CHAPTER XXXIII
IN THE BALANCE
The air was shrewd as we set out from Orgov. We took a narrow, windingbridle-path, uncomfortably steep in places, in order to avoid thefrontier town of Boruna, wherein trouble might lurk. The stars wereout already, with Mars straight before us wonderfully large and red aswe rode due east. There was an exhilaration in the atmosphere that waslike wine in the veins; and presently we caught the tail of an icyblast that made us glad to wrap our cloaks around us.
An impartial view of such an enterprise rendered it clear that the oddswere greatly in favour of a total failure. How could six men and acripple hope to penetrate into the heart of a closely guarded fortress?And assuming that we got in, by what means did we expect to make ourway out again! In all conscience the scheme was wild enough, but thiswas not the hour in which to lay stress upon that fact.
There can be no doubt that the qualities of our leader were a great aidto his corps. Undaunted courage, invincible optimism were his inamplest measure; and this attitude of mind could not fail to react uponhis comrades in arms. Moreover, in the most singular degree heappeared to combine with the audacity of genius, a head for detail anda shrewd practical wisdom, which very seldom embellish the charactersof those who depend primarily upon the faculty of inspiration.
As mile by mile we traversed these snow-laden Illyrian mountains, thepossibility of anything less than complete success found no place inhis thoughts. "Nothing is impossible" was his motto, and this herealised with plenary conviction. His twin soul was calling him to theCastle of Blaenau, and not for an instant did he doubt his ability toobey the summons.
It was our plan to avoid as far as possible all centres of population.Our guides being men of experience, familiar with all the by-paths andbridle-roads, we were able to do this, and even to save time in theprocess. But as the innkeeper had insisted, Fitz's optimism had misledhim when he expected to reach the Illyrian capital in six hours.
When we took our first bait, at an inn above the sinister waters of theLake of Montardo, it was nearly nine o'clock. Coffee and cakes werevery acceptable; indeed I have seldom tasted anything so delicious.But in spite of our diligence and a fair measure of luck, we had comerather less than twenty miles of the journey. Our horses were good foranother twelve miles through the formidable pass of Ryhgo, where in themiddle of winter the mountain streams are generally in spate.
We went on after a halt of a quarter of an hour. As yet we had seenfew signs of the revolution. But at the inn above Montardo uglyrumours were rife. The people and the army were said to have turnedagainst the aristocracy; they were butchering them by the score, andthe Crown Princess was declared to be dead.
That our mission was being made in vain Fitz declined to believe. Theman's courage had never seemed so remarkable as when confronted withthis news.
"If she were already dead," he said, simply, "I should have hadinformation. I shall not believe it until I hold her corpse in myarms."
Through the pass of Ryhgo, overshadowed as it is by the gaunt Illyrianmountains, the narrow path wound along the very edge of a precipice.Below were the waters of the Lake of Montardo, which as we rode aboveit reflected a baleful grandeur to the stars. The wind was verypiercing now and drove sheer in our faces; not a little did it add tothe dangers of our progress through the pass. The horses had only tomake a false step and their riders would be hurled a thousand feet intothose terrible black waters gleaming below.
Before we had overcome this most precarious stage of our journey, theclouds were beaten up rapidly by the wind, and to add to our peril anddiscomfort it came on to snow. It was, therefore, a great relief whenat last we came to an inn at a hamlet with an unpronounceable namewhich marked the end of the pass. It was then eleven o'clock and wehad come little more than half the way.
Here we found a friend awaiting us. He was an Illyrian acquaintance ofFitz's, and he had arranged the details of our mountain journey. Amember of a noble family, he was familiar with the court life atBlaenau, and had borne the part of a friend in the previous episodewhich had culminated in the elopement of the Crown Princess.
He was an agreeable fellow, quite cosmopolitan, and had no difficultyin making himself understood in French, in which tongue he enjoyed agreater felicity than any of us. He answered to the name of John,although his full title, which was very long and hard to pronounce, Ihave forgotten. He, too, had heard the common report that the Princesswas dead, but chose to express no opinion in regard to the truth of it.
When Fitz outlined his project, he expressed a mild astonishment.
"But how," said he, "will you cross the Maravina?"
"You don't suppose," said Fitz, "that we have come as far as this to bedeterred by the crossing of the Maravina?"
"All the bridges are closely guarded by the Republicans. The ferriesalso."
"We can swim the Maravina, at a pinch."
"You English can do most things," said John, "but don't attempt to swimthe Maravina in the middle of January is my advice."
John's view drew a growl of deep bass approval from no less a personthan the Chief Constable of Middleshire.
"We shall do what we can," said the Man of Destiny, with excellentindifference.
"Yes, but we damn well needn't do what we can't," said the ChiefConstable _sotto voce_, yet meaning no disrespect to his native tongue.
I must confess to an involuntary shudder, as, at the instance of atoo-active imagination, the waters of the Maravina pierced a pair ofleathers "by a local artist of the name of Jobson." They seemedmiserably damp already. And if anything feels more miserable than apair of leathers when they are damp, I pray to be spared the knowledge.
High as our mission was, the flesh was loth to quit the warm stove atthe hostelry of "The Hanging Cross" for those terrible purlieus thatwound through the heart of the wild Illyrian mountains. But at leastwe could congratulate ourselves that the pass of Ryhgo was at an end,and that the black waters of Lake Montardo no longer lay in wait forthe hapless traveller a thousand feet below. Also the snow had ceased,the wind had fallen, Mars and his brethren were looking again upon us,and there was a faint suspicion of a crescent moon.
Our weary beasts had been exchanged for a fresh relay at the hostelryof "The Hanging Cross." In addition to a reinforcement in the shape ofJohn, a led horse with a side saddle accompanied us for the use of thePrincess. With fairer conditions and a path less perilous to traverse,we began to improve considerably upon our previous rate of progression.Then the road began again to grow difficult, but happily the sky keptclear.
During the later stages of the journey we passed through severalhamlets and small towns. To judge by the lights in the windows of thehouses and the demeanour of little groups of people in the streets, ageneral spirit of uneasiness was abroad. Men clad in the picturesqueskin caps which are so typical of the country were to be seen carryingformidable-looking guns; and although such a cavalcade excited theircuriosity they allowed it to pass.
We had no adventures worthy of the name. In one of the mountainvalleys a deep crevasse was concealed by a drift of snow, and we owedit to the vigilance of our guides that we were not its victims. Thewind was still very piercing, but acting upon Fitz's advice before westarted, we had all taken the precaution to be well clad.
Our progress was really better than we realised. A sudden turn in theroad revealed a very broad and rapid torrent. It was the Maravina; andthere upon the farther bank was the bluff upstanding rock crowned withthe majestic Castle of Blaenau. Nestling close about it was a darkhuddle of houses and gaunt church spires of the capital city of Illyria.
"There you are," cried John, with a wave of the hand. "Now, myfriends, are you tempted to swim across?"
"I daresay we shall find a bridge," said Fitz, nonchalantly enough.
"They are all bound to be guarded by the enemy."
"May be," said the Man of Destiny imperturbably.
Away to the right, at the distance of a
mile, was one of the smallerbridges into the city. It was a rickety, wooden structure, guarded bya gate with a turret, which had a quaintly mediaeval aspect. In frontof the gate a bright coke fire was burning in a bucket, and sprawlingaround it in attitudes which suggested varying phases of somnolencewere a number of men in uniform.
A shaggy, fierce-looking, finely-grown fellow rose to his feet andchallenged us. Fitz replied promptly in his suavest and best Illyrian.Not a word of the conversation that ensued was intelligible to me, butit was punctuated by the approving laughter of John and the guides, andwas conducted on both sides with the highest good-humour.
Its conclusion at any rate was in keeping with this surmise. Fitz wasseen to slip a piece of gold into a furtive palm; the password waswhispered to him; and the gate was opened just far enough for each ofus to pass through one at a time.
"If there is a more corrupt rogue than an Illyrian corporal ofinfantry," said John, "on the face of this fair earth, I am glad to sayI have met him not."
"Evil practices breed an evil state," said the sententious Fitz. "Ifchaps have to whistle for their wages what can you expect?"
"Let us hope the custodians of the Castle will prove as susceptible," Iobserved, piously.
"Ah, there you have another sort of bird!" said Fitz.
There was a second gate on the city side of the bridge. This also wasguarded by the soldiery, but the password given boldly got us throughwithout a question. There were tall spikes set in a row on the top ofthe heavy and unwieldy gate. They were adorned with a row of humanheads.
To me, I confess, these grisly mementoes brought a shudder.
"They appear to do things pleasantly at Blaenau," said Frederick.
"They can go one better than that, my son," said Fitz, "if they get thechance. I should advise each of you, in the case of emergency, toleave just one cartridge in his revolver."
To a married man, a father of a family, and a county member, with hisleft arm in a black silk handkerchief, who did not feel particularlysecure in the saddle as he rode knee to knee across the bridge with hismisguided friend the Chief Constable of Middleshire, the icy wind whichsaluted him from the mighty torrent swirling beneath, blew distinctly"thin." Somewhat bitterly he began to deplore that decree of fatewhich had bereft him of the use of a hand.
Through narrow, close-built streets, whose odours were decidedlyunpleasant, we passed unmolested until we came into the shadow of theCastle rock. In the faint light of the stars it towered a sheer andbeetling pile.
Dismounting, we tied the horses to a fence. Fitz took a dark lanternfrom his saddle; and among a miscellaneous collection of articles withwhich he had the forethought to provide himself, was a coil of rope.This it seemed was capable of adjustment into the form of a ladder; andour leader affirmed his intention of being the first man up the Castlewall. He proposed to affix this contrivance to the coping at the topin order that the others might climb up as easily and as expeditiouslyas possible.
There was nothing for it save to resign myself to stay with the twoguides in the charge of the horses. It would have been a physicalimpossibility for a man bereft of the use of an arm to climb that sheerprecipice.
Fitz's parting words of advice to me were characteristic.
"If," said he, "a sentry should come along, and want to know yourbusiness--I don't suppose he will, because they don't appear to havemounted a picket--knock out his brains at once, and make one of theguides put on his uniform and shoulder his gun and march up and down.So long, old son."
The Man of Destiny was gone, perhaps for ever. As each of my comradesin arms climbed over the low fence in his wake I wished him good luck.It seemed hardly a fighting chance that we should ever look on oneanother again.
They had left their cloaks behind, and these, together with my own,were thrown over the horses which had carried us so well. Tobacco is agreat solace in seasons of tension, but the long-drawn suspense towhich I had to submit soon became intolerable.
To a lover of the _aurea mediocritas_, a twentieth-century Britishpaterfamilias confirmed in the comfortable security of a civil life,such a predicament was absurd. It was painful indeed to march hourafter hour up and down the broken ground at the foot of the Castlerock. A pipe was in my teeth, otherwise I was signally exposed to therigours of a long January night in Illyria. A bloody end was myperpetual contemplation. And I hardly dared to think what lay in storefor my comrades, the faint hope of whose return it was my bounden dutyto await.
There were moments in this season of poignant misery when I felt myselfto be growing absolutely desperate. Why be ashamed to make theconfession? The sensation of impotence was truly terrible. As thetime passed and not a sound was to be heard, God alone knew what wasbeing transacted in that frowning eyrie under the cover of the night.
Like most of those who have the unlucky leaven of imagination in theirclay, my instinctive optimism is often on its trial. While I marchedup and down in the darkness, trying vainly to keep warm, waiting forthat tardy dawn in which death lurked for us all, I would have laidlong odds that the doom of the Princess was sealed already and that mycomrades in arms would share it.
A man should strive in some sort to figure as a hero when he comes tothe purple patches in his own history. But if a profuse fear of theimmediate future in combination with a lively horror of the present arecompatible with that degree, so be it. Throughout those hours ofinaction I suffered the torments of the damned.
Again and again I strained nervously to catch a footfall, and each timeI did so Fitz's sinister injunction was in my ears. I recognised itswisdom, but what a counsel for a respectable law-abiding Englishman!Conceive the husband of Mrs. Arbuthnot, the father of Miss Lucinda, thesensitive product of a settled state of society, lying in wait to knockout the brains of a fellow creature on hardly any pretext at all!
Prudence is not without a tenderness for those who court her; at leasta liberal supply of tobacco was in my pouch. In a state of sheerdesperation I smoked away the intolerable hours, and even had tobaccoto share with the guides who placidly awaited the dawn in the lee ofthe horses.
These were rugged, silent, contained men. I had not a word of theirlanguage whatever it was, and I think it was a kind of Milesian_argot_. But there was an air of torpid responsibility about them.They were honest peasants, calm, unimaginative, faithful.
The hour of five was told from half a dozen steeples of the capital.In less than three short hours the fate of us all would be sealed. Mymind went back to Middleshire and I could have wept for vexation.Everything was so happy and comfortable there. If Mrs. Arbuthnot didnot see eye to eye with me in all things, an occasional discreetdiversity of opinion merely added piquancy to double harness.
Yes, life and all that pertained to it was very dear to me. It isproper, of course, to maintain a becoming reticence about thatindissoluble core of egoism that lies at the heart of us all. Butduring these unspeakable hours I could not dissemble it. Why had itpleased fate to project this ill-starred creature, one altogetheroutside the circle of my interests, one alien in birth, in race, infortune, into the quiet backwater of my years! Was there not awantonness in shattering such a comfortable hedonism in this cruel,meaningless, irresponsible way?
What man can be a hero to his autobiographer! By all the rules of thegame I ought to have been bathed in a kind of moral limelight as Iwalked my miserable beat throughout that cursed Illyrian night. Itshould be the easiest thing in the world to present a picture ofstoical disdain for Dame Fortune and her fantasies.
But the blunt truth is before me, ignoble as it is. Life meant toomuch. The least of my thoughts should have been dedicated to that highand noble mission which had lured me from my happy home in an Englishcounty. I should have had my mind wholly concentrated on the fate ofthe royal lady and on that of those stout fellows who had come so farand who had endured so much that they might serve her.
Well, I will not deny that in a measure my thoughts were for them. ButI did n
ot dare to speculate on what had happened to them; their fatewas too big with tragic possibilities. Yet ever uppermost within mewas a sore vexation. I did not want in the least to die, and I wasdetermined not to do so. Unhappily Fitz had not given me the passwordwhich in the last resort might take me across the bridge; I could notcommunicate with the guides; I was a stranger in a strange land.
Six o'clock was told from the steeples of the city, but there was not asound from the Castle rock. Despair gripped me by the heart. ThePrincess was dead and my friends had been unable to make their way outof the fortress they had had the incredible foolhardiness to enter.But until daylight came I must wait at my post; yea, if I couldcontrive it, longer than that it behoved me to remain.
Already the sleeping city was beginning to stir uneasily. Distantsounds proceeded from it; within ten paces of our horses a farmer'swagon had passed along the road. Figures began to emerge from thedarkness and to re-enter it. Doubtless they were workmen going totheir toil. The icy blasts from the river congealed my blood.Half-past six told from the steeples; housemaids in pink print dresseswere lighting the fires at Dympsfield House.
I began to scourge my brain for a plan of escape in broad daylight fromthis accursed place, in case Fitz did not return. But even my mind wasnumbed, and it was under the dominion of two clear facts: I did notknow a word of the Illyrian tongue, and I knew nothing of the habitsand customs of the country.
The row of heads upon the city gate occupied a chamber to themselves inthe halls of my imagination. In whatever direction I turned mythoughts, there was that grisly frieze before my eyes. Presently Imade the discovery that I had bitten the stem of my pipe clean through.
It was now seven o'clock and I had yielded up all hope of Fitz. Sotragedy after all was to be the end of these wild oscillations whichhad begun with broad farce. The unhappy "circus rider from Vienna" hadbeen done to death by the people for whom she had given all. Not onlyhad they rejected her sacrifice but they had requited it with brutaltreachery. And the noble man who had loved her, and those bravefellows who had dared everything to serve her, regardless of lives theyvalued as highly as I did my own, had perished in her cause.
Rage and horror began to rise up within me. God in heaven, was thisthe end of our adventure? It was a quarter past seven; the whole citywas astir.
The dawn was coming. There were a few faint streaks of grey alreadyabove the Castle rock. Numbed and helpless I strained my eyes upwardsto that sinister pile. Cold in body, faint in spirit, I knew not whatto do, nor which way to turn. And then, before I could realise whathad come to pass, there was a surge of dark and stealthy figures, therewas a hand on my shoulder and a low voice was in my ears.
"The horses! The horses!"