CHAPTER IX.
FROM BAD TO WORSE.
The crushing disappointment and the anxiety it caused, following on the fatigue of the long ride, aggravated the injury to my head so that I could scarcely keep in the saddle. I had to cling to the pommel to prevent myself from falling.
Mademoiselle was quick to see my condition.
“Let us rest, Burgwan,” she said.
“No, we must push on. They may get ahead of us. I shall be better again directly.”
“I am too tired,” she answered; and without waiting to hear my protest, she slipped from her horse.
“You must not do that,” I exclaimed, irritably.
“Karasch’s arm is bad too,” she replied. “Isn’t it, Karasch?”
“Yes, it is paining me, Burgwan,” he declared then. “I cannot go any further;” and he dismounted and came to help me.
“Then I’ll ride on and find the road and return,” I said.
“No,” exclaimed Karasch, as he seized my horse’s bridle.
“Stand away, Karasch,” I cried, angrily. I was more like a fractious, obstinate child just then than a reasoning man. I felt I was too weak to go on and was angry with them both because I could not hide it.
“You must get off, Burgwan,” he returned, firmly.
“I’ll break your other arm if you don’t loose my bridle, Karasch.”
“Then I’ll hold it. You won’t break mine, Burgwan,” said Mademoiselle, taking it quickly. “Hold my horse, Karasch. I am faint for want of food and rest, Burgwan. Won’t you help me?”
“You are only doing this because you think I’m such a weak fool as not to be able to keep going,” I declared, angrily. “Please to loose that bridle, Mademoiselle.”
“Not until you break my arm, Burgwan.”
I sat still looking with a child’s sullen anger into her clear, calm, resolute eyes.
“If you were a man....” I began and then laughed. “I’m a fool and that’s all there is to it. I’ll get off—but I won’t forgive you. This is mutiny.” I rolled from the saddle and was glad of the help of Karasch’s sturdy arm. “You don’t seem very weak, you coward,” I said, half in earnest, half in jest.
“That’s not the broken arm, Burgwan,” he replied, as he helped me with the gentleness of a girl.
“I’m all right and could ride fifty miles,” I protested angrily as I sat down; and then in proof of it, I fell back and fainted from sheer weakness.
When I came to myself Mademoiselle was bathing my face and head, deep pity and care in her eyes.
“I’m horribly ashamed of myself,” I murmured.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t break my arm, Burgwan, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
“I was angry. I wanted to go on. I’m sorry.”
“It was mutiny, you know. You feel better now?”
“Oh, yes. I can sit up. Was I long?”
“Only a few minutes. Karasch has tethered the horses and is getting us something to eat. Do you know, I was never so hungry in my life before?” and she laughed brightly.
“We’re in a desperate mess,” said I, gloomily.
“We should have been in a worse if we had gone on.”
“Rub it in. You got your own way, you know.”
“I meant to have it; and I’m not going to put my foot in the stirrup again until you have had something to eat and have slept for at least two or three hours.”
“You have a very masterful way of your own.”
She nodded and smiled to me. “But the point is whether you are going to obey without more—mutiny.”
“You seem to take this for a kind of picnic.”
“Here’s breakfast at any rate,” she cried, as Karasch came up.
“Put it down here, Karasch, and get one of the saddles to prop Burgwan up.”
“I can sit up without anything, I assure you.”
“Who did you say was masterful?”
I gave in with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders and let them arrange the saddle, and found it very comfortable.
It was poor fare. Some hard biscuits, a tin of preserved meat, and some water from the river; but it could not have been enjoyed with more relish if it had been the best breakfast that the Waldorf-Astoria chef could have sent up.
Mademoiselle’s cheerfulness in the strange and depressing circumstances was positively dauntless. She would see nothing but the brightest side of things. We were lost on the hills; but then it would be so much the more difficult for anyone to find us. The food was rough, but we had plenty to last us for all that day and part of the next. The loss of time might be dangerous, but we all needed rest and could take it without risk where we were. We did not know where to look for the road to Samac, but we should be sure to find a way somewhere. And meanwhile we were getting stronger and so better able to face the trouble.
Even Karasch’s stern face relaxed under her influence. And as for me—well, I rolled over on the soft grass when she told me, and having put old Chris on the watch, went off to sleep as contentedly as though her view of the position and not mine were the true one.
I slept for some hours. I woke once and looked round to find Karasch lying on his back at some distance, snoring in a deep stertorous diapason; and Mademoiselle curled up fast asleep peacefully with Chris lying at her feet. The hot sun was pouring down on the hills and crags around us; and I stretched myself lazily and was soon off again in deep refreshing slumber.
When I awoke again I was alone to my great surprise. The horses were grazing near me tethered; but even Chris was away somewhere; and I sat up wondering in some confusion what it meant.
A glance at my watch showed it was two hours and more past noon and that I must have slept for six or seven hours. I felt immensely refreshed. The pain in my head was so slight as to be inconsiderable, and although my leg was stiff, I could move about freely.
Feeling in my pockets I found a couple of cigars in my case, and lighted one to think over things. I was smoking it with a rare relish when I saw Mademoiselle coming from the direction of the river with Chris in close attendance. How the old rascal had taken to her! I went to meet them; and as I approached, the dog came running to fawn upon me and then rushed back to fawn upon her; and looked from one to the other of us as though our comradeship, as she had termed it, was just the loveliest thing in the world to him.
“Chris seems to approve our comradeship, Mademoiselle,” I said, marvelling how on earth she managed to look so fresh and sweet after her rough-and-tumble experiences during the last forty hours. Her soft, glossy hair was as neatly arranged as though she had just come from her room, her dress was in such order that so far as I could see not a thing was out of place.
“He has been with me to the river on guard. I had no idea it was so difficult to wash in a river, and to do one’s hair out of doors and without a glass.”
“You have been very successful. You put me to shame sadly,” and I glanced down in dismay at myself. “And you are so bright and sunny.”
“There is good news. Our luck has turned. Karasch found a peasant who was crossing the hills and is learning from him our route. They are on the hill yonder.”
“Thank God for that,” I said, fervently.
“Yes, I suppose it is good news,” she replied in a tone which made me glance quickly at her. Then she added, after a pause: “You look much better for your rest, Burgwan.”
“I feel a different man.”
“Kindly disposed toward masterful rebels?”
“Yes; and very grateful to one of them.”
“I thought you were actually going to strike Karasch when he held your bridle rein this morning.”
“I felt like it, too.”
“I think he is afraid of you, Burgwan. It was you who broke his arm, wasn’t it?”
“He broke it in a fall.” She paused and glanced at me.
“He told me all about that fall, and what he meant to do, if you hadn’t beaten him. It was for me you risked your life in that fight.”
“Karasch ought to hold his tongue.”
We reached the spot where we had rested, and sat down to wait for Karasch.
“I have been thinking this morning,” she said, slowly.
“We all have some thinking to do before we are out of our plight.”
“You call this a plight,” and she smiled. “Why, see what a lovely wild country it is. I could live in these hills—live, I mean, in the sense of keen, rare enjoyment. Look.” She pointed from one hill to another with kindling eye. “The freedom of it. The very air is different from all other.”
“I should like some clean clothes,” I put in, flippantly.
“Don’t.” And she gestured and frowned. “I want you to feel what it must be to me, and then to think, as I was thinking a while since, what would have been my fate—if it had not been for you. And you call this a plight! It is like Heaven in comparison!”
“I don’t want you to exaggerate what I did.”
“I am not exaggerating it,” she replied deliberately. “I don’t. I could not. You risked your life for me and saved me. Not only when you rescued me from the two men, but afterwards with Karasch; and yet again afterwards when you were hurt. Could I exaggerate that, Burgwan? Can I ever repay it?”
She was so earnest in the desire to make me feel her gratitude and looked at me with such sweet graciousness, that I came within an ace of telling her how she could repay me. The very words rushed to my lips only to be stayed by an effort as I dropped my eyes before her. I could not speak of this while she was still dependent upon my help.
“What a long time Karasch is,” I said clumsily after a long pause, not knowing indeed what else to say.
I felt her eyes still upon me. She made a slight gesture of dissatisfaction and her voice had an accent of resentment.
“You are anxious to get to your clean clothes and all that they stand for—in exchange for this.”
“You are not content with this?”
“I could be,” she murmured, with a sigh.
“I don’t understand you.”
“No. I suppose not. You haven’t the key.”
“You can have no reason to be afraid to go back to Belgrade. I know that, because at the camp you were so anxious to start. Your sighs then were of discontent because you couldn’t start at once.”
“You remember?” She smiled slowly, and then grew serious. “No, it is not exactly fear, and yet—I suppose in a way it is fear. It is certainly reluctance. Oh, I see what you mean.” She broke off, smiling very brightly this time. “That there may be some reason connected with the cause of my capture which threatens me: that I have committed some offence or——”
“No, no, I don’t think anything of the sort,” I interposed.
“No, I’m not a criminal, not even a political criminal, Burgwan—and not even a witch.” The smile became a free and joyous laugh, and I joined in and laughed also.
“I’m not so sure about the witchcraft, Mademoiselle.”
“If I were a witch I should know all about you and I—yes, I should like to, and yet I would rather not. We can be so frank while you are just Burgwan. It is all so strange, this comradeship of ours. I shall never forget it. Shall you—even when you get to those clean clothes that are so much in your thoughts?”
“I’m not likely to change my thoughts even when I change my clothes.”
“What a time Karasch is,” she laughed, throwing back my own words at me. “Keeping you from the tailor and the barber in this way!”
“He is keeping you from Belgrade—a much more serious matter.”
“I don’t mind that—and yet I suppose I ought to. But this is so delightful,” she cried, joyously.
“This?”
“This delicious freedom. This utter irresponsibility. This Burgwan and Mademoiselle comradeship. This being able to laugh at conventions and snap one’s fingers in the face of restrictions—the thousand petty ‘don’ts’ and ‘mustn’ts’ that edge one in so, till one’s very breath has to be drawn with restraint and every look and gesture fitted to some occasion and empty etiquette. How I wish I was just no more than a peasant girl! Oh, it is life.”
“There are plenty of them who would be glad to change places with you.”
“Yes, I know I am talking nonsense, and I daresay I should grow tired of it all in a week or a month, and sicken for the flummery and mummery again. Besides, there might be no Burgwan like you and no Chris in the picture, to feel safe with and trust. I couldn’t do with only Karasch’s, could I?”
“He is a very good fellow, and might make a very good husband.”
“Oh, don’t, please. Now you’ve shattered the dream, and made me wish for Belgrade and my friends.”
Did she mean all I was ready to read into that sentence? Was it intended as a warning lest another than Karasch should presume? I was glad I had held my tongue just before. When I did not reply, she stooped and patted the dog and then laughed.
“I wish you were my dog, Chris,” she said. “I shall get one just like him and call him Chris.”
“Would you like to change masters, Chris?” He drew himself lazily across the grass at my words and thrust his nose into my hand almost as if understanding my question and answering it. “I will give him to you if you like, Mademoiselle.”
But she shook her head. “No. No, no, no,” she cried.
“Why not?”
She called him back to her side and caressed him before she answered, and then spoke very slowly.
“I don’t think I know why. I would rather have him than anything in the world, but I couldn’t take him. I—I couldn’t bear to have him, I think.”
“You may change your mind when you see him next time.” She bent over him again and patted him and let him lick her hand.
“I am afraid I know what you mean, Burgwan—that you think of coming some day to Belgrade. I hope you never will.”
“Why?”
“It would not do. Oh, no, no, a thousand times no. It is so difficult to explain. Here we are Burgwan and Mademoiselle; and there—well, for one thing, you would have your clean clothes,” and she broke off with a smile partly quizzical and partly of dismay; and then added: “You would look for Mademoiselle and would only find....” she finished with a shake of the head and a sigh.
“You think I should be disappointed?”
“You must not come, Burgwan. There would be no Mademoiselle in Belgrade.”
“Chris may wish to see his successor. He is a masterful dog, you know,” I said with a smile.
“This is no jest, Burgwan. I wish you would promise me not to come there. Ah, here comes Karasch. Promise me, Burgwan;” and in her eagerness she leant across and laid a hand on my arm, the earnestness of her manner showing in her eyes.
“I cannot promise,” I answered.
She drew her hand away with a gesture of impatience and said, as she rose: “That is not like Burgwan. The very mention of Belgrade has changed you.”
“Not changed me. I have always meant to go,” I replied. As I got up Karasch reached us, and there was no chance to say more.
He explained that the peasant had been pointing out the way to him and was willing to lead us to the proper road.
The horses were saddled at once and when they were ready, I went to Mademoiselle, who had been standing apart gazing at the rugged scenery with intense enjoyment.
“Are we ready, Burgwan?”
“I am almost sorry, I think,” she said, looking about her wistfully. “But it’s all over.”
“Except the comradeship.”
“No, not even excepting that. You will get your clean clothes and I all the conventions once more and—all that they mean. I am ready;” and she sighed.
I helped her into the saddle.
“And it was only yesterday I would not let you help me to mount. It seems a year ago,” she said. “You gave me that lesson in will power; but I beat you this morning, Burgwan, and had my revenge.”
“Do you mean about my going to Belgrade?” I challenged.
“Ah, you will promise me then?”
“If I promised I should only break my word.”
“Promise, and I will trust you—for the sake of the comradeship.”
“Then I will not promise.”
“You will force me to tell you things that will compel you to promise. And it will be kinder not to force me. Oh, so much kinder.”
“You puzzle me.”
“Will you promise? Burgwan?” she urged, pleadingly.
“I cannot.”
“Oh, that hard will of yours!” and wheeling her horse round she rode off after Karasch and the guide, leaving me to follow.
What did she mean? What could she tell that would convince me a future meeting must be avoided? What reason could there be on her side? What could she think there might be on mine? These and a hundred questions arising out of them plagued me during the ride; and none of the answers that suggested themselves could satisfy me.
But I was soon to have other matters for thought. The guide put us in the right road for Samac, which he told us was about fifteen miles distant through a place called Poabja; and as soon as he had left us we rattled over the ground at a sharp canter.
For one thing, I was very uneasy about the Austrian officer whom we had treated so drastically on the previous night. If he was found and liberated, and raised a hue and cry after us there would probably be some very awkward consequences; while if he was not liberated soon, his very life might be jeopardised. My intention was to send a search party after him as soon as we reached a place where that could be done without risk to ourselves; and I was confident that my influence in Vienna was amply sufficient to cause my explanation of the whole affair to be accepted. But I could and would do nothing until I was certain of Mademoiselle’s safety.
My anxiety increased when we reached the outside of Poabja; and I kept a vigilant lookout for any signs that the news of our arrival could have preceded us. This was possible, of course. We had strayed so far from the proper road and had stayed so long in the hills that if Petrov and the rest from the camp had followed us to where we had encountered the Austrian, and had continued on the road to Samac, they would pass through Poabja and we might easily run up against some trouble, even without the complication arising out of the official’s rough handling by us.
I soon noticed signs which I did not like. We began to meet peasants and others on the road; and I observed that while some of them did no more than stare at us with close scrutiny, others started away and turned their backs and made the sign of the cross as we passed.
Karasch noticed this also; and when we met a couple of men who behaved in this eccentric fashion, he glanced from the men to Mademoiselle and from her to me.
“Ill news has got ahead of us, Burgwan,” he said to me in an undertone. “We had better avoid the town. You saw that sign of the cross!”
“Go back and question the men.”
“Why do we halt?” asked Mademoiselle, as Karasch rode back.
“We must make certain of the right road,” I answered.
“But is not this Poabja?”
“Yes.”
“Then we know we are right. Samac is not half a dozen miles beyond.”
Karasch came back wearing an anxious look.
“To avoid the town will cost a couple of leagues. But I think we should take that route,” he said.
“Why avoid it? We have lost our way once,” said Mademoiselle.
“We fear trouble. News of our coming is known,” I explained.
“Do you mean about the officer who tried to stop us last night?”
“No—that you are suspected of witchcraft.”
She laughed. “I have nothing to fear in Poabja. I will find means to charm their anger into friendship;” and she settled the question of route by shaking her reins and cantering off toward the straggling little place.
The approach lay up a long, winding hill, steep in places, and as we rode up it the people came out from the houses to gaze at us. Languid curiosity gave way to close interest, and this in turn quickened into some excitement. Men and women walked up the hill abreast of us and some few ran on ahead.
Near the top of the hill stood an inn outside which some half dozen saddle horses were hitched; and when the riders came hurrying out I was scarcely surprised to see Petrov among them talking and gesticulating freely to his companions.
Men began to call then one to the other; the calls were caught up on many sides, at first intermittently but swelling gradually, as the crowd increased, into a coherent cry which I recognised with deep misgivings.
“The Witch! The Witch! The Witch!”
I regretted that we had taken the risk; but Mademoiselle only smiled even when the cries grew louder and more angry and threatening, and hands were raised in imprecations and revilings.
“Forward,” I cried. “We must get through them.” But to my dismay Mademoiselle hesitated.
Then Petrov and a man with him ran and placed themselves in front of her and made a snatch at her bridle rein. Karasch and I pushed forward.
“That she devil can’t pass, Burgwan,” answered Petrov.
I stretched forward and tore his grip from the rein and flung him reeling back into the crowd.
A score of hands were raised in menace and the cries of “The Witch! Death for the Witch!” went up all around us; while the circle closed in ominously. A stone was hurled and narrowly missed me and then some dirt was thrown at Mademoiselle.
That was more than I was taking. If we were to get through it would have to be by force. So I drew my revolver and called to Karasch to do the same.
“I’ll shoot the first man who stops me,” I shouted, and for a moment the men fell back before the weapons. “Now is our chance. Gallop for all we’re worth and we shall get through.”
But the luck was against us. A stone struck Mademoiselle’s horse and he reared and plunged and then fell. In a second she was in the grip of half a dozen men and before Karasch and I could dismount and get to her assistance we were separated from her by the crowd and seized in our turn, the weapons were struck from our hands and we were overpowered.
I was carried into a house close to the inn, my hands and legs were bound and I was thrust into a room and left to curse my folly for having ventured into the place, to brood over the dangers to Mademoiselle, and to breathe impotent vows of vengeance against Petrov and everyone concerned in our capture.