Count Zarka: A Romance by Sir William Magnay - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXIX
 ZARKA’S PRAYER AND ITS ANSWER

TO return to the chapel. When Zarka went down from Prince Roel’s blow the way of escape seemed cleared, but no time was to be lost. Leaving the Count to recover as best he might under the care of his servant, the party, keeping together for safety, made their way along a passage which they judged would lead them in the direction of the prison-room, where D’Alquen had been left. But to find this proved no easy business, and as it turned out, they might have sought the room for hours without finding it, had not a lucky circumstance shown it to them.

Galabin had, as well as he was able from the information he possessed, made a plan of the bearings of the room in relation to its position from the vestibule which led to the chapel and, on the other side, to the principal entrance of the castle. He had carefully calculated the distance as well as the direction, and although in that intricately constructed building it was far from easy to make practical use of the plan, he judged after they had gone a considerable distance, and had found themselves in a dark stone corridor, that they were not very far from the room they sought. Galabin, anticipating its need, had provided himself with a small lantern, and by the light of this they searched for the prison chamber. There were three doors on the left-hand side of the passage; all of these were unfastened, and each led into an empty room. On the right-hand side there were no doors, the stone wall was unbroken. At the end was a small door admitting to a winding stairway, evidently leading up into the tower. Prince Roel seemed to recognize the neighbourhood of his prison, but his ideas on the subject were vague, and he was quite unable to point out where the entrance could be found. His escape from the room had been made in such excitement that he had noted nothing except the passage that lay in front of him.

Every moment, they felt, was precious, as the delay would give Zarka’s people time to gather and attack them, which certainly, but for their chief’s state of collapse, would have happened before this. In their extremity Galabin ventured to call, “D’Alquen! D’Alquen!” To their great relief there was an answering cry, coming as it seemed from the thickness of the wall, and next moment the apparently solid stonework moved outwards, and a door, the grooves of which were secured from observation by depressed lines in the masonry, opened, and D’Alquen backed out, revolver in hand.

“Now, let us get out of this as quickly as we can,” Galabin exclaimed.

But how? A hurried consultation was held, and a plan of escape which seemed to offer least risk was quickly decided upon. They all passed into the room, shutting and locking the door behind them. The gaoler, again held up under the influence of D’Alquen’s pistol, was then compelled at the muzzle of the same weapon to work back the iron shutter which concealed the window. This done, he was pinioned and left securely helpless. Then by the aid of the long strap which had proved so useful, all the five let themselves down, one by one, from the window. There was no sound or sign of a pursuing party as they crossed the moat to the wood beyond, down to the valley, and so along its path towards Gorla’s Farm. It was imperative that they should push on to the town which lay a few miles beyond, in order to insure Prince Roel’s safety, and send word to Gersdorff. Von Tressen took Philippa by the arm and helped her along the rough ground. For a while the excitement and reaction were too great to allow her to speak, although there was in her heart an unspeakable joy at the lifting of the shadow of death which had lain across it. At length she said in a low voice:

“You understand, now?”

“Hardly,” Von Tressen answered. “But at least this, that I have been led into a hideous mistake in the suspicions which have been forced upon me.”

“It was my fault,” Philippa replied, “in not daring to explain. Low as my opinion was of Count Zarka, I never suspected him of such a monstrous thing as this, that all this time he was keeping prisoner the man whose death he persisted at laying at my door.”

“And the duel? That was one of his lies?”

“No,” she answered quietly. “It was the truth.”

He looked at her in blank astonishment.

“The truth? But how——?” He stopped, as unable to see the light of a happy explanation.

“It is quite true,” she continued, “that Fräulein d’Ivady and I fought—she for the Count—I for my liberty. It was forced upon me.”

“But how came you there, Philippa?” he asked, hating himself for the question, yet forced to put it.

“I lost my way in the forest,” she explained. “I was coming to warn you against the Count, who had let fall evil threats against you, and I was frightened by Herr D’Alquen and driven by his presence and the storm under the walls of Rozsnyo.” Then in a few words she related the story of her encounter with Royda d’Ivady. “I had a terrible dread of being caught there by the Count,” she concluded, “and preferred to fight that almost mad girl for a chance of escape. Ah, Osbert, if you had only known the strange fear with which the Count inspired me you would see how I must have hated him to have had the courage to refuse to be his wife.”

“That is all over now,” he said caressingly.

She gave a little shudder.

“If I could think so. But I fear.”

“You need not fear now, dearest,” he said reassuringly.

“It is not for myself, but for you,” she returned. “Zarka is vindictive and cruel; he will never rest till he has revenged himself for his defeat to-night.”

“He is utterly discredited now,” Von Tressen urged. “When this is known he will be a criminal and a fugitive.”

“But a desperate one.”

“Perhaps. But you will not make me afraid of him.”

They had now reached the farm, and giving the astonished Harlberg in a few words an account of what happened at Rozsnyo, the four men made for the encampment, harnessed the horse, and pushed forward to the town. Having seen Prince Roel safely to the principal inn of the place, and leaving Galabin and D’Alquen with him, Von Tressen drove back to Gorla’s Farm.

All was quiet; there seemed to have been no further attempt on Zarka’s part, although, in his present desperate position, this had been far from unlikely. Securing his horse by the gate, Von Tressen kept watch over the place until well into the morning, when the inmates of the house were astir. Then he went in to talk over with Harlberg and Philippa the arrangements for their immediate departure from the forest. The General was in good spirits, rejoicing in his freedom to resume his real name and at the prospect of release from his exile, and quite content to accept the engagement between Von Tressen and Philippa, since the Count was now an impossibility.

After breakfast Von Tressen drove off to the encampment in order to have their things packed, as he intended to make the journey with Harlberg and Philippa. He had arranged to meet Galabin there, and as he drove up found his friend awaiting him.

The preparations for their departure were set about quickly. The servant, Bela, was busy filling a basket with cooking utensils while Von Tressen and Galabin were packing their valises inside the tent. Suddenly the light was intercepted. Both men turned quickly, to see standing in the entrance the figure of Count Zarka. His lowering face was hideously disfigured by a great dark swelling across the cheek and forehead; his eyes, notwithstanding that one was half closed, seemed to sparkle with hate, and the teeth were displayed in a set grin. Neglecting all his customary parade of salutation he stood there quite still, moving nothing but his lip as he said:

“Good-morning, gentleman. I have come to settle an account with you. Before we proceed further will you have the goodness to send your man away?”

For a moment neither replied. Then Galabin said: “We can have nothing more to do with you, Count, and as our servant is busy we cannot interrupt his work.”

Zarka gave a shrug and came two steps into the tent. “As you will. It makes little difference. Last night, Lieutenant Von Tressen,” he continued, keeping back as he spoke the corners of his mouth so that the rows of white teeth seemed to snap out the words as though a wolf had found speech, “you refused to fight me. You will not refuse again.”

The last words were not a question, but the expression of a purpose.

The Lieutenant faced him sternly.

“Indeed I shall,” he retorted. “I have too great a respect for my honour and that of my uniform to meet the man you have shown yourself to be.”

“So!” Zarka snarled. “You refuse finally?”

“Finally.”

“Then I tell you you are a coward!” Von Tressen laughed. “That I will proclaim you a coward all over Europe!” Zarka proceeded, his voice rising with each sentence. “That I will flog you in public whenever I shall meet you. That is nothing to you, my swaggerer, eh?”

“Nothing,” Von Tressen answered quietly, “from the man in Russia’s pay who kidnapped Prince Roel and planned a dastardly outrage on a defenceless lady.”

Zarka gave no sign that the words stung him. In a tone as quiet as Von Tressen’s he continued: “No; that is nothing to you, my brave fellow. But when I tell you,” and here his voice sank to a hissing whisper, “that unless you consent to face my pistol now, I will kill you, yes, kill you as assuredly as there is a sun in the sky, kill you within a month, you will perhaps, knowing something of my character and that there is nothing on earth I dare not do, when once I am resolved, I say perhaps you will see the desirability of meeting me in fair fight without further delay.”

Von Tressen laughed scornfully. “Not even on the flattering grounds that I am afraid of you,” he replied. “And I must ask you, Count, to leave the tent, as we are busy.”

For an instant Zarka’s eyes blazed. Galabin watching keenly, saw the evil light and drew a step nearer. But the murderous impulse, for such it surely must have been, was stifled for the moment, and the Count stood silent as meditating his parting words. However, Galabin spoke first.

“I fancy, Count, instead of threatening honourable men you will have enough to do to look after your own safety. If you do not immediately quit this tent we shall consider it our duty to arrest you, in anticipation of those whom the law will have put upon your track in a few hours’ time.”

Zarka, who had not appeared to notice him before, now turned his savage glance from the Lieutenant. “You too, Herr Galabin,” he said with the same ugly grin. “You must pardon me if I seemed to ignore you. When I have settled accounts with your friend I shall have an opportunity of meting out to you the reward of—a spy. I will not detain you, gentlemen. The short time before you should be yours. The future and a certain lady are for me. Au revoir, gentlemen.” He turned abruptly, and next moment was gone.

Galabin laughed, though not very confidently. “The sooner we are out of this forest, and the Herr Graf is in the safe keeping of the law, the better for us all, my friend. Bela,” he called, “which way did the Count go?”

“Towards Rozsnyo, mein Herr.”

“Then let us lose no time in making for Gorla’s and so for civilization,” Galabin observed to Von Tressen. “The man is desperate, and the symptoms are none the less dangerous for being suppressed.”

Meanwhile Count Zarka had mounted and ridden back to Rozsnyo. He knew that, for a time at any rate, the dangerous game he had been playing was up; his only chance now was to put the mountains and the frontier between himself and Gersdorff’s long arm. The mere failure of the political side of the business would have troubled him but little; he was a gambler who knew how to lose as well as win, and at most this discomfiture would mean but a year or two’s exile till the affair was forgotten, or crowded out of attention by more engrossing international movements. What made him clench his wolfish teeth, scowl as he rode along, and startle the forest denizens by loud ejaculations of rage, was the maddening thought of failure nearer to his heart, that he had been worsted in the fight for Philippa Carlstein. It was that which made him vow and curse, and dig his heels savagely into the roan’s flanks.

On reaching Rozsnyo he went in by his private door, and for an hour was busy making secret preparations for his flight. Having put things in order and destroyed certain papers, he took a gun and went out. As he crossed the bridge he could see that he was being watched from a window; he waved his hand carelessly to Royda, cursing her in his heart all the while as the indirect cause of his discomfiture. The action, almost brutal in its perfunctoriness, nevertheless brought a flush to the pale face, which watched him till the wood hid him from sight. For she knew nothing of the last night’s fierce doings, and if she had known she might have welcomed the crisis as putting her rival out of reach.

Zarka’s way was one he had often traversed, that leading to the pass over the mountains. The afternoon was still brilliant as he reached the snow line, and turned to take breath after his rapid climb. For he had set forth in a state of vicious excitement for which action and waste of energy were the only safety-valves. Even when he had halted on the lower plateau he could not keep still, but restlessly paced to and fro in irregular strides, now stopping, now starting forward again as his thoughts seemed to whip him into action.

The disfigurement of his face showed plainer now; the swelling and discoloration adding ugliness of feature to that of temper which blazed malignantly from his eyes.

He lighted a cigar and walked on scowling; his progress was slower now, for the track was rough and tortuous.

Suddenly in his walk he stopped, and flung out his arms with a cry of “Hail!” The giant shadow of the mountain had appeared with startling abruptness, and now towered with weird vastness above him, seeming to rise from the chasm below. The suddenness of the apparition seemed for a moment to have shaken his nerves, but it was merely a flash of fear.

“An omen!” he cried. “Ah, my good genius, have you come again to give me courage? Zarka of the cloud and storm, help this fettered, passion-tossed Zarka of blood and clay. Give me my heart’s desire, or at least a sign that I shall gain it. God or demon, do with me what thou wilt so thou grant me this. Zarka of the mist and mountain, give me my prayer. I have never known defeat, my guardian genius, let me never know it!”

Up from the profundity of the yawning abyss before him came a great suppressed sighing as the wind swept through the fissured depths. A big bird of the vulture family flew suddenly down to the mouth of the chasm, circled about, and sighting the man there, wheeled off with a cry of angry surprise. The spectre of the mountain slowly faded as the sun dipped behind the topmost peak; the mist began to rise and roll, and the cloud to assert its sway.

Zarka, who had stood since his apostrophe in lowering meditation, started forward as though with a suddenly formed determination. His disfigured face lighted up with diabolical triumph, and he laughed aloud as he hastened back along the path. Such a laugh! The laugh of a gambler who throws his last coin on the green table, a laugh that flings defiance at God and man, and utters the old invocation, “Evil be thou my Good!” A laugh that was echoed back from across the abyss, and reverberated on and on through the rocky walls and chasms of the mountain, on and on, after the human voice that had uttered it was silent for ever. For the laugh had been crushed out of those lying lips into a scream by the rush of a sudden “lavine,” or avalanche, which swept with terrific swiftness down the sloping wall of rock, bounded on to the ledge which just perceptibly checked its sheer descent, then, crashing over the precipice, flung itself into the abyss with a thunder which the echoes prolonged and redoubled till it seemed as though the very mountain would be rent.

And the path was empty. Count Zarka was never more to know failure as he lay a thousand feet below, swept out of the world by a force that would have annihilated a regiment. And as the echoes of the fall died away they were followed by that of a scream, the cry of the vulture, swooping back and hovering in baffled voracity over the grave of his human brother.

END