THAT afternoon, Abele D’Alquen, prowling about the forest in his fiercely watchful mood, was startled and brought up suddenly by the report of a gun close behind him, and the sharp whizz of a bullet so near as to touch his sleeve. He turned with a loud exclamation of rage, and levelled his gun at the direction whence the shot must have come. His cry was returned by another of “Hold! Do not shoot!” then there was a rustling in the undergrowth, and next moment a man appeared, no less a person than Count Zarka. Count Zarka, with hand extended warningly, eyebrows elevated, and a grin of concern and apology.
“A million pardons, mein Herr!” he cried, coming eagerly forward. “I am too stupid. Heaven be thanked that I missed you. I deserve for my carelessness never to touch a gun again. But I have been watching for a boar that has its lair hereabouts, and I had no idea that any human being but myself was within a league of the place.”
D’Alquen stood eyeing him, as he made these effusive protests, with fierce incredulity. “It is a strange idea of sport,” he said with manifest restraint, “to fire at game before one sees it.”
The Count gave a shrug, and, with a sweep of the arm, indicated the thick underwood around them. “It is not easy to see here,” he returned, with a deprecating grimace. “I took a chance shot at what I thought was the animal before he should come to close quarters. It was appallingly foolish of me, I admit, and I am terribly distressed at having brought you into such jeopardy.”
Now it was perfectly obvious that no sane man would have dreamt of shooting through brushwood without a sight of the object fired at; more than that, it would certainly be patent to a less suspicious person than D’Alquen that the shot had been fired not at a boar, but at himself, and with the intention of getting rid of a dangerous presence. For a moment he looked as though he were meditating a return shot which would have rid the world of one of its most singular devotees, but the impulse was checked, and D’Alquen merely observed, keeping alertly on the defensive, “One carries one’s life in one’s hand here in the forest. It is as well not to forget it. I shall profit by your wanting, mein Herr: I might not escape a second time.”
There was a significance enough, in all conscience, in his words, but the Count found it convenient to ignore it.
“I can only repeat,” he protested, “my most heartfelt apologies already offered to you, mein Herr. But for this truly unhappy occurrence, it would have given me the greatest pleasure to have asked you to join me in a day’s sport, and to have made you free of my own preserved ground in the forest. I am Count Zarka of Rozsnyo, and have the honour to be always most humbly at your service.”
Although perfectly aware that the other knew well who he was, no one would have guessed as much from his bland manner.
“As it is,” he proceeded, with a concern so well simulated as nearly to hide the wolfishness beneath it, “I am almost afraid to offer my hospitality after my terrible carelessness. But if you will shoot with me it will at least prove that my assurances are accepted, and that I have your pardon.”
It is hardly likely that D’Alquen was deceived by this elaborate piece of dissimulation; all the same, however, he, perhaps a good deal to Zarka’s surprise, accepted the invitation, although not by any means so cordially as to cover the fierce distrust in his eyes. But then he was neither so complete a man of the world nor so good an actor as the Count, nor again had he such constant practice in giving expression to sentiments which were the very opposite of his real feelings.
Zarka seemed, and probably was, immensely relieved, as D’Alquen fell in with his proposal. “Good!” he exclaimed, with an excess of almost boisterous satisfaction. “You are truly kind and forgiving, mein Herr. Now I shall hope to make some slight atonement for my blunder by showing you good sport.”
Without any corresponding cordiality in his face, D’Alquen, with a sharp glance of suspicion, bowed, shouldered his gun, and they set off together. Zarka, chatting volubly, suggested that they should make for the high ground and try for ibex, as affording more interesting sport, and afterwards that his companion should dine at Rozsnyo. So they strode on shoulder to shoulder towards the mountains.
“You come from far?” Zarka asked presently.
“From Sorusk, in the Province of Rapsburg.”
The Count’s eyebrows went up in expressive surprise. “Sorusk! that is indeed far. Ah, you have lost your Prince. It is sad. What may be the opinion in the province as to his disappearance? That he is dead, poor fellow, eh?”
“That may be the idea in the province,” D’Alquen resumed, “but it is not mine.”
“Ah!” Zarka was all polite curiosity. “You think he is alive? How, then, do you account for his disappearance?”
Although the piercing eyes were on him the question was asked in a tone and with an expression of the blandest interest. For all sign of guilty knowledge on his face Zarka might have had no greater concern in the affair than the most casual lounger on the Königstrasse.
“I account for it,” D’Alquen answered in his abrupt fashion, “by an obvious move in the political game played yonder.” He nodded towards the mountains.
Zarka smiled incredulously. “A vague motive, surely,” he objected. “I fancy that society in town could furnish one far more probable.”
D’Alquen turned to him sharply. “And that is——?”
Zarka gave a shrug and smiled meaningly. “A very common and obvious cause for a man’s eccentricity. A lady. It is well known that Prince Roel was smitten by one who, incomprehensibly perhaps, did not return his admiration.”
“You know the lady’s name?” The question was flashed out quickly, fiercely, only to be blunted against the shield of Zarka’s inscrutable smile.
“Not with any degree of certainty that would justify my mentioning it,” was the guarded answer.
For a few steps they went on in silence. Then D’Alquen resumed.
“I am aware there was a lady in the case. But that does not disprove a political influence behind the lady.”
Zarka deemed it enough to give a deprecating shrug.
“I mean,” the other went on, as though irritated by his companion’s non-committal manner, “she may have been used as a decoy.”
“I am not,” Zarka said coolly, “in a position to contradict you, beyond saying that your theory seems to me in the highest degree improbable. After all,” here the teeth showed in an ugly grin of deprecation, “after all we can but theorize, and theorizing is unprofitable unless we have a practical object in view.”
“I quite agree with you there, Count,” D’Alquen returned, with a touch of curt significance.
As he spoke—something—a slight action of Zarka’s—made him suddenly halt and look round quickly. As he did so the Count altered the position of his gun, but not before D’Alquen had seen that the muzzle had been held a few inches from his head. After that significant discovery D’Alquen never let his eyes wander from his companion, although he betrayed, and probably felt, no sign of fear. Whether Zarka noticed the sharp observation under which he was kept it was impossible to tell from his manner, but he was assuredly too acute and watchful to be unaware of it.
Presently their ascending course brought them to a wild and rocky opening in the forest. Zarka, pointing in front of them, directed his companion’s attention to a magnificent view of the glittering, undulating range of the mountain’s tops. But D’Alquen was too wary to be caught by what, to his suspicious mood, seemed a trick. Before looking in the indicated direction he stepped back, thus bringing Zarka in front of him, and still under his eye. “Yes,” he agreed with a grim laugh, hardly called up by the scenery; “it is magnificent.”
He held his gun ready for bringing up on the slightest provocative sign, and seemed rather to enjoy the game of checkmating the Count’s amiable moves. The ascending path now became too narrow to allow of their walking abreast. Zarka stopped and motioned his companion to precede him.
“No, Count,” D’Alquen said; “I follow you.”
His tone was so decisive that Zarka evidently saw the uselessness of pressing the matter. “I shall have the honour of showing you the way,” he said, covering his discomfiture with the politest of grins.
So they wound their way up till the open mountain plateaus were reached. Zarka now halted and turned with an affectation of breathlessness.
“We should soon get a sight of some game here,” he observed. “We can now go forward together, at least as far as the rocks yonder.”
He pointed, as he spoke, to the base of some high peaks which shut in the plateau.
“I have had fine sport here with ibex and chamois,” he remarked, as they walked on side by side, D’Alquen ever on the alert, and amusingly distrustful of his urbane and voluble companion. “Two guns should, however, have a better chance than one, since between us, up yonder, we can cut off the animals’ escape. It has been usually my lot to hunt here alone, and many a good stag have I lost through not having a comrade to get a second shot on the retreat.”
The situation was certainly growing in grim interest; either D’Alquen’s nerves were abnormally strong, or he held the lord of Rozsnyo cheaper than that potentate was wont to value himself. What would the next move be? For certainly the stranger had been brought up there for a purpose not altogether connected with the slaying of ibex. Very soon the manœuvring for the plan, whatever it might be, began. They had warily crossed the plateau and readied another narrow path running round the base of the rocky peaks. There was no hesitation now about precedence. “May I show you? Yes?” Zarka grinned and sprang up the path. D’Alquen kept his gun handy and followed. There was an equally curious, though less sinister, smile on his face.
The Count led the way through a narrow passage formed by a cleft in the rocks. The path was rough and steep, but both men made light of its difficulties. Suddenly they passed out on to the side of a broad mountain gorge, high up on which the path still ran, having on the one hand a wall of rock, on the other sheer precipice. A gleam of grim intelligence sprang into D’Alquen’s eyes as he took in the situation. When they had gone on perhaps a hundred paces, Zarka held up his hand, halted and turned. D’Alquen had stopped too, evidently ready for eventualities. But the Count’s intentions seemed all for sport.
“Round the next shoulder,” he said in a low voice, as he pointed forwards, “we shall probably come upon ibex. I propose that one of us should go forward while the other stays here, for the first shot will probably send the rest of them back along the opposite side, yonder, of the chasm. So there will be a chance of two fine running shots. Now, will you go forward, or shall I?”
As he had doubtless anticipated, D’Alquen answered shortly—
“As you please,” Zarka returned with an acquiescent bow. “After you hear my first shot, it will pay to keep a sharp eye on the rocks over there.”
With that he went off along the path, to all appearances absorbed in the sport. D’Alquen stood with the sharp eye Zarka had advised fixed steadily on the retreating figure and his gun ever ready. “If he turns,” he muttered, “I shall shoot, and then—Heaven help the better man.”
But the wily Count did not turn or halt in his stealthy pace along the rocky path. Perhaps he had a shrewd idea that such a notion might be attended with a certain risk. So he continued to steal on, in true stalker’s fashion, till a curve hid him from sight.
Then D’Alquen was at liberty to turn and survey his situation. It was simple enough. On each side of him was the narrow path, in front the precipice, and behind him a wall or rock some thirty feet high. Now what was Zarka’s game? Not ibex; D’Alquen laughed aloud at the idea. What should he himself do? Clearly not stay there, since that was what the Count expected. He must either retreat by the way they had come or go forwards. He certainly would not turn back; the game was interesting enough to provoke him to follow his worthy guide, so, after, another good look round, he went slowly on.
He came to the bend, round which Zarka had disappeared, without seeing anything to quicken his alertness into action. As he rounded the turn, however, his vigilance increased, and every step was taken with caution.
No sign of Zarka was to be seen, although the path was visible for a considerable distance ahead, and this was the more remarkable as away on the right the forms of several ibex were to be observed. Was Zarka stalking them in hiding? That was scarcely possible, since the course he must have taken afforded no chance of concealment. On D’Alquen crept, his gun almost at his shoulder, and his fierce restless eyes taking in everything round and above him. Suddenly he stopped with a subdued exclamation. The mystery was solved.
He had arrived at a point where a deep fissure in the rocky wall opened upon the path at such a sharp angle as to be invisible from the side of his approach till he was fairly opposite to it. Through this cleft a sort of rugged path ran back, as it seemed, behind the rock, the face of which he had just skirted. Doubtless Zarka had doubled back by this means. D’Alquen hesitated a moment. The narrow way might be a complete death-trap set by the cunning man, who had calculated that his intended victim would follow him. D’Alquen gave another look round, and then seemed resolved to risk it. With his gun ready to fire he sprang up the path and made his way quickly along it. The few seconds it took him to reach the other end of the defile were calculated to make his blood tingle, since he would have been practically at the mercy of a raking shot from above. However he emerged upon the open without this experience, and in another instant his quick eye had detected what it sought, the form of Count Zarka creeping stealthily along the top of the rocks. Keeping well down, and so out of sight, D’Alquen immediately began to follow. When he had gone, as he judged, far enough, he turned and began to crawl upwards, stalking the Count with more than a sportsman’s wariness and zest. Zarka was evidently so intent upon his design that he never glanced behind, at any rate while D’Alquen was in sight. The way he was taking would bring him to the edge of the rocks above the spot where he supposed the other to be waiting, and as his intended victim realized the treacherous scheme a light gleamed in his eyes that boded mischief for the Count. So he followed him, keeping as much as possible under cover of the rocks, stooping as he ran, sometimes crawling, from one shelter to another; ever, when he was exposed, keeping his enemy covered by his gun.
But now Zarka had reached the edge of the rocky wall and stepped cautiously to the very brink with his gun ready to fire down upon the path below. D’Alquen, watching him from behind a jutting rock, laughed, and, walking quietly into the open ground, made quickly towards him. The Count looked up and down the path below; the other thought he heard an exclamation of annoyance from him as he found himself baulked in his benevolent design. Zarka peered over; the temptation to put a bullet through him must have been almost irresistible, but D’Alquen did not pull the trigger of his covering gun. There was now a look of grim amusement in his eyes; having the game in hand, he was evidently loath to spoil it. Zarka drew back, then lay face downwards looking over the rocky wall. D’Alquen gave a little run and came within half a dozen paces of him. With another utterance of disgust Zarka rose to his feet, and, naturally, turned, to find himself covered by D’Alquen’s rifle.
Before he could get up his own weapon the other cried: “Drop it! Throw your gun over, or I fire. Over with it, I say, or you are a dead man!”
Zarka’s face had gone grey, his eyes blazed with impotent hate. By a great effort he assumed a look of surprised protest, but his ever-ready smile was hardly a success, if, that is, it was meant for anything more than a diabolical grin.
“Herr D’Alquen!” he cried. “What do you mean, my good friend? Are you mad?”
But his good friend showed no sign of relaxing his attitude. “Drop your gun over, or I swear I’ll shoot,” he insisted.
The Count hesitated, and for a moment looked as though he were calculating his chances in an impromptu duel. But D’Alquen’s rifle covered him pitilessly; he could see that the aim was straight on his heart. Probably his wonder was that his intended victim had not fired without parley. After all, his opportunity was lost, and to lose his gun was to gain time. So with a protesting shrug he turned and threw the weapon ringing down the rocks below.
“Are you satisfied, mein Herr?” he demanded, with almost insolent blandness.
“Hardly, Herr Graf,” D’Alquen returned. “But that is something. It was lucky I did not wait for the stags, or my patience would have been exhausted. You did not mention that another matter claimed your attention first.”
The man’s mocking tone was not pleasant to the lord of Rozsnyo, possibly because it was precisely what he would himself have been pleased to indulge in had the tables been turned. However, he was forced to content himself with a remark, rather weak, considering the intensity of the situation.
“I was not aware that I had come out for sport with a madman.”
“As I was that my companion was an assassin,” D’Alquen retorted. “Now, Herr Graf, shall I send you after your gun?”
As he spoke he levelled his rifle again full at Zarka. The Count was not lacking in courage, or at least in a gambler’s recklessness, nevertheless a look of something very like the terror of death spread over his grey face. He threw out his arms.
“Shoot me if you will, madman,” he cried. “I am unarmed and at your mercy.”
The words may have been spoken almost at random, or he may have shrewdly felt that his adversary was a man of honour, of instincts very different from his own. Anyhow he could scarcely have hit upon a speech more to the point. D’Alquen did not fire.
“I should be sorry to cut short an interesting career,” he said with almost savage mockery, “or to anticipate its more formal and judicial ending. You undertook to show me some sport, Herr Graf, and I cannot deny that you have fulfilled your promise. You were right; it is much more interesting with two guns than one, and I am sorry that in your ardour for sport you have lost yours. But we must accept the fortune of the chase, and when we hunt big game we cannot have it all our own way. Now, as I have far to go, I must do myself the honour of bidding you good-day, with thanks for an entertaining afternoon. I fear I cannot trespass upon your hospitality at Rozsnyo, having already experienced my full share of it here. I should be afraid of putting your good nature and patience to too severe a test. Count, I have the honour.”
He touched his hat and, with a mocking bow, turned and strode off down the rocks, leaving Zarka standing there the picture of baffled malignity and speechless rage.