hand.
“No word for the women of their own country,” laughed the Queen. “Are we so unpatriotic, Baron Petrescu?” and she turned to a man who was standing close behind her.
“I fear so, your Majesty. I have been in England, and, for my part, I think the English women are the most beautiful in the world.”
Baron Petrescu was the man who had looked so searchingly at Ellerey in the vestibule. He looked at him now, as though his answer had some reference to him; and the Queen, who did not seem too pleased with the frankly spoken answer, following the direction of the Baron's glance, let her eyes rest on Ellerey for the first time.
“Captain Ellerey, you, too, are welcome,” she said. “You come but seldom to Court. As an Englishman, you will doubtless support the Baron's opinion.”
“I find something to contemplate in all women, your Majesty, but, as yet, I have placed none above all others.”
“That confession should fire feminine ambition in Sturatzberg,” laughed the Queen. “Spread the report of it, Monsieur De Froilette, and we shall witness excellent comedy, or tragedy—I hardly know which love may be. Oh, you are doubly welcome, Captain Ellerey, for the sport you shall give us, and we will ask for a repetition of that confession constantly. The first time you look down before our questioning eyes, and stammer in your answer, we shall know that love has laid siege to the citadel of indifference, and captured it.” Ellerey smiled, as he moved aside to make room for others. He would have approached Baron Petrescu had he been able to do so, but he was prevented; first, because someone who knew him slightly spoke to him, and, secondly, by a general movement in the room occasioned by the King's entrance.
When the history of Ferdinand IV. comes to be written, the King will probably have as many characters as he has biographers. The character given him will so entirely depend upon the point of view. As he walked slowly across the room, his manner was not without dignity, but had little graciousness
in it. There were a few who feared him; many who despised him; some who hated him; and from east to west of his kingdom it is doubtful whether a dozen loved or admired him. In appearance he was cadaverous-looking, tall and thin, with a stoop in his shoulders. His skin was parchment-colored, and his eyes heavy and slow of movement.
Europe's plaything, a witty Frenchman had once called him; but those about him found it hard work often to make him dance to their piping. Perhaps no one understood him better, or had greater influence with him, than the man who now walked a pace or two behind him, and was so small that, beside the King, he looked almost ridiculous. His mincing gait, and his apparently nervous deference to everyone about him, would have amused those who did not know the man, or until they had made a more careful study of his face. Nature seemed to have tried her hand at a caricature, and had placed upon this diminutive body a leonine head. The face was a network of lines, as though wind, rain, and sunshine had worked their will upon it for years. The hair was white as driven snow, and thick, shaggy, and long, while, set deeply under heavy brows, his small eyes were never still. For a fraction of time they seemed to rest on everyone in turn, and to note something about them which would be stored up in the memory.
“A ferret-eyed devil, monsieur, is it not so?” whispered De Froilette in Ellerey's ear after the Ambassador had passed. “He has already noted your presence, and will know all about you before he sleeps—if he ever does sleep. We must be very frivolous to escape detection.”
To be frivolous at the Court of Sturatzberg was no difficult matter. Whether it was the report of what be had said to the Queen had made him especially interesting to women, or whether those steady blue eyes of his were the attraction, Ellerey found it easy to make friends. He studied to catch the trick of pleasing with a light compliment or pleasant jest, and before many days had gone had earned a reputation as an irresponsible cavalier; one whom it would be dangerous to take too seriously or believe in too thoroughly. Such a man was, for the most part, after the heart of the feminine portion of the Sturatzberg Court, and that he played the part well the Queen's smile constantly assured him. In one point, however, Ellerey was peculiarly unsuccessful. He had been attracted to Baron Petrescu, and went to some trouble to become acquainted with him, but to no purpose. Either the Baron avoided him intentionally, or a train of adverse circumstances intervened. Not a single word passed between them.
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