CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIGURE IN THE VALLEY
“OH, I am so sorry! What fools we have been!” Philippa cried, as she half carried Royda to a settee and tried to staunch the wound.
Royda said nothing, either through faintness or because she seemed overwhelmed with mortification and disappointment. She turned her face away and remained passive, as though utterly beaten and discomfited, with teeth set hard and the hand of the unwounded arm clenched.
“What madness it has been,” Philippa continued, not heeding her adversary’s sullen attitude. “Why would you not listen to my explanation? We are utterly ruined now.”
“You are hurt too?” the wounded girl asked, in a tone more of satisfaction than concern.
“It is not much,” Philippa answered, with a glance at the blood on her arms and breast. “But you, Fräulein, must have a doctor. What shall I do? How can we explain this?”
“I shall be all right,” replied Royda, raising herself with an effort and making a gesture of pushing Philippa from her. “For Heaven’s sake, get away from this and leave me. Fate is on your side; I cannot fight against it, and the sooner I am dead the better.”
“Fräulein d’Ivady, if you knew——” Philippa began in her distress.
“I know enough, too much, of you, Philippa Harlberg. You bring me evil. I never knew what failure was till you crossed my path. Go, in Heaven’s name; I cannot bear the sight of you. There is a door behind that trophy. It leads to a passage through the rock and so out upon the side of the valley.”
“I cannot go and leave you like this,” Philippa protested. “Hateful as I may be to you, I shall not desert you now.”
“Then I must go,” Royda said, rising by sheer power of will. “You stay at your own peril. I have shown you the way of escape, if that is what you seek. At least you shall not see Aubray Zarka.”
“It is the last thing I wish,” Philippa returned.
“Then go. If you try to follow me you will regret it.”
Seeing her determination Philippa took up the articles of attire she had laid aside, and proceeded not without pain, to put them on. She offered to assist Royda with her garments, but was coldly repulsed.
“You are wise to go,” Royda said significantly, as she pressed a handkerchief to her wounded arm. “There is the door. You cannot miss the way, and the outer door at the end of the passage opens by pulling the handle. The secret lock is from the outside. Now turn that knob; I cannot.”
Philippa did as directed, and the heavy door with its trophy of arms swung slowly open. She lingered. “Fräulein,” she said earnestly, as she pointed to the other’s wound, “that is the only harm I have ever knowingly done you. Will you not forgive me?”
Her tone was so gentle, so pleading, that Royda looked at her sharply and as though suspicious of hypocrisy. “Forgive you!” site repeated bitterly, drearily. “How can you ask me that? No,” she went on, with a swift change of tone as her resentment welled up again: “I cannot forgive you; no, never! You have ruined my life; innocently or not is nothing to me. But you shall not suffer for this night’s work if I can help it. Now, go!”
A peremptory gesture cut short Philippa’s hesitation. She took up a candle by Royda’s direction, and without another word went out through the doorway which was then closed upon her. For a moment a horrible fear of a trap came upon her. What if she were buried alive in the depth of the rock? But she took courage, as by the light she made out the passage stretching before her, and she began to make her way along it as fast as she could, always descending, sometimes by a gentle slope sometimes by a few shallow steps. Expecting every moment to arrive at the outlet, the passage began to seem interminable; but at last she reached the end and the small iron-clamped door. In a moment she had unlatched it and passed through. She found herself in a shrubbery, so thick as to be almost impassable, but by dint of feeling her way she pushed along a concealed path which gradually grew less dense, and after a while led her into comparatively open woodland.
The storm had passed away, the stars were shining between the masses of light drifting cloud, and the air had never seemed to Philippa so fresh as now after the tension of the scene in the great rock-chamber, and the close atmosphere of the long passage. Making her way down the side of the valley she soon reached the path running along it, which would lead her home.
In that night of adventure Von Tressen little dream how near he and Philippa were to one another. The Lieutenant and Galabin had resolved to pay Rozsnyo another visit and, if they should find it possible, make a bolder attempt to solve the mystery of the masked prisoner. When they arrived outside the walk they saw that the window was closed and hidden. Passing on, they reached their climbing place and were quickly on the roof. As they cautiously went forward they were somewhat exercised to notice that the ascending stream of light was not to be seen, and on coming to the barred skylight they found that the room below was in darkness. This in a moment frustrated their plans, for obviously it would be unsafe, if not absolutely useless, to try to attract the prisoner’s attention when they could not see him or know whether he was alone. So after waiting some time in the hope that a light might appear, they were reluctantly forced to the conclusion that there was nothing for it but to abandon the attempt for that night. They were accordingly making their way back when an unexpected thing happened. As Von Tressen quietly slid down the wall he suddenly found himself in contact with a moving body, and next instant was seized by the throat. A desperate struggle thereupon ensued between him and his unknown assailant; it was pitch dark, and the Lieutenant could make out nothing of the man’s face; all he knew was that he must put forth all his strength to hold his own. In the struggle they worked their way to the edge of the slope and then went crashing down together. By this time Galabin had descended, and, taking in the situation, rushed to his friend’s assistance. Between them they quickly overpowered the unknown assailant, who continued to struggle desperately, and were able to hold him down.
“Keep a look-out for another attack,” Von Tressen said to Galabin.
“Lieutenant Von Tressen?” gasped the man they were holding down.
“Herr D’Alquen?” they both cried in surprise.
It was none other than their mysterious acquaintance. For some seconds he lay back panting, then he said:
“May one ask what you two were doing on that wall?”
“You may guess?” Galabin answered. “I fancy we have as much right here as you.”
Their prisoner laughed. “That can hardly be settled without explanation. At least you may tell me one thing. Are you here as friends of Count Zarka?”
“Hardly, perhaps,” Galabin replied.
“Nor I,” D’Alquen said. “It is singular that we should be both here like thieves from a different motive.”
An idea had occurred to Galabin, a probable explanation of D’Alquen’s movements. “Perhaps our motives may not have been so different,” he said.
“I cannot talk on my back with two men throttling me,” D’Alquen growled. “Let me sit up, will you?”
A little suspiciously they relaxed their hold so that he could assume a more comfortable posture for conversation.
“Has your business,” he asked, in his characteristically fierce, eager manner, “anything to do with a mysterious window in the wall yonder?”
Galabin reflected a moment and then answered; “Yes; it has.”
D’Alquen’s eyes seemed to glitter through the darkness. “Ah!” he cried eagerly. “You know, then? There is——” He stopped abruptly. “But you are friends of the Count?” he said distrustfully.
“No, we are not,” Galabin replied. “You can speak quite freely to us.”
For a few moments there was silence as the two waited for D’Alquen to continue. At last he said: “You have heard, of course, of Prince Roel’s death?”
“Of his disappearance, certainly, and his rumoured death.”
“Yes, yes! You believe it?”
“That the Prince is dead? Hardly.”
“Why not?” D’Alquen demanded quickly.
“Ah! Reasons, yes; to think that he is here—here?”
“He may be here—or anywhere else,” Galabin replied guardedly. “If he is not dead——”
“Ah!” D’Alquen seemed to read the other’s thoughts although he could not see his face. “You know more than you will tell. I have suspected it, but it seemed impossible for two sportsmen——. Now you may tell me what you know. I am Prince Roel’s cousin, and have sworn to clear up the mystery of his disappearance, and if necessary to avenge him. I regret that I was compelled to take the Herr Lieutenant by the throat; I mistook him for a spy of that fellow Zarka’s.”
“And we were inclined to set you down as the same,” Von Tressen laughed.
“Do not let us stay here talking,” Galabin suggested. “We may be overheard, with unpleasant results. We had better be moving back towards our tent, unless you have a plan to carry through to-night.”
“At least let us first compare notes,” D’Alquen replied. “If we act together the solution of the terrible mystery may be easy.”
Rising from the ground, the three men stole across to the wood, whence they shaped their course to the valley.
“My idea is,” D’Alquen said presently, “that this fellow Zarka is responsible for my kinsman’s disappearance, for it is suspected at home that he is in league with the Russians. Whether poor Roel is alive or dead by now I cannot tell; if alive, it is because that villain dare not kill him, at least till he has made sure of the consequences.”
They told him of the masked man. He stopped and flung up his arms excitedly. “Roel! Roel!” he cried. “Thank Heaven, at last I can make an effort for your liberty, or at least give my life for it.”
“Is there any necessity for that?” Von Tressen observed. “If we are sure the Prince is there a prisoner, why not inform the Chancellor and let the authorities proceed against Zarka?”
“No, no; it would be too late,” D’Alquen exclaimed.
“Yes; our friend is right,” Galabin said. “We should run the risk of defeating our own ends. For before the Government could come to the rescue, the Prince would be dead and buried a hundred feet down in the rock. No; we must not force Zarka’s hand, especially as he has his friends over the mountains to look to. And, after all, we have no certain proof as yet that the man in the mask is Prince Roel.”
“No; no proof,” D’Alquen said feverishly; “yet we may be certain of it. All the actors in the wretched affair are here in the forest: Count Zarka, the gaoler and prospective assassin, my kinsman, the poor victim, and the lady of the farm, the decoy.”
Galabin glanced anxiously at Von Tressen, who started as though he had been struck.
“Decoy?” he demanded hoarsely. “What do you mean?”
D’Alquen turned to him with a fierce excited vent of repressed knowledge.
“I mean nothing less than I say. This woman—lady, if you will—who is staying so unaccountably, so mysteriously at the old farm, is nothing less, or nothing more, than a creature of Zarka’s, whom he has employed to delude my poor cousin and betray him to his death.”
“It is impossible; it is a lie!” the Lieutenant cried hotly.
Galabin made a restraining gesture. “Let us hear what proof Herr D’Alquen has of his assertion,” he said quietly.
“Proof!” D’Alquen returned. “Is any proof necessary to one who is not blind? Why are these people living at the farm? Why is Zarka there so constantly and on such a confidential footing, if there is no understanding between them? Is it not known that a woman was the instrument of Roel’s spiriting away? She has disappeared too, for a good reason, and I say she is here.”
He spoke in a tone of fierce conviction, and Von Tressen, surprised and recalling the scene he had witnessed that morning, for the moment could not reply. Galabin spoke.
“We are hardly in a position to disprove or even contradict what you assert——”
“But I do,” Von Tressen broke in warmly. “You have no proof, mein Herr, only surmise and suspicion. It is unchivalrous, unmanly, to take away a lady’s reputation on such grounds.”
“You are a fine champion, mein Lieutenant,” D’Alquen returned with a sneer. “But I maintain that to any one not blinded by partiality the evidence I have is conclusive. Let me—ah! Look,” he cried suddenly breaking off and pointing excitedly towards the valley which lay before them. “Yonder!—yonder! Who is that?”
The other two looked eagerly towards the spot he indicated. For a few seconds the drifting clouds let a stream of moonlight fall aslant the valley. And across this band of light a figure was moving quickly—a woman. Then a thick bank of cloud swept over the moon and all was darkness, as Von Tressen sprang forward with a cry almost of despair. D’Alquen laughed.