It was a fine bright morning when I walked, unattended, to the princess’s house, carrying a nosegay in my hand. Policy made excuses for love, and every attention that I paid her, while it riveted my own chains, bound closer to me the people of the great city, who worshipped her. I found Fritz’s inamorata, the Countess Helga, gathering blooms in the garden for her mistress’s wear, and prevailed on her to take mine in their place. The girl was rosy with happiness, for Fritz, in his turn, had not wasted his evening, and no dark shadow hung over his wooing, save the hatred which the Duke of Strelsau was known to bear him.
“And that,” she said, with a mischievous smile, “your Majesty has made of no moment. Yes, I will take the flowers; shall I tell you, sire, what is the first thing the princess does with them?”
We were talking on a broad terrace that ran along the back of the house, and a window above our heads stood open.
“Madame!” cried the countess merrily, and Flavia herself looked out. I bared my head and bowed. She wore a white gown, and her hair was loosely gathered in a knot. She kissed her hand to me, crying:
“Bring the King up, Helga; I’ll give him some coffee.”
The countess, with a gay glance, led the way, and took me into Flavia’s morning-room. And, left alone, we greeted one another as lovers are wont. Then the princess laid two letters before me. One was from Black Michael—a most courteous request that she would honour him by spending a day at his Castle of Zenda, as had been her custom once a year in the summer, when the place and its gardens were in the height of their great beauty. I threw the letter down in disgust, and Flavia laughed at me. Then, growing grave again, she pointed to the other sheet.
“I don’t know who that comes from,” she said. “Read it.”
I knew in a moment. There was no signature at all this time, but the handwriting was the same as that which had told me of the snare in the summer-house: it was Antoinette de Mauban’s.
“I have no cause to love you,” it ran, “but God forbid that you should fall into the power of the duke. Accept no invitations of his.  Show this, if you can, to him who reigns in Strelsau.”
“Why doesn’t it say ‘the King’?” asked Flavia, leaning over my shoulder, so that the ripple of her hair played on my cheek.  A regiment shall camp round your house today. See that you do not go out unless well guarded.”
“An order, sire?” she asked, a little rebellious.
“Yes, an order, madame—if you love me.”
“Ah!” she cried; and I could not but kiss her.
“You know who sent it?” she asked.
“I guess,” said I. “It is from a good friend—and I fear, an unhappy woman. You must be ill, Flavia, and unable to go to Zenda.
“I’m strong enough for anything, while you are safe,” said I.
Soon I tore myself away from her, and then, without consulting Sapt, I took my way to the house of Marshal Strakencz. I had seen something of the old general, and I liked and trusted him. Sapt was less enthusiastic, but I had learnt by now that Sapt was best pleased when he could do everything, and jealousy played some part in his views. As things were now, I had more work than Sapt and Fritz could manage, for they must come with me to Zenda, and I wanted a man to guard what I loved most in all the world, and suffer me to set about my task of releasing the King with a quiet mind.
The Marshal received me with most loyal kindness. To some extent, I took him into my confidence. I charged him with the care of the princess, looking him full and significantly in the face as I bade him let no one from her cousin the duke approach her, unless he himself were there and a dozen of his men with him.
“You may be right, sire,” said he, shaking his grey head sadly. “I have known better men than the duke do worse things than that for love.”
I could quite appreciate the remark, but I said:
“There’s something beside love, Marshal. Love’s for the heart; is there nothing my brother might like for his head?”
“I pray that you wrong him, sire.”
“Marshal, I’m leaving Strelsau for a few days. Every evening I will send a courier to you. If for three days none comes, you will publish an order which I will give you, depriving Duke Michael of the governorship of Strelsau and appointing you in his place. You will declare a state of siege. Then you will send word to Michael that you demand an audience of the King—You follow me?”
“Ay, sire.”
“—In twenty-four hours. If he does not produce the King” (I laid my hand on his knee), “then the King is dead, and you will proclaim the next heir. You know who that is?”
“The Princess Flavia.”
“And swear to me, on your faith and honour and by the fear of the living God, that you will stand by her to the death, and kill that reptile, and seat her where I sit now.”
“On my faith and honour, and by the fear of God, I swear it! And may Almighty God preserve your Majesty, for I think that you go on an errand of danger.”
“I hope that no life more precious than mine may be demanded,” said I, rising. Then I held out my hand to him.
“Marshal,” I said, “in days to come, it may be—I know not—that you will hear strange things of the man who speaks to you now. Let him be what he may, and who he may, what say you of the manner in which he has borne himself as King in Strelsau?”
The old man, holding my hand, spoke to me, man to man.
“I have known many of the Elphbergs,” said he, “and I have seen you. And, happen what may, you have borne yourself as a wise King and a brave man; ay, and you have proved as courteous a gentleman and as gallant a lover as any that have been of the House.”
“Be that my epitaph,” said I, “when the time comes that another sits on the throne of Ruritania.”
“God send a far day, and may I not see it!” said he.
I was much moved, and the Marshal’s worn face twitched. I sat down and wrote my order.
“I can hardly yet write,” said I; “my finger is stiff still.”
It was, in fact, the first time that I had ventured to write more than a signature; and in spite of the pains I had taken to learn the King’s hand, I was not yet perfect in it.
“Indeed, sire,” he said, “it differs a little from your ordinary handwriting. It is unfortunate, for it may lead to a suspicion of forgery.”
“Marshal,” said I, with a laugh, “what use are the guns of Strelsau, if they can’t assuage a little suspicion?”
He smiled grimly, and took the paper.
“Colonel Sapt and Fritz von Tarlenheim go with me,” I continued.
“You go to seek the duke?” he asked in a low tone.
“Yes, the duke, and someone else of whom I have need, and who is at Zenda,” I replied.
“I wish I could go with you,” he cried, tugging at his white moustache.
We parted, and I returned to the Palace and told Sapt and Fritz what I had done. Sapt had a few faults to find and a few grumbles to utter. This was merely what I expected, for Sapt liked to be consulted beforehand, not informed afterwards; but on the whole he approved of my plans, and his spirits rose high as the hour of action drew nearer and nearer. Fritz, too, was ready; though he, poor fellow, risked more than Sapt did, for he was a lover, and his happiness hung in the scale. Yet how I envied him! For the triumphant issue which would crown him with happiness and unite him to his mistress, the success for which we were bound to hope and strive and struggle, meant to me sorrow more certain and greater than if I were doomed to fail. He understood something of this, for when we were alone (save for old Sapt, who was smoking at the other end of the room) he passed his arm through mine, saying:
“It’s hard for you. Don’t think I don’t trust you; I know you have nothing but true thoughts in your heart.”
But I turned away from him, thankful that he could not see what my heart held, but only be witness to the deeds that my hands were to do.
Yet even he did not understand, for he had not dared to lift his eyes to the Princess Flavia, as I had lifted mine.
Our plans were now all made, even as we proceeded to carry them out, and as they will hereafter appear. The next morning we were to start on the hunting excursion. I had made all arrangements for being absent, and now there was only one thing left to do—the hardest, the most heart-breaking. As evening fell, I drove through the busy streets to Flavia’s residence. I was recognized as I went and heartily cheered. I played my part, and made shift to look the happy lover. In spite of my depression, I was almost amused at the coolness and delicate hauteur with which my sweet lover received me. She had heard that the King was leaving Strelsau on a hunting expedition.
“I regret that we cannot amuse your Majesty here in Strelsau,” she said, tapping her foot lightly on the floor. “I would have offered you more entertainment, but I was foolish enough to think—”
“Well, what?” I asked, leaning over her.
“That just for a day or two after—after last night—you might be happy without much gaiety;” and she turned pettishly from me, as she added, “I hope the boars will be more engrossing.”
“I’m going after a very big boar,” said I; and, because I could not help it, I began to play with her hair, but she moved her head away.
“Are you offended with me?” I asked, in feigned surprise, for I could not resist tormenting her a little. I had never seen her angry, and every fresh aspect of her was a delight to me.
“What right have I to be offended? True, you said last night that every hour away from me was wasted. But a very big boar! that’s a different thing.”
“Perhaps the boar will hunt me,” I suggested. “Perhaps, Flavia, he’ll catch me.”
She made no answer.
“You are not touched even by that danger?”

“You weep for my danger?”
Then she spoke very low:
“This is like what you used to be; but not like the King—the King I—I have come to love!”
With a sudden great groan, I caught her to my heart.
“My darling!” I cried, forgetting everything but her, “did you dream that I left you to go hunting?”
“What then, Rudolf? Ah! you’re not going—?”
“Well, it is hunting. I go to seek Michael in his lair.”
She had turned very pale.
“So, you see, sweet, I was not so poor a lover as you thought me. I shall not be long gone.”
“You will write to me, Rudolf?”
I was weak, but I could not say a word to stir suspicion in her.
“I’ll send you all my heart every day,” said I.
“And you’ll run no danger?”
“None that I need not.”
“And when will you be back? Ah, how long will it be!”
“When shall I be back?” I repeated.
“Yes, yes! Don’t be long, dear, don’t be long. I shan’t sleep while you’re away.”
“I don’t know when I shall be back,” said I.
“Soon, Rudolf, soon?”
“God knows, my darling. But, if never—”
“Hush, hush!” and she pressed her lips to mine.
“If never,” I whispered, “you must take my place; you’ll be the only one of the House then. You must reign, and not weep for me.”
For a moment she drew herself up like a very queen.
“Yes, I will!” she said. “I will reign. I will do my part though all my life will be empty and my heart dead; yet I’ll do it!”
She paused, and sinking against me again, wailed softly.
“Come soon! come soon!”
Carried away, I cried loudly:
“As God lives, I—yes, I myself—will see you once more before I die!”
“What do you mean?” she exclaimed, with wondering eyes; but I had no answer for her, and she gazed at me with her wondering eyes.
I dared not ask her to forget, she would have found it an insult. I could not tell her then who and what I was. She was weeping, and I had but to dry her tears.
“Shall a man not come back to the loveliest lady in all the wide world?” said I. “A thousand Michaels should not keep me from you!”
She clung to me, a little comforted.
“You won’t let Michael hurt you?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Or keep you from me?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Nor anyone else?”
And again I answered:
“No, sweetheart.”
Yet there was one—not Michael—who, if he lived, must keep me from her; and for whose life I was going forth to stake my own. And his figure—the lithe, buoyant figure I had met in the woods of Zenda—the dull, inert mass I had left in the cellar of the hunting-lodge—seemed to rise, double-shaped, before me, and to come between us, thrusting itself in even where she lay, pale, exhausted, fainting, in my arms, and yet looking up at me with those eyes that bore such love as I have never seen, and haunt me now, and will till the ground closes over me—and (who knows?) perhaps beyond.
About five miles from Zenda—on the opposite side from that on which the Castle is situated, there lies a large tract of wood. It is rising ground, and in the centre of the demesne, on the top of the hill, stands a fine modern chateau, the property of a distant kinsman of Fritz’s, the Count Stanislas von Tarlenheim. Count Stanislas himself was a student and a recluse. He seldom visited the house, and had, on Fritz’s request, very readily and courteously offered me its hospitality for myself and my party. This, then, was our destination; chosen ostensibly for the sake of the boar-hunting (for the wood was carefully preserved, and boars, once common all over Ruritania, were still to be found there in considerable numbers), really because it brought us within striking distance of the Duke of Strelsau’s more magnificent dwelling on the other side of the town. A large party of servants, with horses and luggage, started early in the morning; we followed at midday, travelling by train for thirty miles, and then mounting our horses to ride the remaining distance to the chateau.
We were a gallant party. Besides Sapt and Fritz, I was accompanied by ten gentlemen: every one of them had been carefully chosen, and no less carefully sounded, by my two friends, and all were devotedly attached to the person of the King. They were told a part of the truth; the attempt on my life in the summer-house was revealed to them, as a spur to their loyalty and an incitement against Michael. They were also informed that a friend of the King’s was suspected to be forcibly confined within the Castle of Zenda. His rescue was one of the objects of the expedition; but, it was added, the King’s main desire was to carry into effect certain steps against his treacherous brother, as to the precise nature of which they could not at present be further enlightened. Enough that the King commanded their services, and would rely on their devotion when occasion arose to call for it. Young, well-bred, brave, and loyal, they asked no more: they were ready to prove their dutiful obedience, and prayed for a fight as the best and most exhilarating mode of showing it.
Thus the scene was shifted from Strelsau to the chateau of Tarlenheim and Castle of Zenda, which frowned at us across the valley. I tried to shift my thoughts also, to forget my love, and to bend all my energies to the task before me. It was to get the King out of the Castle alive. Force was useless: in some trick lay the chance; and I had already an inkling of what we must do. But I was terribly hampered by the publicity which attended my movements. Michael must know by now of my expedition; and I knew Michael too well to suppose that his eyes would be blinded by the feint of the boar-hunt. He would understand very well what the real quarry was. That, however, must be risked—that and all it might mean; for Sapt, no less than myself, recognized that the present state of things had become unendurable. And there was one thing that I dared to calculate on—not, as I now know, without warrant. It was this—that Black Michael would not believe that I meant well by the King. He could not appreciate—I will not say an honest man, for the thoughts of my own heart have been revealed—but a man acting honestly. He saw my opportunity as I had seen it, as Sapt had seen it; he knew the princess—nay (and I declare that a sneaking sort of pity for him invaded me), in his way he loved her; he would think that Sapt and Fritz could be bribed, so the bribe was large enough. Thinking thus, would he kill the King, my rival and my danger?  But he would kill Rudolf Rassendyll first, if he could; and nothing but the certainty of being utterly damned by the release of the King alive and his restoration to the throne would drive him to throw away the trump card which he held in reserve to baulk the supposed game of the impudent impostor Rassendyll. Musing on all this as I rode along, I took courage.
Michael knew of my coming, sure enough. I had not been in the house an hour, when an imposing Embassy arrived from him. He did not quite reach the impudence of sending my would-be assassins, but he sent the other three of his famous Six—the three Ruritanian gentlemen—Lauengram, Krafstein, and Rupert Hentzau. A fine, strapping trio they were, splendidly horsed and admirably equipped. Young Rupert, who looked a dare-devil, and could not have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, took the lead, and made us the neatest speech, wherein my devoted subject and loving brother Michael of Strelsau, prayed me to pardon him for not paying his addresses in person, and, further, for not putting his Castle at my disposal; the reason for both of these apparent derelictions being that he and several of his servants lay sick of scarlet fever, and were in a very sad, and also a very infectious state. So declared young Rupert with an insolent smile on his curling upper lip and a toss of his thick hair—he was a handsome villain, and the gossip ran that many a lady had troubled her heart for him already.
“If my brother has scarlet fever,” said I, “he is nearer my complexion than he is wont to be, my lord. I trust he does not suffer?”
“He is able to attend to his affairs, sire.”
“I hope all beneath your roof are not sick. What of my good friends, De Gautet, Bersonin, and Detchard? I heard the last had suffered a hurt.”
Lauengram and Krafstein looked glum and uneasy, but young Rupert’s smile grew broader.
“He hopes soon to find a medicine for it, sire,” he answered.
And I burst out laughing, for I knew what medicine Detchard longed for—it is called Revenge.
“You will dine with us, gentlemen?” I asked.
Young Rupert was profuse in apologies. They had urgent duties at the Castle.
“Then,” said I, with a wave of my hand, “to our next meeting, gentlemen. May it make us better acquainted.”
“We will pray your Majesty for an early opportunity,” quoth Rupert airily; and he strode past Sapt with such jeering scorn on his face that I saw the old fellow clench his fist and scowl black as night.
For my part, if a man must needs be a knave, I would have him a debonair knave, and I liked Rupert Hentzau better than his long-faced, close-eyed companions. It makes your sin no worse, as I conceive, to do it a la mode and stylishly.
Now it was a curious thing that on this first night, instead of eating the excellent dinner my cooks had prepared for me, I must needs leave my gentlemen to eat it alone, under Sapt’s presiding care, and ride myself with Fritz to the town of Zenda and a certain little inn that I knew of. There was little danger in the excursion; the evenings were long and light, and the road this side of Zenda well frequented. So off we rode, with a groom behind us. I muffled myself up in a big cloak.
“Fritz,” said I, as we entered the town, “there’s an uncommonly pretty girl at this inn.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because I’ve been there,” said I.
“Since—?” he began.
“No. Before,” said I.
“But they’ll recognize you?”
“Well, of course they will. Now, don’t argue, my good fellow, but listen to me. We’re two gentlemen of the King’s household, and one of us has a toothache. The other will order a private room and dinner, and, further, a bottle of the best wine for the sufferer. And if he be as clever a fellow as I take him for, the pretty girl and no other will wait on us.”
“What if she won’t?” objected Fritz.
“My dear Fritz,” said I, “if she won’t for you, she will for me.”
We were at the inn. Nothing of me but my eyes was visible as I walked in. The landlady received us; two minutes later, my little friend (ever, I fear me, on the look-out for such guests as might prove amusing) made her appearance. Dinner and the wine were ordered. I sat down in the private room. A minute later Fritz came in.
“She’s coming,” he said.
“If she were not, I should have to doubt the Countess Helga’s taste.”
She came in. I gave her time to set the wine down—I didn’t want it dropped. Fritz poured out a glass and gave it to me.
“Is the gentleman in great pain?” the girl asked, sympathetically.
“The gentleman is no worse than when he saw you last,” said I, throwing away my cloak.
She started, with a little shriek. Then she cried:
“It was the King, then! I told mother so the moment I saw his picture. Oh, sir, forgive me!”
“Faith, you gave me nothing that hurt much,” said I.
“But the things we said!”
“I forgive them for the thing you did.”
“I must go and tell mother.”
“Stop,” said I, assuming a graver air. “We are not here for sport tonight. Go and bring dinner, and not a word of the King being here.”
She came back in a few minutes, looking grave, yet very curious.
“Well, how is Johann?” I asked, beginning my dinner.
“Oh, that fellow, sir—my lord King, I mean!”
“‘Sir’ will do, please. How is he?”
“We hardly see him now, sir.”
“And why not?”
“I told him he came too often, sir,” said she, tossing her head.
“So he sulks and stays away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you could bring him back?” I suggested with a smile.
“Perhaps I could,” said she.
“I know your powers, you see,” said I, and she blushed with pleasure.
“It’s not only that, sir, that keeps him away. He’s very busy at the Castle.”
“But there’s no shooting on now.”
“No, sir; but he’s in charge of the house.”
“Johann turned housemaid?”
The little girl was brimming over with gossip.
“Well, there are no others,” said she. “There’s not a woman there—not as a servant, I mean. They do say—but perhaps it’s false, sir.”
“Let’s have it for what it’s worth,” said I.
“Indeed, I’m ashamed to tell you, sir.”
“Oh, see, I’m looking at the ceiling.”
“They do say there is a lady there, sir; but, except for her, there’s not a woman in the place. And Johann has to wait on the gentlemen.”
“Poor Johann! He must be overworked. Yet I’m sure he could find half an hour to come and see you.”
“It would depend on the time, sir, perhaps.”
“Do you love him?” I asked.
“Not I, sir.”
“And you wish to serve the King?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then tell him to meet you at the second milestone out of Zenda tomorrow evening at ten o’clock. Say you’ll be there and will walk home with him.”
“Do you mean him harm, sir?”
“Not if he will do as I bid him. But I think I’ve told you enough, my pretty maid. See that you do as I bid you. And, mind, no one is to know that the King has been here.”
I spoke a little sternly, for there is seldom harm in infusing a little fear into a woman’s liking for you, and I softened the effect by giving her a handsome present. Then we dined, and, wrapping my cloak about my face, with Fritz leading the way, we went downstairs to our horses again.
It was but half-past eight, and hardly yet dark; the streets were full for such a quiet little place, and I could see that gossip was all agog. With the King on one side and the duke on the other, Zenda felt itself the centre of all Ruritania. We jogged gently through the town, but set our horses to a sharper pace when we reached the open country.
“You want to catch this fellow Johann?” asked Fritz.
“Ay, and I fancy I’ve baited the hook right.  It is not enough, Fritz, to have no women in a house, though brother Michael shows some wisdom there. If you want safety, you must have none within fifty miles.”
“None nearer than Strelsau, for instance,” said poor Fritz, with a lovelorn sigh.
We reached the avenue of the chateau, and were soon at the house. As the hoofs of our horses sounded on the gravel, Sapt rushed out to meet us.
“Thank God, you’re safe!” he cried. “Have you seen anything of them?”
“Of whom?” I asked, dismounting.
He drew us aside, that the grooms might not hear.
“Lad,” he said to me, “you must not ride about here, unless with half a dozen of us. You know among our men a tall young fellow, Bernenstein by name?”
I knew him. He was a fine strapping young man, almost of my height, and of light complexion.
“He lies in his room upstairs, with a bullet through his arm.”
“The deuce he does!”
“After dinner he strolled out alone, and went a mile or so into the wood; and as he walked, he thought he saw three men among the trees; and one levelled a gun at him. He had no weapon, and he started at a run back towards the house. But one of them fired, and he was hit, and had much ado to reach here before he fainted. By good luck, they feared to pursue him nearer the house.”
He paused and added:
“Lad, the bullet was meant for you.”
“It is very likely,” said I, “and it’s first blood to brother Michael.”
“I wonder which three it was,” said Fritz.
“Well, Sapt,” I said, “I went out tonight for no idle purpose, as you shall hear. But there’s one thing in my mind.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Why this,” I answered. “That I shall ill requite the very great honours Ruritania has done me if I depart from it leaving one of those Six alive—neither with the help of God, will I.”
And Sapt shook my hand on that.
In the morning of the day after that on which I swore my oath against the Six, I gave certain orders, and then rested in greater contentment than I had known for some time. I was at work; and work, though it cannot cure love, is yet a narcotic to it; so that Sapt, who grew feverish, marvelled to see me sprawling in an armchair in the sunshine, listening to one of my friends who sang me amorous songs in a mellow voice and induced in me a pleasing melancholy. Thus was I engaged when young Rupert Hentzau, who feared neither man nor devil, and rode through the demesne—where every tree might hide a marksman, for all he knew—as though it had been the park at Strelsau, cantered up to where I lay, bowing with burlesque deference, and craving private speech with me in order to deliver a message from the Duke of Strelsau. I made all withdraw, and then he said, seating himself by me:
“The King is in love, it seems?”
“Not with life, my lord,” said I, smiling.
“It is well,” he rejoined. “Come, we are alone, Rassendyll—”
I rose to a sitting posture.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
 If you do not know how to address the King, my brother must find another messenger.”
“Why keep up the farce?” he asked, negligently dusting his boot with his glove.
“Because it is not finished yet; and meanwhile I’ll choose my own name.”
“Oh, so be it! Yet I spoke in love for you; for indeed you are a man after my own heart.”
“Saving my poor honesty,” said I, “maybe I am. But that I keep faith with men, and honour with women, maybe I am, my lord.”
He darted a glance at me—a glance of anger.
“Is your mother dead?” said I.
“Ay, she’s dead.”
“She may thank God,” said I, and I heard him curse me softly. “Well, what’s the message?” I continued.
I had touched him on the raw, for all the world knew he had broken his mother’s heart and flaunted his mistresses in her house; and his airy manner was gone for the moment.
“The duke offers you more than I would,” he growled. “A halter for you, sire, was my suggestion. But he offers you safe-conduct across the frontier and a million crowns.”
“I prefer your offer, my lord, if I am bound to one.”
“You refuse?”
“Of course.”
“I told Michael you would;” and the villain, his temper restored, gave me the sunniest of smiles. “The fact is, between ourselves,” he continued, “Michael doesn’t understand a gentleman.”
I began to laugh.
“And you?” I asked.
“I do,” he said. “Well, well, the halter be it.”
“I’m sorry you won’t live to see it,” I observed.
“Has his Majesty done me the honour to fasten a particular quarrel on me?”
“I would you were a few years older, though.”
“Oh, God gives years, but the devil gives increase,” laughed he. “I can hold my own.”
“How is your prisoner?” I asked.
“The K—?”
“Your prisoner.”
“I forgot your wishes, sire. Well, he is alive.”
He rose to his feet; I imitated him. Then, with a smile, he said:
“And the pretty princess? Faith, I’ll wager the next Elphberg will be red enough, for all that Black Michael will be called his father.”
I sprang a step towards him, clenching my hand. He did not move an inch, and his lip curled in insolent amusement.
“Go, while your skin’s whole!” I muttered. He had repaid me with interest my hit about his mother.
Then came the most audacious thing I have known in my life. My friends were some thirty yards away. Rupert called to a groom to bring him his horse, and dismissed the fellow with a crown. The horse stood near. I stood still, suspecting nothing. Rupert made as though to mount; then he suddenly turned to me: his left hand resting in his belt, his right outstretched: “Shake hands,” he said.
I bowed, and did as he had foreseen—I put my hands behind me. Quicker than thought, his left hand darted out at me, and a small dagger flashed in the air; he struck me in the left shoulder—had I not swerved, it had been my heart. With a cry, I staggered back. Without touching the stirrup, he leapt upon his horse and was off like an arrow, pursued by cries and revolver shots—the last as useless as the first—and I sank into my chair, bleeding profusely, as I watched the devil’s brat disappear down the long avenue. My friends surrounded me, and then I fainted.
I suppose that I was put to bed, and there lay, unconscious, or half conscious, for many hours; for it was night when I awoke to my full mind, and found Fritz beside me. I was weak and weary, but he bade me be of good cheer, saying that my wound would soon heal, and that meanwhile all had gone well, for Johann, the keeper, had fallen into the snare we had laid for him, and was even now in the house.
“And the queer thing is,” pursued Fritz, “that I fancy he’s not altogether sorry to find himself here. He seems to think that when Black Michael has brought off his coup, witnesses of how it was effected—saving, of course, the Six themselves—will not be at a premium.”
This idea argued a shrewdness in our captive which led me to build hopes on his assistance. I ordered him to be brought in at once. Sapt conducted him, and set him in a chair by my bedside. He was sullen, and afraid; but, to say truth, after young Rupert’s exploit, we also had our fears, and, if he got as far as possible from Sapt’s formidable six-shooter, Sapt kept him as far as he could from me. Moreover, when he came in his hands were bound, but that I would not suffer.
I need not stay to recount the safeguards and rewards we promised the fellow—all of which were honourably observed and paid, so that he lives now in prosperity (though where I may not mention); and we were the more free inasmuch as we soon learnt that he was rather a weak man than a wicked, and had acted throughout this matter more from fear of the duke and of his own brother Max than for any love of what was done. But he had persuaded all of his loyalty; and though not in their secret counsels, was yet, by his knowledge of their dispositions within the Castle, able to lay bare before us the very heart of their devices. And here, in brief, is his story:
Below the level of the ground in the Castle, approached by a flight of stone steps which abutted on the end of the drawbridge, were situated two small rooms, cut out of the rock itself. The outer of the two had no windows, but was always lighted with candles; the inner had one square window, which gave upon the moat. In the outer room there lay always, day and night, three of the Six; and the instructions of Duke Michael were, that on any attack being made on the outer room, the three were to defend the door of it so long as they could without risk to themselves. But, so soon as the door should be in danger of being forced, then Rupert Hentzau or Detchard (for one of these two was always there) should leave the others to hold it as long as they could, and himself pass into the inner room, and, without more ado, kill the King who lay there, well-treated indeed, but without weapons, and with his arms confined in fine steel chains, which did not allow him to move his elbow more than three inches from his side. Thus, before the outer door were stormed, the King would be dead. And his body? For his body would be evidence as damning as himself.
“Nay, sir,” said Johann, “his Highness has thought of that. While the two hold the outer room, the one who has killed the King unlocks the bars in the square window (they turn on a hinge). The window now gives no light, for its mouth is choked by a great pipe of earthenware; and this pipe, which is large enough to let pass through it the body of a man, passes into the moat, coming to an end immediately above the surface of the water, so that there is no perceptible interval between water and pipe. The King being dead, his murderer swiftly ties a weight to the body, and, dragging it to the window, raises it by a pulley (for, lest the weight should prove too great, Detchard has provided one) till it is level with the mouth of the pipe. He inserts the feet in the pipe, and pushes the body down. Silently, without splash or sound, it falls into the water and thence to the bottom of the moat, which is twenty feet deep thereabouts. This done, the murderer cries loudly, ‘All’s well!’ and himself slides down the pipe; and the others, if they can and the attack is not too hot, run to the inner room and, seeking a moment’s delay, bar the door, and in their turn slide down. And though the King rises not from the bottom, they rise and swim round to the other side, where the orders are for men to wait them with ropes, to haul them out, and horses. And here, if things go ill, the duke will join them and seek safety by riding; but if all goes well, they will return to the Castle, and have their enemies in a trap. That, sir, is the plan of his Highness for the disposal of the King in case of need. But it is not to be used till the last; for, as we all know, he is not minded to kill the King unless he can, before or soon after, kill you also, sir. Now, sir, I have spoken the truth, as God is my witness, and I pray you to shield me from the vengeance of Duke Michael; for if, after he knows what I have done, I fall into his hands, I shall pray for one thing out of all the world—a speedy death, and that I shall not obtain from him!”
The fellow’s story was rudely told, but our questions supplemented his narrative. What he had told us applied to an armed attack; but if suspicions were aroused, and there came overwhelming force—such, for instance, as I, the King, could bring—the idea of resistance would be abandoned; the King would be quietly murdered and slid down the pipe. And—here comes an ingenious touch—one of the Six would take his place in the cell, and, on the entrance of the searchers, loudly demand release and redress; and Michael, being summoned, would confess to hasty action, but he would say the man had angered him by seeking the favour of a lady in the Castle (this was Antoinette de Mauban) and he had confined him there, as he conceived he, as Lord of Zenda, had right to do. But he was now, on receiving his apology, content to let him go, and so end the gossip which, to his Highness’s annoyance, had arisen concerning a prisoner in Zenda, and had given his visitors the trouble of this enquiry. The visitors, baffled, would retire, and Michael could, at his leisure, dispose of the body of the King.
Sapt, Fritz, and I in my bed, looked round on one another in horror and bewilderment at the cruelty and cunning of the plan. Whether I went in peace or in war, openly at the head of a corps, or secretly by a stealthy assault, the King would be dead before I could come near him. If Michael were stronger and overcame my party, there would be an end. But if I were stronger, I should have no way to punish him, no means of proving any guilt in him without proving my own guilt also. On the other hand, I should be left as King (ah! for a moment my pulse quickened) and it would be for the future to witness the final struggle between him and me. He seemed to have made triumph possible and ruin impossible. At the worst, he would stand as well as he had stood before I crossed his path—with but one man between him and the throne, and that man an impostor; at best, there would be none left to stand against him. I had begun to think that Black Michael was over fond of leaving the fighting to his friends; but now I acknowledged that the brains, if not the arms, of the conspiracy were his.
“Does the King know this?” I asked.
“I and my brother,” answered Johann, “put up the pipe, under the orders of my Lord of Hentzau. He was on guard that day, and the King asked my lord what it meant. ‘Faith,’ he answered, with his airy laugh, ‘it’s a new improvement on the ladder of Jacob, whereby, as you have read, sire, men pass from the earth to heaven. We thought it not meet that your Majesty should go, in case, sire, you must go, by the common route. So we have made you a pretty private passage where the vulgar cannot stare at you or incommode your passage. That, sire, is the meaning of that pipe.’ And he laughed and bowed, and prayed the King’s leave to replenish the King’s glass—for the King was at supper. And the King, though he is a brave man, as are all of his House, grew red and then white as he looked on the pipe and at the merry devil who mocked him. Ah, sir” (and the fellow shuddered), “it is not easy to sleep quiet in the Castle of Zenda, for all of them would as soon cut a man’s throat as play a game at cards; and my Lord Rupert would choose it sooner for a pastime than any other—ay, sooner than he would ruin a woman, though that he loves also.”
The man ceased, and I bade Fritz take him away and have him carefully guarded; and, turning to him, I added:
“If anyone asks you if there is a prisoner in Zenda, you may answer ‘Yes.’ But if any asks who the prisoner is, do not answer. For all my promises will not save you if any man here learns from you the truth as to the prisoner of Zenda.
Then, when he was gone, I looked at Sapt.
“It’s a hard nut!” said I.
“So hard,” said he, shaking his grizzled head, “that as I think, this time next year is like to find you still King of Ruritania!” and he broke out into curses on Michael’s cunning.
I lay back on my pillows.
“There seems to me,” I observed, “to be two ways by which the King can come out of Zenda alive. One is by treachery in the duke’s followers.”
“You can leave that out,” said Sapt.
“I hope not,” I rejoined, “because the other I was about to mention is—by a miracle from heaven!”
It would have surprised the good people of Ruritania to know of the foregoing talk; for, according to the official reports, I had suffered a grievous and dangerous hurt from an accidental spear-thrust, received in the course of my sport. I caused the bulletins to be of a very serious character, and created great public excitement, whereby three things occurred: first, I gravely offended the medical faculty of Strelsau by refusing to summon to my bedside any of them, save a young man, a friend of Fritz’s, whom we could trust; secondly, I received word from Marshal Strakencz that my orders seemed to have no more weight than his, and that the Princess Flavia was leaving for Tarlenheim under his unwilling escort (news whereat I strove not to be glad and proud); and thirdly, my brother, the Duke of Strelsau, although too well informed to believe the account of the origin of my sickness, was yet persuaded by the reports and by my seeming inactivity that I was in truth incapable of action, and that my life was in some danger. This I learnt from the man Johann, whom I was compelled to trust and send back to Zenda, where, by the way, Rupert Hentzau had him soundly flogged for daring to smirch the morals of Zenda by staying out all night in the pursuits of love. This, from Rupert, Johann deeply resented, and the duke’s approval of it did more to bind the keeper to my side than all my promises.
On Flavia’s arrival I cannot dwell. Her joy at finding me up and well, instead of on my back and fighting with death, makes a picture that even now dances before my eyes till they grow too dim to see it; and her reproaches that I had not trusted even her must excuse the means I took to quiet them. In truth, to have her with me once more was like a taste of heaven to a damned soul, the sweeter for the inevitable doom that was to follow; and I rejoiced in being able to waste two whole days with her. And when I had wasted two days, the Duke of Strelsau arranged a hunting-party.
The stroke was near now. For Sapt and I, after anxious consultations, had resolved that we must risk a blow, our resolution being clinched by Johann’s news that the King grew peaked, pale, and ill, and that his health was breaking down under his rigorous confinement.  That thought made prompt action advisable in the interests of the King; from my own point of view, it grew more and more necessary. For Strakencz urged on me the need of a speedy marriage, and my own inclinations seconded him with such terrible insistence that I feared for my resolution. I do not believe that I should have done the deed I dreamt of; but I might have come to flight, and my flight would have ruined the cause. And—yes, I am no saint (ask my little sister-in-law), and worse still might have happened.
It is perhaps as strange a thing as has ever been in the history of a country that the King’s brother and the King’s personator, in a time of profound outward peace, near a placid, undisturbed country town, under semblance of amity, should wage a desperate war for the person and life of the King. Yet such was the struggle that began now between Zenda and Tarlenheim. When I look back on the time, I seem to myself to have been half mad. Sapt has told me that I suffered no interference and listened to no remonstrances; and if ever a King of Ruritania ruled like a despot, I was, in those days, the man. Look where I would, I saw nothing that made life sweet to me, and I took my life in my hand and carried it carelessly as a man dangles an old glove. At first they strove to guard me, to keep me safe, to persuade me not to expose myself; but when they saw how I was set, there grew up among them—whether they knew the truth or not—a feeling that Fate ruled the issue, and that I must be left to play my game with Michael my own way.
Late next night I rose from table, where Flavia had sat by me, and conducted her to the door of her apartments. There I kissed her hand, and bade her sleep sound and wake to happy days. Then I changed my clothes and went out. Sapt and Fritz were waiting for me with six men and the horses. Over his saddle Sapt carried a long coil of rope, and both were heavily armed. I had with me a short stout cudgel and a long knife. Making a circuit, we avoided the town, and in an hour found ourselves slowly mounting the hill that led to the Castle of Zenda. The night was dark and very stormy; gusts of wind and spits of rain caught us as we breasted the incline, and the great trees moaned and sighed. When we came to a thick clump, about a quarter of a mile from the Castle, we bade our six friends hide there with the horses. Sapt had a whistle, and they could rejoin us in a few moments if danger came: but, up to now, we had met no one. I hoped that Michael was still off his guard, believing me to be safe in bed. However that might be, we gained the top of the hill without accident, and found ourselves on the edge of the moat where it sweeps under the road, separating the Old Castle from it. A tree stood on the edge of the bank, and Sapt, silently and diligently, set to make fast the rope. I stripped off my boots, took a pull at a flask of brandy, loosened the knife in its sheath, and took the cudgel between my teeth. Then I shook hands with my friends, not heeding a last look of entreaty from Fritz, and laid hold of the rope. I was going to have a look at “Jacob’s Ladder.”
Gently I lowered myself into the water. Though the night was wild, the day had been warm and bright, and the water was not cold. I struck out, and began to swim round the great walls which frowned above me. I could see only three yards ahead; I had then good hopes of not being seen, as I crept along close under the damp, moss-grown masonry. There were lights from the new part of the Castle on the other side, and now and again I heard laughter and merry shouts. I fancied I recognized young Rupert Hentzau’s ringing tones, and pictured him flushed with wine. Recalling my thoughts to the business in hand, I rested a moment. If Johann’s description were right, I must be near the window now. Very slowly I moved; and out of the darkness ahead loomed a shape. It was the pipe, curving from the window to the water: about four feet of its surface were displayed; it was as big round as two men. I was about to approach it, when I saw something else, and my heart stood still. The nose of a boat protruded beyond the pipe on the other side; and listening intently, I heard a slight shuffle—as of a man shifting his position. Who was the man who guarded Michael’s invention? Was he awake or was he asleep? I felt if my knife were ready, and trod water; as I did so, I found bottom under my feet. The foundations of the Castle extended some fifteen inches, making a ledge; and I stood on it, out of water from my armpits upwards. Then I crouched and peered through the darkness under the pipe, where, curving, it left a space.
There was a man in the boat. A rifle lay by him—I saw the gleam of the barrel. Here was the sentinel! He sat very still. I listened; he breathed heavily, regularly, monotonously. By heaven, he slept! Kneeling on the shelf, I drew forward under the pipe till my face was within two feet of his. He was a big man, I saw. It was Max Holf, the brother of Johann. My hand stole to my belt, and I drew out my knife. Of all the deeds of my life, I love the least to think of this, and whether it were the act of a man or a traitor I will not ask. I said to myself: “It is war—and the King’s life is the stake.” And I raised myself from beneath the pipe and stood up by the boat, which lay moored by the ledge. Holding my breath, I marked the spot and raised my arm. The great fellow stirred. He opened his eyes—wide, wider. He grasped in terror at my face and clutched at his rifle. I struck home. And I heard the chorus of a love-song from the opposite bank.
Leaving him where he lay, a huddled mass, I turned to “Jacob’s Ladder.” My time was short. This fellow’s turn of watching might be over directly, and relief would come. Leaning over the pipe, I examined it, from the end near the water to the topmost extremity where it passed, or seemed to pass, through the masonry of the wall. There was no break in it, no chink. Dropping on my knees, I tested the under side. And my breath went quick and fast, for on this lower side, where the pipe should have clung close to the masonry, there was a gleam of light! That light must come from the cell of the King! I set my shoulder against the pipe and exerted my strength. The chink widened a very, very little, and hastily I desisted; I had done enough to show that the pipe was not fixed in the masonry at the lower side.
Then I heard a voice—a harsh, grating voice:
“Well, sire, if you have had enough of my society, I will leave you to repose; but I must fasten the little ornaments first.”
It was Detchard! I caught the English accent in a moment.
“Have you anything to ask, sire, before we part?”
The King’s voice followed. It was his, though it was faint and hollow—different from the merry tones I had heard in the glades of the forest.
 I am dying by inches here.”
“The duke does not desire your death, sire—yet,” sneered Detchard; “when he does behold your path to heaven!”
The King answered:
“So be it!
The light disappeared. I heard the bolts of the door run home. And then I heard the sobs of the King. He was alone, as he thought. Who dares mock at him?
I did not venture to speak to him. The risk of some exclamation escaping him in surprise was too great. I dared do nothing that night; and my task now was to get myself away in safety, and to carry off the carcass of the dead man. To leave him there would tell too much. Casting loose the boat, I got in. The wind was blowing a gale now, and there was little danger of oars being heard. I rowed swiftly round to where my friends waited. I had just reached the spot, when a loud whistle sounded over the moat behind me.
“Hullo, Max!” I heard shouted.
I hailed Sapt in a low tone. The rope came down. I tied it round the corpse, and then went up it myself.
“Whistle you too,” I whispered, “for our men, and haul in the line. No talk now.”
They hauled up the body. Just as it reached the road, three men on horseback swept round from the front of the Castle. We saw them; but, being on foot ourselves, we escaped their notice. But we heard our men coming up with a shout.
“The devil, but it’s dark!” cried a ringing voice.
It was young Rupert. A moment later, shots rang out. Our people had met them. I started forward at a run, Sapt and Fritz following me.
“Thrust, thrust!” cried Rupert again, and a loud groan following told that he himself was not behind-hand.
“I’m done, Rupert!” cried a voice. “They’re three to one. Save yourself!”
I ran on, holding my cudgel in my hand. Suddenly a horse came towards me. A man was on it, leaning over his shoulder.
“Are you cooked too, Krafstein?” he cried.
There was no answer.
I sprang to the horse’s head. It was Rupert Hentzau.
“At last!” I cried.
For we seemed to have him. He had only his sword in his hand. My men were hot upon him; Sapt and Fritz were running up. I had outstripped them; but if they got close enough to fire, he must die or surrender.
“At last!” I cried.
“It’s the play-actor!” cried he, slashing at my cudgel. He cut it clean in two; and, judging discretion better than death, I ducked my head and (I blush to tell it) scampered for my life. The devil was in Rupert Hentzau; for he put spurs to his horse, and I, turning to look, saw him ride, full gallop, to the edge of the moat and leap in, while the shots of our party fell thick round him like hail. With one gleam of moonlight we should have riddled him with balls; but, in the darkness, he won to the corner of the Castle, and vanished from our sight.
“The deuce take him!” grinned Sapt.
“It’s a pity,” said I, “that he’s a villain. Whom have we got?”
We had Lauengram and Krafstein: they lay dead; and, concealment being no longer possible, we flung them, with Max, into the moat; and, drawing together in a compact body, rode off down the hill. And, in our midst, went the bodies of three gallant gentlemen. Thus we travelled home, heavy at heart for the death of our friends, sore uneasy concerning the King, and cut to the quick that young Rupert had played yet another winning hand with us.
For my own part, I was vexed and angry that I had killed no man in open fight, but only stabbed a knave in his sleep. And I did not love to hear Rupert call me a play-actor.
Ruritania is not England, or the quarrel between Duke Michael and myself could not have gone on, with the extraordinary incidents which marked it, without more public notice being directed to it. Duels were frequent among all the upper classes, and private quarrels between great men kept the old habit of spreading to their friends and dependents. Nevertheless, after the affray which I have just related, such reports began to circulate that I felt it necessary to be on my guard. The death of the gentlemen involved could not be hidden from their relatives. I issued a stern order, declaring that duelling had attained unprecedented licence (the Chancellor drew up the document for me, and very well he did it), and forbidding it save in the gravest cases. I sent a public and stately apology to Michael, and he returned a deferential and courteous reply to me; for our one point of union was—and it underlay all our differences and induced an unwilling harmony between our actions—that we could neither of us afford to throw our cards on the table. He, as well as I, was a “play-actor”, and, hating one another, we combined to dupe public opinion. Unfortunately, however, the necessity for concealment involved the necessity of delay: the King might die in his prison, or even be spirited off somewhere else; it could not be helped. For a little while I was compelled to observe a truce, and my only consolation was that Flavia most warmly approved of my edict against duelling, and, when I expressed delight at having won her favour, prayed me, if her favour were any motive to me, to prohibit the practice altogether.
“Wait till we are married,” said I, smiling.
Not the least peculiar result of the truce and of the secrecy which dictated it was that the town of Zenda became in the day-time—I would not have trusted far to its protection by night—a sort of neutral zone, where both parties could safely go; and I, riding down one day with Flavia and Sapt, had an encounter with an acquaintance, which presented a ludicrous side, but was at the same time embarrassing. As I rode along, I met a dignified looking person driving in a two-horsed carriage. He stopped his horses, got out, and approached me, bowing low. I recognized the Head of the Strelsau Police.
“Your Majesty’s ordinance as to duelling is receiving our best attention,” he assured me.
If the best attention involved his presence in Zenda, I determined at once to dispense with it.
“Is that what brings you to Zenda, Prefect?” I asked.
“Why no, sire; I am here because I desired to oblige the British Ambassador.”
“What’s the British Ambassador doing dans cette galere?” said I, carelessly.
“A young countryman of his, sire—a man of some position—is missing. His friends have not heard from him for two months, and there is reason to believe that he was last seen in Zenda.”
Flavia was paying little attention. I dared not look at Sapt.
“What reason?”
“A friend of his in Paris—a certain M. Featherly—has given us information which makes it possible that he came here, and the officials of the railway recollect his name on some luggage.”
“What was his name?”
“Rassendyll, sire,” he answered; and I saw that the name meant nothing to him. But, glancing at Flavia, he lowered his voice, as he went on: “It is thought that he may have followed a lady here. Has your Majesty heard of a certain Madame de Mauban?”
“Why, yes,” said I, my eye involuntarily travelling towards the Castle.
“She arrived in Ruritania about the same time as this Rassendyll.”
I caught the Prefect’s glance; he was regarding me with enquiry writ large on his face.
“Sapt,” said I, “I must speak a word to the Prefect. Will you ride on a few paces with the princess?” And I added to the Prefect: “Come, sir, what do you mean?”
He drew close to me, and I bent in the saddle.
“If he were in love with the lady?” he whispered. “Nothing has been heard of him for two months;” and this time it was the eye of the Prefect which travelled towards the Castle.
“Yes, the lady is there,” I said quietly. “But I don’t suppose Mr. Rassendyll—is that the name?—is.”
“The duke,” he whispered, “does not like rivals, sire.”
“You’re right there,” said I, with all sincerity. “But surely you hint at a very grave charge?”
He spread his hands out in apology. I whispered in his ear:
“This is a grave matter. Go back to Strelsau—”
“But, sire, if I have a clue here?”
“Go back to Strelsau,” I repeated. “Tell the Ambassador that you have a clue, but that you must be left alone for a week or two. Meanwhile, I’ll charge myself with looking into the matter.”
“The Ambassador is very pressing, sir.”
“You must quiet him. Come, sir; you see that if your suspicions are correct, it is an affair in which we must move with caution. We can have no scandal. Mind you return tonight.”
He promised to obey me, and I rode on to rejoin my companions, a little easier in my mind. Enquiries after me must be stopped at all hazards for a week or two; and this clever official had come surprisingly near the truth. His impression might be useful some day, but if he acted on it now it might mean the worse to the King. Heartily did I curse George Featherly for not holding his tongue.
“Well,” asked Flavia, “have you finished your business?”
“Most satisfactorily,” said I. “Come, shall we turn round? We are almost trenching on my brother’s territory.”
We were, in fact, at the extreme end of the town, just where the hills begin to mount towards the Castle. We cast our eyes up, admiring the massive beauty of the old walls, and we saw a cortege winding slowly down the hill. On it came.
“Let us go back,” said Sapt.
“I should like to stay,” said Flavia; and I reined my horse beside hers.
We could distinguish the approaching party now. There came first two mounted servants in black uniforms, relieved only by a silver badge. These were followed by a car drawn by four horses: on it, under a heavy pall, lay a coffin; behind it rode a man in plain black clothes, carrying his hat in his hand. Sapt uncovered, and we stood waiting, Flavia keeping by me and laying her hand on my arm.
“It is one of the gentlemen killed in the quarrel, I expect,” she said.
I beckoned to a groom.
“Ride and ask whom they escort,” I ordered.
He rode up to the servants, and I saw him pass on to the gentleman who rode behind.
“It’s Rupert of Hentzau,” whispered Sapt.
Rupert it was, and directly afterwards, waving to the procession to stand still, Rupert trotted up to me. He was in a frock-coat, tightly buttoned, and trousers. He wore an aspect of sadness, and he bowed with profound respect. Yet suddenly he smiled, and I smiled too, for old Sapt’s hand lay in his left breast-pocket, and Rupert and I both guessed what lay in the hand inside the pocket.
“Your Majesty asks whom we escort,” said Rupert. “It is my dear friend, Albert of Lauengram.”
“Sir,” said I, “no one regrets the unfortunate affair more than I. My ordinance, which I mean to have obeyed, is witness to it.”
“Poor fellow!” said Flavia softly, and I saw Rupert’s eyes flash at her. Whereat I grew red; for, if I had my way, Rupert Hentzau should not have defiled her by so much as a glance. Yet he did it and dared to let admiration be seen in his look.
“Your Majesty’s words are gracious,” he said. “I grieve for my friend. Yet, sire, others must soon lie as he lies now.”
“It is a thing we all do well to remember, my lord,” I rejoined.
“Even kings, sire,” said Rupert, in a moralizing tone; and old Sapt swore softly by my side.
“It is true,” said I. “How fares my brother, my lord?”
“He is better, sire.”
“I am rejoiced.”
“He hopes soon to leave for Strelsau, when his health is secured.”
“He is only convalescent then?”
“There remain one or two small troubles,” answered the insolent fellow, in the mildest tone in the world.
“Express my earnest hope,” said Flavia, “that they may soon cease to trouble him.”
“Your Royal Highness’s wish is, humbly, my own,” said Rupert, with a bold glance that brought a blush to Flavia’s cheek.
I bowed; and Rupert, bowing lower, backed his horse and signed to his party to proceed. With a sudden impulse, I rode after him. He turned swiftly, fearing that, even in the presence of the dead and before a lady’s eyes, I meant him mischief.
“You fought as a brave man the other night,” I said. “Come, you are young, sir. If you will deliver your prisoner alive to me, you shall come to no hurt.”
He looked at me with a mocking smile; but suddenly he rode nearer to me.
“I’m unarmed,” he said; “and our old Sapt there could pick me off in a minute.”
“I’m not afraid,” said I.
“No, curse you!” he answered. “Look here, I made you a proposal from the duke once.”
“I’ll hear nothing from Black Michael,” said I.
“Then hear one from me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Attack the Castle boldly. Let Sapt and Tarlenheim lead.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Arrange the time with me.”
“I have such confidence in you, my lord!”
“Tut! I’m talking business now. Sapt there and Fritz will fall; Black Michael will fall—”
“What!”
“—Black Michael will fall, like the dog he is; the prisoner, as you call him, will go by ‘Jacob’s Ladder’—ah, you know that!—to hell! Two men will be left—I, Rupert Hentzau, and you, the King of Ruritania.”
He paused, and then, in a voice that quivered with eagerness, added:
“Isn’t that a hand to play?—a throne and your princess! And for me, say a competence and your Majesty’s gratitude.”
“Surely,” I exclaimed, “while you’re above ground, hell wants its master!”
“Well, think it over,” he said. “And, look you, it would take more than a scruple or two to keep me from yonder girl,” and his evil eye flashed again at her I loved.
“Get out of my reach!” said I; and yet in a moment I began to laugh for the very audacity of it.
“Would you turn against your master?” I asked.
He swore at Michael for being what the offspring of a legal, though morganatic, union should not be called, and said to me in an almost confidential and apparently friendly tone:
“He gets in my way, you know. He’s a jealous brute!
My temper was well under control now; I was learning something.
“A lady?” I asked negligently.
“Ay, and a beauty,” he nodded. “But you’ve seen her.”
“Ah! was it at a tea-party, when some of your friends got on the wrong side of the table?”
“What can you expect of fools like Detchard and De Gautet? I wish I’d been there.”
“And the duke interferes?”
“Well,” said Rupert meditatively, “that’s hardly a fair way of putting it, perhaps. I want to interfere.”
“And she prefers the duke?”
“Ay, the silly creature! Ah, well, you think about my plan,” and, with a bow, he pricked his horse and trotted after the body of his friend.
I went back to Flavia and Sapt, pondering on the strangeness of the man. Wicked men I have known in plenty, but Rupert Hentzau remains unique in my experience. And if there be another anywhere, let him be caught and hanged out of hand. So say I!
“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?” said Flavia.
Well, of course, she didn’t know him as I did; yet I was put out, for I thought his bold glances would have made her angry. But my dear Flavia was a woman, and so—she was not put out. On the contrary, she thought young Rupert very handsome—as, beyond question, the ruffian was.
“And how sad he looked at his friend’s death!” said she.
“He’ll have better reason to be sad at his own,” observed Sapt, with a grim smile.
As for me, I grew sulky; unreasonable it was perhaps, for what better business had I to look at her with love than had even Rupert’s lustful eyes? And sulky I remained till, as evening fell and we rode up to Tarlenheim, Sapt having fallen behind in case anyone should be following us, Flavia, riding close beside me, said softly, with a little half-ashamed laugh:
“Unless you smile, Rudolf, I cry. Why are you angry?”
“It was something that fellow said to me,” said I, but I was smiling as we reached the door and dismounted.
There a servant handed me a note: it was unaddressed.
“Is it for me?” I asked.
“Yes, sire; a boy brought it.”
I tore it open:
Johann carries this for me. I warned you once. In the name of God, and if you are a man, rescue me from this den of murderers!—A. de M.
I handed it to Sapt; but all that the tough old soul said in reply to this piteous appeal was:
“Whose fault brought her there?”
Nevertheless, not being faultless myself, I took leave to pity Antoinette de Mauban.
As I had ridden publicly in Zenda, and had talked there with Rupert Hentzau, of course all pretence of illness was at an end. I marked the effect on the garrison of Zenda: they ceased to be seen abroad; and any of my men who went near the Castle reported that the utmost vigilance prevailed there. Touched as I was by Madame de Mauban’s appeal, I seemed as powerless to befriend her as I had proved to help the King. Michael bade me defiance; and although he too had been seen outside the walls, with more disregard for appearances than he had hitherto shown, he did not take the trouble to send any excuse for his failure to wait on the King. Time ran on in inactivity, when every moment was pressing; for not only was I faced with the new danger which the stir about my disappearance brought on me, but great murmurs had arisen in Strelsau at my continued absence from the city. They had been greater, but for the knowledge that Flavia was with me; and for this reason I suffered her to stay, though I hated to have her where danger was, and though every day of our present sweet intercourse strained my endurance almost to breaking. As a final blow, nothing would content my advisers, Strakencz and the Chancellor (who came out from Strelsau to make an urgent representation to me), save that I should appoint a day for the public solemnization of my betrothal, a ceremony which in Ruritania is well nigh as binding and great a thing as the marriage itself. And this—with Flavia sitting by me—I was forced to do, setting a date a fortnight ahead, and appointing the Cathedral in Strelsau as the place. And this formal act being published far and wide, caused great joy throughout the kingdom, and was the talk of all tongues; so that I reckoned there were but two men who chafed at it—I mean Black Michael and myself; and but one who did not know of it—that one the man whose name I bore, the King of Ruritania.
In truth, I heard something of the way the news was received in the Castle; for after an interval of three days, the man Johann, greedy for more money, though fearful for his life, again found means to visit us. He had been waiting on the duke when the tidings came. Black Michael’s face had grown blacker still, and he had sworn savagely; nor was he better pleased when young Rupert took oath that I meant to do as I said, and turning to Madame de Mauban, wished her joy on a rival gone. Michael’s hand stole towards his sword (said Johann), but not a bit did Rupert care; for he rallied the duke on having made a better King than had reigned for years past in Ruritania. “And,” said he, with a meaning bow to his exasperated master, “the devil sends the princess a finer man than heaven had marked out for her, by my soul, it does!” Then Michael harshly bade him hold his tongue, and leave them; but Rupert must needs first kiss madame’s hand, which he did as though he loved her, while Michael glared at him.
This was the lighter side of the fellow’s news; but more serious came behind, and it was plain that if time pressed at Tarlenheim, it pressed none the less fiercely at Zenda. For the King was very sick: Johann had seen him, and he was wasted and hardly able to move. “There could be no thought of taking another for him now.” So alarmed were they, that they had sent for a physician from Strelsau; and the physician having been introduced into the King’s cell, had come forth pale and trembling, and urgently prayed the duke to let him go back and meddle no more in the affair; but the duke would not, and held him there a prisoner, telling him his life was safe if the King lived while the duke desired and died when the duke desired—not otherwise. And, persuaded by the physician, they had allowed Madame de Mauban to visit the King and give him such attendance as his state needed, and as only a woman can give. Yet his life hung in the balance; and I was still strong and whole and free. Wherefore great gloom reigned at Zenda; and save when they quarrelled, to which they were very prone, they hardly spoke. But the deeper the depression of the rest, young Rupert went about Satan’s work with a smile in his eye and a song on his lip; and laughed “fit to burst” (said Johann) because the duke always set Detchard to guard the King when Madame de Mauban was in the cell—which precaution was, indeed, not unwise in my careful brother. Thus Johann told his tale and seized his crowns. Yet he besought us to allow him to stay with us in Tarlenheim, and not venture his head again in the lion’s den; but we had need of him there, and, although I refused to constrain him, I prevailed on him by increased rewards to go back and carry tidings to Madame de Mauban that I was working for her, and that, if she could, she should speak one word of comfort to the King. For while suspense is bad for the sick, yet despair is worse still, and it might be that the King lay dying of mere hopelessness, for I could learn of no definite disease that afflicted him.
“And how do they guard the King now?” I asked, remembering that two of the Six were dead, and Max Holf also.
“Detchard and Bersonin watch by night, Rupert Hentzau and De Gautet by day, sir,” he answered.
“Only two at a time?”
“Ay, sir; but the others rest in a room just above, and are within sound of a cry or a whistle.”
“A room just above? I didn’t know of that. Is there any communication between it and the room where they watch?”
“No, sir. You must go down a few stairs and through the door by the drawbridge, and so to where the King is lodged.”
“And that door is locked?”
“Only the four lords have keys, sir.”
I drew nearer to him.
“And have they keys of the grating?” I asked in a low whisper.
“I think, sir, only Detchard and Rupert.”
“Where does the duke lodge?”
“In the chateau, on the first floor. His apartments are on the right as you go towards the drawbridge.”
“And Madame de Mauban?”
“Just opposite, on the left. But her door is locked after she has entered.”
“To keep her in?”
“Doubtless, sir.”
“Perhaps for another reason?”
“It is possible.”
“And the duke, I suppose, has the key?”
“Yes. And the drawbridge is drawn back at night, and of that, too, the duke holds the key, so that it cannot be run across the moat without application to him.”
“And where do you sleep?”
“In the entrance hall of the chateau, with five servants.”
“Armed?”
“They have pikes, sir, but no firearms. The duke will not trust them with firearms.”
Then at last I took the matter boldly in my hands. I had failed once at “Jacob’s Ladder;” I should fail again there. I must make the attack from the other side.
“I have promised you twenty thousand crowns,” said I. “You shall have fifty thousand if you will do what I ask of you tomorrow night. But, first, do those servants know who your prisoner is?”
“No, sir. They believe him to be some private enemy of the duke’s.”
“And they would not doubt that I am the King?”
“How should they?” he asked.
“Look to this, then. Tomorrow, at two in the morning exactly, fling open the front door of the chateau. Don’t fail by an instant.”
“Shall you be there, sir?”
“Ask no questions.  Say the hall is close, or what you will. That is all I ask of you.”
“And may I escape by the door, sir, when I have opened it?”
“Yes, as quick as your legs will carry you. One thing more. Carry this note to madame—oh, it’s in French, you can’t read it—and charge her, for the sake of all our lives, not to fail in what it orders.”
The man was trembling but I had to trust to what he had of courage and to what he had of honesty. I dared not wait, for I feared that the King would die.
When the fellow was gone, I called Sapt and Fritz to me, and unfolded the plan that I had formed. Sapt shook his head over it.
“Why can’t you wait?” he asked.
“The King may die.”
“Michael will be forced to act before that.”
“Then,” said I, “the King may live.”
“Well, and if he does?”
“For a fortnight?” I asked simply.
And Sapt bit his moustache.
Suddenly Fritz von Tarlenheim laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Let us go and make the attempt,” said he.
“I mean you to go—don’t be afraid,” said I.
“Ay, but do you stay here, and take care of the princess.”
A gleam came into old Sapt’s eye.
“We should have Michael one way or the other then,” he chuckled; “whereas if you go and are killed with the King, what will become of those of us who are left?”
“They will serve Queen Flavia,” said I, “and I would to God I could be one of them.”
A pause followed. Old Sapt broke it by saying sadly, yet with an unmeant drollery that set Fritz and me laughing:
“Why didn’t old Rudolf the Third marry your—great-grandmother, was it?”
“Come,” said I, “it is the King we are thinking about.”
“It is true,” said Fritz.
“Moreover,” I went on, “I have been an impostor for the profit of another, but I will not be one for my own; and if the King is not alive and on his throne before the day of betrothal comes, I will tell the truth, come what may.”
“You shall go, lad,” said Sapt.
Here is the plan I had made. A strong party under Sapt’s command was to steal up to the door of the chateau.  If all went well, they would be at the door when Johann opened it. They were to rush in and secure the servants if their mere presence and the use of the King’s name were not enough. At the same moment—and on this hinged the plan—a woman’s cry was to ring out loud and shrill from Antoinette de Mauban’s chamber. Again and again she was to cry: “Help, help! Michael, help!” and then to utter the name of young Rupert Hentzau. Then, as we hoped, Michael, in fury, would rush out of his apartments opposite, and fall alive into the hands of Sapt. Still the cries would go on; and my men would let down the drawbridge; and it would be strange if Rupert, hearing his name thus taken in vain, did not descend from where he slept and seek to cross. De Gautet might or might not come with him: that must be left to chance.
And when Rupert set his foot on the drawbridge? There was my part: for I was minded for another swim in the moat; and, lest I should grow weary, I had resolved to take with me a small wooden ladder, on which I could rest my arms in the water—and my feet when I left it. I would rear it against the wall just by the bridge; and when the bridge was across, I would stealthily creep on to it—and then if Rupert or De Gautet crossed in safety, it would be my misfortune, not my fault. They dead, two men only would remain; and for them we must trust to the confusion we had created and to a sudden rush. We should have the keys of the door that led to the all-important rooms. Perhaps they would rush out. If they stood by their orders, then the King’s life hung on the swiftness with which we could force the outer door; and I thanked God that not Rupert Hentzau watched, but Detchard. For though Detchard was a cool man, relentless, and no coward, he had neither the dash nor the recklessness of Rupert. Moreover, he, if any one of them, really loved Black Michael, and it might be that he would leave Bersonin to guard the King, and rush across the bridge to take part in the affray on the other side.
So I planned—desperately. And, that our enemy might be the better lulled to security, I gave orders that our residence should be brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, as though we were engaged in revelry; and should so be kept all night, with music playing and people moving to and fro. Strakencz would be there, and he was to conceal our departure, if he could, from Flavia. And if we came not again by the morning, he was to march, openly and in force to the Castle, and demand the person of the King; if Black Michael were not there, as I did not think he would be, the Marshal would take Flavia with him, as swiftly as he could, to Strelsau, and there proclaim Black Michael’s treachery and the probable death of the King, and rally all that there was honest and true round the banner of the princess. And, to say truth, this was what I thought most likely to happen. For I had great doubts whether either the King or Black Michael or I had more than a day to live. Well, if Black Michael died, and if I, the play-actor, slew Rupert Hentzau with my own hand, and then died myself, it might be that Fate would deal as lightly with Ruritania as could be hoped, notwithstanding that she demanded the life of the King—and to her dealing thus with me, I was in no temper to make objection.
It was late when we rose from conference, and I betook me to the princess’s apartments. She was pensive that evening; yet, when I left her, she flung her arms about me and grew, for an instant, bashfully radiant as she slipped a ring on my finger. I was wearing the King’s ring; but I had also on my little finger a plain band of gold engraved with the motto of our family: “Nil Quae Feci.” This I took off and put on her, and signed to her to let me go.
“Wear that ring, even though you wear another when you are queen,” I said.
“Whatever else I wear, this I will wear till I die and after,” said she, as she kissed the ring.
The night came fine and clear. I had prayed for dirty weather, such as had favoured my previous voyage in the moat, but Fortune was this time against me. Still I reckoned that by keeping close under the wall and in the shadow I could escape detection from the windows of the chateau that looked out on the scene of my efforts. If they searched the moat, indeed, my scheme must fail; but I did not think they would. They had made “Jacob’s Ladder” secure against attack. Johann had himself helped to fix it closely to the masonry on the under side, so that it could not now be moved from below any more than from above. An assault with explosives or a long battering with picks alone could displace it, and the noise involved in either of these operations put them out of the question. What harm, then, could a man do in the moat? I trusted that Black Michael, putting this query to himself, would answer confidently, “None;” while, even if Johann meant treachery, he did not know my scheme, and would doubtless expect to see me, at the head of my friends, before the front entrance to the chateau. There, I said to Sapt, was the real danger. “And there,” I added, “you shall be. Doesn’t that content you?”
But it did not. Dearly would he have liked to come with me, had I not utterly refused to take him. One man might escape notice, to double the party more than doubled the risk; and when he ventured to hint once again that my life was too valuable, I, knowing the secret thought he clung to, sternly bade him be silent, assuring him that unless the King lived through the night, I would not live through it either.
At twelve o’clock, Sapt’s command left the chateau of Tarlenheim and struck off to the right, riding by unfrequented roads, and avoiding the town of Zenda. If all went well, they would be in front of the Castle by about a quarter to two. Leaving their horses half a mile off, they were to steal up to the entrance and hold themselves in readiness for the opening of the door. If the door were not opened by two, they were to send Fritz von Tarlenheim round to the other side of the Castle. I would meet him there if I were alive, and we would consult whether to storm the Castle or not. If I were not there, they were to return with all speed to Tarlenheim, rouse the Marshal, and march in force to Zenda. For if not there, I should be dead; and I knew that the King would not be alive five minutes after I ceased to breathe. I must now leave Sapt and his friends, and relate how I myself proceeded on this eventful night. I went out on the good horse which had carried me, on the night of the coronation, back from the hunting-lodge to Strelsau. I carried a revolver in the saddle and my sword. I was covered with a large cloak, and under this I wore a warm, tight-fitting woollen jersey, a pair of knickerbockers, thick stockings, and light canvas shoes.  The night was warm, but I might probably be immersed a long while, and it was necessary to take every precaution against cold: for cold not only saps a man’s courage if he has to die, but impairs his energy if others have to die, and, finally, gives him rheumatics, if it be God’s will that he lives. Also I tied round my body a length of thin but stout cord, and I did not forget my ladder. I, starting after Sapt, took a shorter route, skirting the town to the left, and found myself in the outskirts of the forest at about half-past twelve. I tied my horse up in a thick clump of trees, leaving the revolver in its pocket in the saddle—it would be no use to me—and, ladder in hand, made my way to the edge of the moat. Here I unwound my rope from about my waist, bound it securely round the trunk of a tree on the bank, and let myself down. The Castle clock struck a quarter to one as I felt the water under me and began to swim round the keep, pushing the ladder before me, and hugging the Castle wall. Thus voyaging, I came to my old friend, “Jacob’s Ladder,” and felt the ledge of the masonry under me. I crouched down in the shadow of the great pipe—I tried to stir it, but it was quite immovable—and waited. I remember that my predominant feeling was neither anxiety for the King nor longing for Flavia, but an intense desire to smoke; and this craving, of course, I could not gratify.
The drawbridge was still in its place. I saw its airy, slight framework above me, some ten yards to my right, as I crouched with my back against the wall of the King’s cell. I made out a window two yards my side of it and nearly on the same level. That, if Johann spoke true, must belong to the duke’s apartments; and on the other side, in about the same relative position, must be Madame de Mauban’s window. Women are careless, forgetful creatures. I prayed that she might not forget that she was to be the victim of a brutal attempt at two o’clock precisely. I was rather amused at the part I had assigned to my young friend Rupert Hentzau; but I owed him a stroke—for, even as I sat, my shoulder ached where he had, with an audacity that seemed half to hide his treachery, struck at me, in the sight of all my friends, on the terrace at Tarlenheim.
Suddenly the duke’s window grew bright. The shutters were not closed, and the interior became partially visible to me as I cautiously raised myself till I stood on tiptoe. Thus placed, my range of sight embraced a yard or more inside the window, while the radius of light did not reach me. The window was flung open and someone looked out. I marked Antoinette de Mauban’s graceful figure, and, though her face was in shadow, the fine outline of her head was revealed against the light behind. I longed to cry softly, “Remember!” but I dared not—and happily, for a moment later a man came up and stood by her. He tried to put his arm round her waist, but with a swift motion she sprang away and leant against the shutter, her profile towards me. I made out who the newcomer was: it was young Rupert.
“Gently, gently!” I murmured. “You’re too soon, my boy!”
His head was close to hers. I suppose he whispered to her, for I saw her point to the moat, and I heard her say, in slow and distinct tones:
“I had rather throw myself out of this window!”
He came close up to the window and looked out.
“It looks cold,” said he. “Come, Antoinette, are you serious?”
She made no answer so far as I heard; and he, smiting his hand petulantly on the window-sill, went on, in the voice of some spoilt child:
“Hang Black Michael! Isn’t the princess enough for him? Is he to have everything?

If I had kept my revolver with me, I should have been very sorely tempted. Being spared the temptation, I merely added this new score to his account.
“Though, faith,” said Rupert, “it’s little he cares. He’s mad about the princess, you know. He talks of nothing but cutting the play-actor’s throat.”
Didn’t he, indeed?
“And if I do it for him, what do you think he’s promised me?”
The unhappy woman raised her hands above her head, in prayer or in despair.
“But I detest waiting,” said Rupert; and I saw that he was about to lay his hand on her again, when there was a noise of a door in the room opening, and a harsh voice cried:
“What are you doing here, sir?”
 Could I leave the lady alone?”
The newcomer must be Black Michael. I saw him directly, as he advanced towards the window. He caught young Rupert by the arm.
“The moat would hold more than the King!” said he, with a significant gesture.
“Does your Highness threaten me?” asked Rupert.
“A threat is more warning than most men get from me.”
“Yet,” observed Rupert, “Rudolf Rassendyll has been much threatened, and yet lives!”
“Am I in fault because my servants bungle?” asked Michael scornfully.
“Your Highness has run no risk of bungling!” sneered Rupert.
It was telling the duke that he shirked danger as plain as ever I have heard a man told. Black Michael had self-control. I dare say he scowled—it was a great regret to me that I could not see their faces better—but his voice was even and calm, as he answered:
“Enough, enough! We mustn’t quarrel, Rupert. Are Detchard and Bersonin at their posts?”
“They are, sir.”
“I need you no more.”
“Nay, I’m not oppressed with fatigue,” said Rupert.
“Pray, sir, leave us,” said Michael, more impatiently. “In ten minutes the drawbridge will be drawn back, and I presume you have no wish to swim to your bed.”
Rupert’s figure disappeared. I heard the door open and shut again. Michael and Antoinette de Mauban were left together. To my chagrin, the duke laid his hand on the window and closed it. He stood talking to Antoinette for a moment or two. She shook her head, and he turned impatiently away. She left the window. The door sounded again, and Black Michael closed the shutters.
“De Gautet, De Gautet, man!” sounded from the drawbridge.
It was Rupert’s voice, coming from the end of the drawbridge. A moment later he and De Gautet stepped out on the bridge. Rupert’s arm was through De Gautet’s, and in the middle of the bridge he detained his companion and leant over. I dropped behind the shelter of “Jacob’s Ladder.”
Then Master Rupert had a little sport. He took from De Gautet a bottle which he carried, and put it to his lips.
“Hardly a drop!” he cried discontentedly, and flung it in the moat.
It fell, as I judged from the sound and the circles on the water, within a yard of the pipe. And Rupert, taking out his revolver, began to shoot at it. The first two shots missed the bottle, but hit the pipe. The third shattered the bottle. I hoped that the young ruffian would be content; but he emptied the other barrels at the pipe, and one, skimming over the pipe, whistled through my hair as I crouched on the other side.
“‘Ware bridge!” a voice cried, to my relief.
Rupert and De Gautet cried, “A moment!” and ran across. The bridge was drawn back, and all became still. The clock struck a quarter-past one. I rose and stretched myself and yawned.
I think some ten minutes had passed when I heard a slight noise to my right. I peered over the pipe, and saw a dark figure standing in the gateway that led to the bridge. It was a man. By the careless, graceful poise, I guessed it to be Rupert again. He held a sword in his hand, and he stood motionless for a minute or two. Wild thoughts ran through me. On what mischief was the young fiend bent now? Then he laughed low to himself; then he turned his face to the wall, took a step in my direction, and, to my surprise, began to climb down the wall. In an instant I saw that there must be steps in the wall; it was plain. They were cut into or affixed to the wall, at intervals of about eighteen inches. Rupert set his foot on the lower one. Then he placed his sword between his teeth, turned round, and noiselessly let himself into the water. Had it been a matter of my life only, I would have swum to meet him. Dearly would I have loved to fight it out with him then and there—with steel, on a fine night, and none to come between us. But there was the King! I restrained myself, but I could not bridle my swift breathing, and I watched him with the intensest eagerness.
He swam leisurely and quietly across. There were more steps up on the other side, and he climbed them. When he set foot in the gateway, standing on the drawn-back bridge, he felt in his pocket and took something out. I heard him unlock the door. I could hear no noise of its closing behind him. He vanished from my sight.
Abandoning my ladder—I saw I did not need it now—I swam to the side of the bridge and climbed half way up the steps. There I hung with my sword in my hand, listening eagerly. The duke’s room was shuttered and dark. There was a light in the window on the opposite side of the bridge. Not a sound broke the silence, till half-past one chimed from the great clock in the tower of the chateau.
There were other plots than mine afoot in the Castle that night.
The position wherein I stood does not appear very favourable to thought; yet for the next moment or two I thought profoundly. I had, I told myself, scored one point. Be Rupert Hentzau’s errand what it might, and the villainy he was engaged on what it would, I had scored one point. He was on the other side of the moat from the King, and it would be by no fault of mine if ever he set foot on the same side again. I had three left to deal with: two on guard and De Gautet in his bed. Ah, if I had the keys! I would have risked everything and attacked Detchard and Bersonin before their friends could join them. But I was powerless. I must wait till the coming of my friends enticed someone to cross the bridge—someone with the keys. And I waited, as it seemed, for half an hour, really for about five minutes, before the next act in the rapid drama began.
All was still on the other side. The duke’s room remained inscrutable behind its shutters. The light burnt steadily in Madame de Mauban’s window. Then I heard the faintest, faintest sound: it came from behind the door which led to the drawbridge on the other side of the moat. It but just reached my ear, yet I could not be mistaken as to what it was. It was made by a key being turned very carefully and slowly. Who was turning it? And of what room was it the key? There leapt before my eyes the picture of young Rupert, with the key in one hand, his sword in the other, and an evil smile on his face. But I did not know what door it was, nor on which of his favourite pursuits young Rupert was spending the hours of that night.
I was soon to be enlightened, for the next moment—before my friends could be near the chateau door—before Johann the keeper would have thought to nerve himself for his task—there was a sudden crash from the room with the lighted window. It sounded as though someone had flung down a lamp; and the window went dark and black. At the same instant a cry rang out, shrill in the night: “Help, help! Michael, help!” and was followed by a shriek of utter terror.
I was tingling in every nerve. I stood on the topmost step, clinging to the threshold of the gate with my right hand and holding my sword in my left. Suddenly I perceived that the gateway was broader than the bridge; there was a dark corner on the opposite side where a man could stand. I darted across and stood there. Thus placed, I commanded the path, and no man could pass between the chateau and the old Castle till he had tried conclusions with me.
There was another shriek. Then a door was flung open and clanged against the wall, and I heard the handle of a door savagely twisted.
“Open the door! In God’s name, what’s the matter?” cried a voice—the voice of Black Michael himself.
He was answered by the very words I had written in my letter.
“Help, Michael—Hentzau!”
 At the same moment I heard a window above my head open, and a voice cried: “What’s the matter?” and I heard a man’s hasty footsteps. I grasped my sword. If De Gautet came my way, the Six would be less by one more.
Then I heard the clash of crossed swords and a tramp of feet and—I cannot tell the thing so quickly as it happened, for all seemed to come at once. There was an angry cry from madame’s room, the cry of a wounded man; the window was flung open; young Rupert stood there sword in hand. He turned his back, and I saw his body go forward to the lunge.
“Ah, Johann, there’s one for you! Come on, Michael!”
Johann was there, then—come to the rescue of the duke! How would he open the door for me? For I feared that Rupert had slain him.
“Help!” cried the duke’s voice, faint and husky.
I heard a step on the stairs above me; and I heard a stir down to my left, in the direction of the King’s cell. But, before anything happened on my side of the moat, I saw five or six men round young Rupert in the embrasure of madame’s window. Three or four times he lunged with incomparable dash and dexterity. For an instant they fell back, leaving a ring round him. He leapt on the parapet of the window, laughing as he leapt, and waving his sword in his hand. He was drunk with blood, and he laughed again wildly as he flung himself headlong into the moat.
What became of him then? I did not see: for as he leapt, De Gautet’s lean face looked out through the door by me, and, without a second’s hesitation, I struck at him with all the strength God had given me, and he fell dead in the doorway without a word or a groan. I dropped on my knees by him. Where were the keys? I found myself muttering: “The keys, man, the keys?” as though he had been yet alive and could listen; and when I could not find them, I—God forgive me!—I believe I struck a dead man’s face.
At last I had them. There were but three. Seizing the largest, I felt the lock of the door that led to the cell. I fitted in the key. It was right. The lock turned. I drew the door close behind me and locked it as noiselessly as I could, putting the key in my pocket.
I found myself at the top of a flight of steep stone stairs. An oil lamp burnt dimly in the bracket. I took it down and held it in my hand; and I stood and listened.
“What in the devil can it be?” I heard a voice say.
It came from behind a door that faced me at the bottom of the stairs.

I strained to hear the answer, and could have sobbed with relief when Detchard’s voice came grating and cold:
“Wait a bit. There’ll be trouble if we strike too soon.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then I heard the bolt of the door cautiously drawn back. Instantly I put out the light I held, replacing the lamp in the bracket.
“It’s dark—the lamp’s out. Have you a light?” said the other voice—Bersonin’s.
No doubt they had a light, but they should not use it. It was come to the crisis now, and I rushed down the steps and flung myself against the door. Bersonin had unbolted it and it gave way before me. The Belgian stood there sword in hand, and Detchard was sitting on a couch at the side of the room. In astonishment at seeing me, Bersonin recoiled; Detchard jumped to his sword. I rushed madly at the Belgian: he gave way before me, and I drove him up against the wall. He was no swordsman, though he fought bravely, and in a moment he lay on the floor before me. I turned—Detchard was not there. Faithful to his orders, he had not risked a fight with me, but had rushed straight to the door of the King’s room, opened it and slammed it behind him. Even now he was at his work inside.
And surely he would have killed the King, and perhaps me also, had it not been for one devoted man who gave his life for the King. For when I forced the door, the sight I saw was this: the King stood in the corner of the room: broken by his sickness, he could do nothing; his fettered hands moved uselessly up and down, and he was laughing horribly in half-mad delirium. Detchard and the doctor were together in the middle of the room; and the doctor had flung himself on the murderer, pinning his hands to his sides for an instant. Then Detchard wrenched himself free from the feeble grip, and, as I entered, drove his sword through the hapless man. Then he turned on me, crying:
“At last!”
We were sword to sword. By blessed chance, neither he nor Bersonin had been wearing their revolvers. I found them afterwards, ready loaded, on the mantelpiece of the outer room: it was hard by the door, ready to their hands, but my sudden rush in had cut off access to them. Yes, we were man to man: and we began to fight, silently, sternly, and hard. Yet I remember little of it, save that the man was my match with the sword—nay, and more, for he knew more tricks than I; and that he forced me back against the bars that guarded the entrance to “Jacob’s Ladder.” And I saw a smile on his face, and he wounded me in the left arm.
No glory do I take for that contest. I believe that the man would have mastered me and slain me, and then done his butcher’s work, for he was the most skilful swordsman I have ever met; but even as he pressed me hard, the half-mad, wasted, wan creature in the corner leapt high in lunatic mirth, shrieking:
“It’s cousin Rudolf! Cousin Rudolf! I’ll help you, cousin Rudolf!” and catching up a chair in his hands (he could but just lift it from the ground and hold it uselessly before him) he came towards us. Hope came to me. “Come on!” I cried. “Come on! Drive it against his legs.”
Detchard replied with a savage thrust. He all but had me.
“Come on! Come on, man!” I cried. “Come and share the fun!”
And the King laughed gleefully, and came on, pushing his chair before him.
With an oath Detchard skipped back, and, before I knew what he was doing, had turned his sword against the King. He made one fierce cut at the King, and the King, with a piteous cry, dropped where he stood. The stout ruffian turned to face me again. But his own hand had prepared his destruction: for in turning he trod in the pool of blood that flowed from the dead physician. He slipped; he fell. Like a dart I was upon him. I caught him by the throat, and before he could recover himself I drove my point through his neck, and with a stifled curse he fell across the body of his victim.
Was the King dead? It was my first thought. I rushed to where he lay. Ay, it seemed as if he were dead, for he had a great gash across his forehead, and he lay still in a huddled heap on the floor. I dropped on my knees beside him, and leant my ear down to hear if he breathed. But before I could there was a loud rattle from the outside. I knew the sound: the drawbridge was being pushed out. A moment later it rang home against the wall on my side of the moat. I should be caught in a trap and the King with me, if he yet lived. He must take his chance, to live or die. I took my sword, and passed into the outer room. Who were pushing the drawbridge out—my men? If so, all was well. My eye fell on the revolvers, and I seized one; and paused to listen in the doorway of the outer room. To listen, say I? Yes, and to get my breath: and I tore my shirt and twisted a strip of it round my bleeding arm; and stood listening again. I would have given the world to hear Sapt’s voice. For I was faint, spent, and weary. And that wild-cat Rupert Hentzau was yet at large in the Castle. Yet, because I could better defend the narrow door at the top of the stairs than the wider entrance to the room, I dragged myself up the steps, and stood behind it listening.
What was the sound? Again a strange one for the place and time. An easy, scornful, merry laugh—the laugh of young Rupert Hentzau! I could scarcely believe that a sane man would laugh. Yet the laugh told me that my men had not come; for they must have shot Rupert ere now, if they had come. And the clock struck half-past two! My God! The door had not been opened! They had gone to the bank! They had not found me! They had gone by now back to Tarlenheim, with the news of the King’s death—and mine. Well, it would be true before they got there. Was not Rupert laughing in triumph?
For a moment, I sank, unnerved, against the door. Then I started up alert again, for Rupert cried scornfully:
“Well, the bridge is there! Come over it! And in God’s name, let’s see Black Michael. Keep back, you curs! Michael, come and fight for her!”
If it were a three-cornered fight, I might yet bear my part. I turned the key in the door and looked out.
For a moment I could see nothing, for the glare of lanterns and torches caught me full in the eyes from the other side of the bridge. But soon the scene grew clear: and it was a strange scene. The bridge was in its place. At the far end of it stood a group of the duke’s servants; two or three carried the lights which had dazzled me, three or four held pikes in rest. They were huddled together; their weapons were protruded before them; their faces were pale and agitated. To put it plainly, they looked in as arrant a fright as I have seen men look, and they gazed apprehensively at a man who stood in the middle of the bridge, sword in hand.  There he stood, holding the bridge against them, and daring them to come on; or, rather, bidding them send Black Michael to him; and they, having no firearms, cowered before the desperate man and dared not attack him. They whispered to one another; and in the backmost rank, I saw my friend Johann, leaning against the portal of the door and stanching with a handkerchief the blood which flowed from a wound in his cheek.
By marvellous chance, I was master. The cravens would oppose me no more than they dared attack Rupert.  He did not so much as know that I was there. I did nothing—why, I hardly know to this day. I had killed one man stealthily that night, and another by luck rather than skill—perhaps it was that. Again, villain as the man was, I did not relish being one of a crowd against him—perhaps it was that. But stronger than either of these restrained feelings came a curiosity and a fascination which held me spellbound, watching for the outcome of the scene.
“Michael, you dog! Michael! If you can stand, come on!” cried Rupert; and he advanced a step, the group shrinking back a little before him. “Michael, you bastard! Come on!”
The answer to his taunts came in the wild cry of a woman:
“He’s dead! My God, he’s dead!”
“Dead!” shouted Rupert. “I struck better than I knew!” and he laughed triumphantly. Then he went on: “Down with your weapons there!  Down with them, I say!”
I believe they would have obeyed, but as he spoke came new things. First, there arose a distant sound, as of shouts and knockings from the other side of the chateau. My heart leapt. It must be my men, come by a happy disobedience to seek me. The noise continued, but none of the rest seemed to heed it. Their attention was chained by what now happened before their eyes. The group of servants parted and a woman staggered on to the bridge.  In her shaking hand she held a revolver, and, as she tottered forward, she fired it at Rupert Hentzau. The ball missed him, and struck the woodwork over my head.
“Faith, madame,” laughed Rupert, “had your eyes been no more deadly than your shooting, I had not been in this scrape—nor Black Michael in hell—tonight!”
She took no notice of his words. With a wonderful effort, she calmed herself till she stood still and rigid. Then very slowly and deliberately she began to raise her arm again, taking most careful aim.
He would be mad to risk it. He must rush on her, chancing the bullet, or retreat towards me. I covered him with my weapon.
He did neither. Before she had got her aim, he bowed in his most graceful fashion, cried “I can’t kill where I’ve kissed,” and before she or I could stop him, laid his hand on the parapet of the bridge, and lightly leapt into the moat.
At that very moment I heard a rush of feet, and a voice I knew—Sapt’s—cry: “God! it’s the duke—dead!” Then I knew that the King needed me no more, and throwing down my revolver, I sprang out on the bridge. There was a cry of wild wonder, “The King!” and then I, like Rupert of Hentzau, sword in hand, vaulted over the parapet, intent on finishing my quarrel with him where I saw his curly head fifteen yards off in the water of the moat.
He swam swiftly and easily. I was weary and half crippled with my wounded arm. I could not gain on him. For a time I made no sound, but as we rounded the corner of the old keep I cried:
“Stop, Rupert, stop!”
I saw him look over his shoulder, but he swam on. He was under the bank now, searching, as I guessed, for a spot that he could climb. I knew there to be none—but there was my rope, which would still be hanging where I had left it. He would come to where it was before I could. Perhaps he would miss it—perhaps he would find it; and if he drew it up after him, he would get a good start of me. I put forth all my remaining strength and pressed on. At last I began to gain on him; for he, occupied with his search, unconsciously slackened his pace.
Ah, he had found it! A low shout of triumph came from him. He laid hold of it and began to haul himself up. I was near enough to hear him mutter: “How the devil comes this here?” I was at the rope, and he, hanging in mid air, saw me, but I could not reach him.
“Hullo! who’s here?” he cried in startled tones.
For a moment, I believe, he took me for the King—I dare say I was pale enough to lend colour to the thought; but an instant later he cried:
“Why it’s the play-actor! How come you here, man?”
And so saying he gained the bank.
I laid hold of the rope, but I paused. He stood on the bank, sword in hand, and he could cut my head open or spit me through the heart as I came up. I let go the rope.
“Never mind,” said I; “but as I am here, I think I’ll stay.”
He smiled down on me.
“These women are the deuce—” he began; when suddenly the great bell of the Castle started to ring furiously, and a loud shout reached us from the moat.
Rupert smiled again, and waved his hand to me.
“I should like a turn with you, but it’s a little too hot!” said he, and he disappeared from above me.
In an instant, without thinking of danger, I laid my hand to the rope. I was up. I saw him thirty yards off, running like a deer towards the shelter of the forest. For once Rupert Hentzau had chosen discretion for his part. I laid my feet to the ground and rushed after him, calling to him to stand. He would not. Unwounded and vigorous, he gained on me at every step; but, forgetting everything in the world except him and my thirst for his blood, I pressed on, and soon the deep shades of the forest of Zenda engulfed us both, pursued and pursuer.
It was three o’clock now, and day was dawning. I was on a long straight grass avenue, and a hundred yards ahead ran young Rupert, his curls waving in the fresh breeze. I was weary and panting; he looked over his shoulder and waved his hand again to me. He was mocking me, for he saw he had the pace of me. I was forced to pause for breath. A moment later, Rupert turned sharply to the right and was lost from my sight.
I thought all was over, and in deep vexation sank on the ground. But I was up again directly, for a scream rang through the forest—a woman’s scream. Putting forth the last of my strength, I ran on to the place where he had turned out of my sight, and, turning also, I saw him again. But alas! I could not touch him. He was in the act of lifting a girl down from her horse; doubtless it was her scream that I heard. She looked like a small farmer’s or a peasant’s daughter, and she carried a basket on her arm. Probably she was on her way to the early market at Zenda. Her horse was a stout, well shaped animal. Master Rupert lifted her down amid her shrieks—the sight of him frightened her; but he treated her gently, laughed, kissed her, and gave her money. Then he jumped on the horse, sitting sideways like a woman; and then he waited for me. I, on my part, waited for him.
Presently he rode towards me, keeping his distance, however. He lifted up his hand, saying:
“What did you in the Castle?”
“I killed three of your friends,” said I.
“What! You got to the cells?”
“Yes.”
“And the King?”
“He was hurt by Detchard before I killed Detchard, but I pray that he lives.”
“You fool!” said Rupert, pleasantly.
“One thing more I did.”
“And what’s that?”
“I spared your life. I was behind you on the bridge, with a revolver in my hand.”
“No?  “Fie, your Majesty!”
Then in my rage, hardly knowing what I did, I rushed at him. For a moment he seemed to waver. Then he reined his horse in and stood waiting for me. On I went in my folly. I seized the bridle and I struck at him. He parried and thrust at me. I fell back a pace and rushed at him again; and this time I reached his face and laid his cheek open, and darted back almost before he could strike me. He seemed almost dazed at the fierceness of my attack; otherwise I think he must have killed me. I sank on my knee panting, expecting him to ride at me. And so he would have done, and then and there, I doubt not, one or both of us would have died; but at the moment there came a shout from behind us, and, looking round, I saw, just at the turn of the avenue, a man on a horse. He was riding hard, and he carried a revolver in his hand. It was Fritz von Tarlenheim, my faithful friend. Rupert saw him, and knew that the game was up. He checked his rush at me and flung his leg over the saddle, but yet for just a moment he waited. Leaning forward, he tossed his hair off his forehead and smiled, and said: “Au revoir, Rudolf Rassendyll!”
Then, with his cheek streaming blood, but his lips laughing and his body swaying with ease and grace, he bowed to me; and he bowed to the farm-girl, who had drawn near in trembling fascination, and he waved his hand to Fritz, who was just within range and let fly a shot at him. The ball came nigh doing its work, for it struck the sword he held, and he dropped the sword with an oath, wringing his fingers and clapped his heels hard on his horse’s belly, and rode away at a gallop.
And I watched him go down the long avenue, riding as though he rode for his pleasure and singing as he went, for all there was that gash in his cheek.
Once again he turned to wave his hand, and then the gloom of thickets swallowed him and he was lost from our sight. Thus he vanished—reckless and wary, graceful and graceless, handsome, debonair, vile, and unconquered. And I flung my sword passionately on the ground and cried to Fritz to ride after him. But Fritz stopped his horse, and leapt down and ran to me, and knelt, putting his arm about me. And indeed it was time, for the wound that Detchard had given me was broken forth afresh, and my blood was staining the ground.
“Then give me the horse!” I cried, staggering to my feet and throwing his arms off me. And the strength of my rage carried me so far as where the horse stood, and then I fell prone beside it. And Fritz knelt by me again.
“Fritz!” I said.
“Ay, friend—dear friend!” he said, tender as a woman.
“Is the King alive?”
He took his handkerchief and wiped my lips, and bent and kissed me on the forehead.
“Thanks to the most gallant gentleman that lives,” said he softly, “the King is alive!”
The little farm-girl stood by us, weeping for fright and wide-eyed for wonder; for she had seen me at Zenda; and was not I, pallid, dripping, foul, and bloody as I was—yet was not I the King?
And when I heard that the King was alive, I strove to cry “Hurrah!” But I could not speak, and I laid my head back in Fritz’s arms and closed my eyes, and I groaned; and then, lest Fritz should do me wrong in his thoughts, I opened my eyes and tried to say “Hurrah!” again. But I could not. And being very tired, and now very cold, I huddled myself close up to Fritz, to get the warmth of him, and shut my eyes again and went to sleep.
In order to a full understanding of what had occurred in the Castle of Zenda, it is necessary to supplement my account of what I myself saw and did on that night by relating briefly what I afterwards learnt from Fritz and Madame de Mauban. The story told by the latter explained clearly how it happened that the cry which I had arranged as a stratagem and a sham had come, in dreadful reality, before its time, and had thus, as it seemed at the moment, ruined our hopes, while in the end it had favoured them. The unhappy woman, fired, I believe by a genuine attachment to the Duke of Strelsau, no less than by the dazzling prospects which a dominion over him opened before her eyes, had followed him at his request from Paris to Ruritania. He was a man of strong passions, but of stronger will, and his cool head ruled both. He was content to take all and give nothing. When she arrived, she was not long in finding that she had a rival in the Princess Flavia; rendered desperate, she stood at nothing which might give, or keep for her, her power over the duke. As I say, he took and gave not. Simultaneously, Antoinette found herself entangled in his audacious schemes. Unwilling to abandon him, bound to him by the chains of shame and hope, yet she would not be a decoy, nor, at his bidding, lure me to death. Hence the letters of warning she had written. Whether the lines she sent to Flavia were inspired by good or bad feeling, by jealousy or by pity, I do not know; but here also she served us well. When the duke went to Zenda, she accompanied him; and here for the first time she learnt the full measure of his cruelty, and was touched with compassion for the unfortunate King. From this time she was with us; yet, from what she told me, I know that she still (as women will) loved Michael, and trusted to gain his life, if not his pardon, from the King, as the reward for her assistance. His triumph she did not desire, for she loathed his crime, and loathed yet more fiercely what would be the prize of it—his marriage with his cousin, Princess Flavia.
At Zenda new forces came into play—the lust and daring of young Rupert. He was caught by her beauty, perhaps; perhaps it was enough for him that she belonged to another man, and that she hated him. For many days there had been quarrels and ill will between him and the duke, and the scene which I had witnessed in the duke’s room was but one of many. Rupert’s proposals to me, of which she had, of course, been ignorant, in no way surprised her when I related them; she had herself warned Michael against Rupert, even when she was calling on me to deliver her from both of them. On this night, then, Rupert had determined to have his will. When she had gone to her room, he, having furnished himself with a key to it, had made his entrance. Her cries had brought the duke, and there in the dark room, while she screamed, the men had fought; and Rupert, having wounded his master with a mortal blow, had, on the servants rushing in, escaped through the window as I have described. The duke’s blood, spurting out, had stained his opponent’s shirt; but Rupert, not knowing that he had dealt Michael his death, was eager to finish the encounter. How he meant to deal with the other three of the band, I know not. I dare say he did not think, for the killing of Michael was not premeditated. Antoinette, left alone with the duke, had tried to stanch his wound, and thus was she busied till he died; and then, hearing Rupert’s taunts, she had come forth to avenge him. Me she had not seen, nor did she till I darted out of my ambush, and leapt after Rupert into the moat.
The same moment found my friends on the scene. They had reached the chateau in due time, and waited ready by the door. But Johann, swept with the rest to the rescue of the duke, did not open it; nay, he took a part against Rupert, putting himself forward more bravely than any in his anxiety to avert suspicion; and he had received a wound, in the embrasure of the window. Till nearly half-past two Sapt waited; then, following my orders, he had sent Fritz to search the banks of the moat. I was not there. Hastening back, Fritz told Sapt; and Sapt was for following orders still, and riding at full speed back to Tarlenheim; while Fritz would not hear of abandoning me, let me have ordered what I would. On this they disputed some few minutes; then Sapt, persuaded by Fritz, detached a party under Bernenstein to gallop back to Tarlenheim and bring up the marshal, while the rest fell to on the great door of the chateau. For several minutes it resisted them; then, just as Antoinette de Mauban fired at Rupert of Hentzau on the bridge, they broke in, eight of them in all: and the first door they came to was the door of Michael’s room; and Michael lay dead across the threshold, with a sword-thrust through his breast. Sapt cried out at his death, as I had heard, and they rushed on the servants; but these, in fear, dropped their weapons, and Antoinette flung herself weeping at Sapt’s feet. And all she cried was that I had been at the end of the bridge and leapt off. “What of the prisoner?” asked Sapt; but she shook her head. Then Sapt and Fritz, with the gentlemen behind them, crossed the bridge, slowly, warily, and without noise; and Fritz stumbled over the body of De Gautet in the way of the door. They felt him and found him dead.
Then they consulted, listening eagerly for any sound from the cells below; but there came none, and they were greatly afraid that the King’s guards had killed him, and having pushed his body through the great pipe, had escaped the same way themselves. Yet, because I had been seen here, they had still some hope (thus indeed Fritz, in his friendship, told me); and going back to Michael’s body, pushing aside Antoinette, who prayed by it, they found a key to the door which I had locked, and opened the door. The staircase was dark, and they would not use a torch at first, lest they should be more exposed to fire. But soon Fritz cried: “The door down there is open! See, there is light!” So they went on boldly, and found none to oppose them. And when they came to the outer room and saw the Belgian, Bersonin, lying dead, they thanked God, Sapt saying: “Ay, he has been here.” Then rushing into the King’s cell, they found Detchard lying dead across the dead physician, and the King on his back with his chair by him. And Fritz cried: “He’s dead!” and Sapt drove all out of the room except Fritz, and knelt down by the King; and, having learnt more of wounds and the sign of death than I, he soon knew that the King was not dead, nor, if properly attended, would die. And they covered his face and carried him to Duke Michael’s room, and laid him there; and Antoinette rose from praying by the body of the duke and went to bathe the King’s head and dress his wounds, till a doctor came. And Sapt, seeing I had been there, and having heard Antoinette’s story, sent Fritz to search the moat and then the forest. He dared send no one else. And Fritz found my horse, and feared the worst. Then, as I have told, he found me, guided by the shout with which I had called on Rupert to stop and face me. And I think a man has never been more glad to find his own brother alive than was Fritz to come on me; so that, in love and anxiety for me, he thought nothing of a thing so great as would have been the death of Rupert Hentzau. Yet, had Fritz killed him, I should have grudged it.
The enterprise of the King’s rescue being thus prosperously concluded, it lay on Colonel Sapt to secure secrecy as to the King ever having been in need of rescue. Antoinette de Mauban and Johann the keeper (who, indeed, was too much hurt to be wagging his tongue just now) were sworn to reveal nothing; and Fritz went forth to find—not the King, but the unnamed friend of the King, who had lain in Zenda and flashed for a moment before the dazed eyes of Duke Michael’s servants on the drawbridge. The metamorphosis had happened; and the King, wounded almost to death by the attacks of the gaolers who guarded his friend, had at last overcome them, and rested now, wounded but alive, in Black Michael’s own room in the Castle. There he had been carried, his face covered with a cloak, from the cell; and thence orders issued, that if his friend were found, he should be brought directly and privately to the King, and that meanwhile messengers should ride at full speed to Tarlenheim, to tell Marshall Strakencz to assure the princess of the King’s safety and to come himself with all speed to greet the King. The princess was enjoined to remain at Tarlenheim, and there await her cousin’s coming or his further injunctions. Thus the King would come to his own again, having wrought brave deeds, and escaped, almost by a miracle, the treacherous assault of his unnatural brother.
This ingenious arrangement of my long-headed old friend prospered in every way, save where it encountered a force that often defeats the most cunning schemes. I mean nothing else than the pleasure of a woman. For, let her cousin and sovereign send what command he chose (or Colonel Sapt chose for him), and let Marshal Strakencz insist as he would, the Princess Flavia was in no way minded to rest at Tarlenheim while her lover lay wounded at Zenda; and when the Marshal, with a small suite, rode forth from Tarlenheim on the way to Zenda, the princess’s carriage followed immediately behind, and in this order they passed through the town, where the report was already rife that the King, going the night before to remonstrate with his brother, in all friendliness, for that he held one of the King’s friends in confinement in the Castle, had been most traitorously set upon; that there had been a desperate conflict; that the duke was slain with several of his gentlemen; and that the King, wounded as he was, had seized and held the Castle of Zenda. All of which talk made, as may be supposed, a mighty excitement: and the wires were set in motion, and the tidings came to Strelsau only just after orders had been sent thither to parade the troops and overawe the dissatisfied quarters of the town with a display of force.
Thus the Princess Flavia came to Zenda. And as she drove up the hill, with the Marshal riding by the wheel and still imploring her to return in obedience to the King’s orders, Fritz von Tarlenheim, with the prisoner of Zenda, came to the edge of the forest. I had revived from my swoon, and walked, resting on Fritz’s arm; and looking out from the cover of the trees, I saw the princess. Suddenly understanding from a glance at my companion’s face that we must not meet her, I sank on my knees behind a clump of bushes. But there was one whom we had forgotten, but who followed us, and was not disposed to let slip the chance of earning a smile and maybe a crown or two; and, while we lay hidden, the little farm-girl came by us and ran to the princess, curtseying and crying:
“Madame, the King is here—in the bushes! May I guide you to him, madame?”
“Nonsense, child!” said old Strakencz; “the King lies wounded in the Castle.”
“Yes, sir, he’s wounded, I know; but he’s there—with Count Fritz—and not at the Castle,” she persisted.
“Is he in two places, or are there two Kings?” asked Flavia, bewildered. “And how should he be there?”
“He pursued a gentleman, madame, and they fought till Count Fritz came; and the other gentleman took my father’s horse from me and rode away; but the King is here with Count Fritz. Why, madame, is there another man in Ruritania like the King?”
“No, my child,” said Flavia softly (I was told it afterwards), and she smiled and gave the girl money. “I will go and see this gentleman,” and she rose to alight from the carriage.
But at this moment Sapt came riding from the Castle, and, seeing the princess, made the best of a bad job, and cried to her that the King was well tended and in no danger.
“In the Castle?” she asked.
“Where else, madame?” said he, bowing.
“But this girl says he is yonder—with Count Fritz.”

“Every fine gentleman is a King to such,” said he.
“Why, he’s as like the King as one pea to another, madame!” cried the girl, a little shaken but still obstinate.
Sapt started round. The old Marshal’s face asked unspoken questions. Flavia’s glance was no less eloquent. Suspicion spread quick.
“I’ll ride myself and see this man,” said Sapt hastily.
“Nay, I’ll come myself,” said the princess.
“Then come alone,” he whispered.
And she, obedient to the strange hinting in his face, prayed the Marshal and the rest to wait; and she and Sapt came on foot towards where we lay, Sapt waving to the farm-girl to keep at a distance. And when I saw them coming, I sat in a sad heap on the ground, and buried my face in my hands. I could not look at her. Fritz knelt by me, laying his hand on my shoulder.
“Speak low, whatever you say,” I heard Sapt whisper as they came up; and the next thing I heard was a low cry—half of joy, half of fear—from the princess:
“It is he! Are you hurt?”
And she fell on the ground by me, and gently pulled my hands away; but I kept my eyes to the ground.
“It is the King!” she said. “Pray, Colonel Sapt, tell me where lay the wit of the joke you played on me?”
We answered none of us; we three were silent before her. Regardless of them, she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me. Then Sapt spoke in a low hoarse whisper:
“It is not the King. Don’t kiss him; he’s not the King.”
She drew back for a moment; then, with an arm still round my neck, she asked, in superb indignation:
“Do I not know my love? Rudolf my love!”
“It is not the King,” said old Sapt again; and a sudden sob broke from tender-hearted Fritz.
It was the sob that told her no comedy was afoot.
“He is the King!” she cried. “It is the King’s face—the King’s ring—my ring! It is my love!”
“Your love, madame,” said old Sapt, “but not the King. The King is there in the Castle. This gentleman—”
“Look at me, Rudolf! look at me!” she cried, taking my face between her hands. “Why do you let them torment me? Tell me what it means!”
Then I spoke, gazing into her eyes.
“God forgive me, madame!” I said. “I am not the King!”
I felt her hands clutch my cheeks. She gazed at me as never man’s face was scanned yet. And I, silent again, saw wonder born, and doubt grow, and terror spring to life as she looked. And very gradually the grasp of her hands slackened; she turned to Sapt, to Fritz, and back to me: then suddenly she reeled forward and fell in my arms; and with a great cry of pain I gathered her to me and kissed her lips. Sapt laid his hand on my arm. I looked up in his face. And I laid her softly on the ground, and stood up, looking on her, cursing heaven that young Rupert’s sword had spared me for this sharper pang.
It was night, and I was in the cell wherein the King had lain in the Castle of Zenda. The great pipe that Rupert of Hentzau had nicknamed “Jacob’s Ladder” was gone, and the lights in the room across the moat twinkled in the darkness. All was still; the din and clash of strife were gone. I had spent the day hidden in the forest, from the time when Fritz had led me off, leaving Sapt with the princess. Under cover of dusk, muffled up, I had been brought to the Castle and lodged where I now lay. Though three men had died there—two of them by my hand—I was not troubled by ghosts. I had thrown myself on a pallet by the window, and was looking out on the black water; Johann, the keeper, still pale from his wound, but not much hurt besides, had brought me supper. He told me that the King was doing well, that he had seen the princess; that she and he, Sapt and Fritz, had been long together. Marshal Strakencz was gone to Strelsau; Black Michael lay in his coffin, and Antoinette de Mauban watched by him; had I not heard, from the chapel, priests singing mass for him?
Outside there were strange rumours afloat. Some said that the prisoner of Zenda was dead; some, that he had vanished yet alive; some, that he was a friend who had served the King well in some adventure in England; others, that he had discovered the Duke’s plots, and had therefore been kidnapped by him. One or two shrewd fellows shook their heads and said only that they would say nothing, but they had suspicions that more was to be known than was known, if Colonel Sapt would tell all he knew.
Thus Johann chattered till I sent him away and lay there alone, thinking, not of the future, but—as a man is wont to do when stirring things have happened to him—rehearsing the events of the past weeks, and wondering how strangely they had fallen out. And above me, in the stillness of the night, I heard the standards flapping against their poles, for Black Michael’s banner hung there half-mast high, and above it the royal flag of Ruritania, floating for one night more over my head. Habit grows so quick, that only by an effort did I recollect that it floated no longer for me.