CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND
Looking back now, in the light of the information I have
gathered, I am able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by
hour, the events of this day, and to understand how chance,
laying hold of our cunning plan and mocking our wiliness, twisted
and turned our device to a predetermined but undreamt-of issue,
of which we were most guiltless in thought or intent. Had the
king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would have found
the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in
warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were.
Fate or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary,
went to the lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin.
It was a narrow failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in
the house in the Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and
Rischenheim arrived there at half past four. He had taken the
train at a roadside station, and thus easily outstripped Mr.
Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his face, was forced to ride
all the way and enter the city under cover of night. But
Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew that we
were in possession of the address and did not know what steps we
might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged
to carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed
Rupert must have left the house almost immediately after I was
safe away from the city. He was determined to be in good time for
his appointment; his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was
no warrant on which he could be apprehended; and, although his
connection with Black Michael was a matter of popular gossip, he
felt himself safe from arrest by virtue of the secret that
protected him. Accordingly he walked out of the house, went to
the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and, traveling by the
four o'clock train, reached his destination about half-past five.
He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim traveled; the
first news the latter had of his departure was from a porter at
the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau,
ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin's return.
Rischenheim made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the
house in the Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed
the tidings. Then he passed through a period of great
irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged that he should follow him
and share the perils into which his cousin was hastening. But
caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed, that
nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert's schemes, and that
we who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his
silence as to the trick we had played by granting him immunity.
His fears won the day, and, like the irresolute man he was, he
determined to wait in Strelsau till he heard the issue of the
meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were disposed of there, he had
something to offer us in return for peace; if his cousin escaped,
he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second the further
plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was
safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him;
for excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and
which rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then,
he would have been a most inefficient ally.
Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We
might guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge
stopped with Rischenheim's start for the capital and Rupert's
presence there at three o'clock. The pair might have met or might
have missed. We had to act as though they had missed and Rupert
were gone to meet the king. But we were late. The consciousness
of that pressed upon us, although we evaded further mention of
it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly, ay, and a
little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James's horse
stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once
a low bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or
stunned, from my seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or
threatened mishaps. He had taken the lead, and, sitting well down
in his saddle, rode ahead, turning neither to right nor left,
never slackening his pace, sparing neither himself nor his beast.
James and I were side by side behind him. We rode in silence,
finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was full of a
picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to
the king the queen's letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was
past. If that image had been translated into reality, what must
we do? To kill Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other
avail would it be when the king had read the letter? I am ashamed
to say that I found myself girding at Mr. Rassendyll for
happening on a plan which the course of events had turned into a
trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of Hentzau.
Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in
front of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a
quarter of a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed
his example. All dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went
forward at a quick, silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should
enter on pretext of having been sent by the queen to attend to
her husband's comfort and arrange for his return without further
fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and gone, the king's
demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not yet come,
I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There was
a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our
course in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any
plan, it was to kill Rupert and to convince the king that the
letter was a forgery--a desperate hope, so desperate that we
turned our eyes away from the possibility which would make it our
only resource.
We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards
from the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his
stomach on the ground.
"Give me a match," he whispered.
James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt
brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse's hoof, apparently
quite fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went
on, following the tracks by the aid of more matches till we
reached a tree twenty yards from the door. Here the hoof marks
ceased; but beyond there was a double track of human feet in the
soft black earth; a man had gone thence to the house and returned
from the house thither. On the right of the tree were more
hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man had ridden
up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house,
returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track
by which we had approached.
"It may be somebody else," said I; but I do not think that we any
of us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the
coming of Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was
done. We were too late.
Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be
faced. Mr. Rassendyll's servant and I followed the constable of
Zenda up to the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who
was in uniform, loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I
looked to our revolvers. There were no lights visible in the
lodge; the door was shut; everything was still. Sapt knocked
softly with his knuckles, but there was no answer from within. He
laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door opened, and the
passage lay dark and apparently empty before us.
"You stay here, as we arranged," whispered the colonel. "Give me
the matches, and I'll go in."
James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the
threshold. For a yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure
grew dim and indistinct. I heard nothing except my own hard
breathing. But in a moment there was another sound--a muffled
exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling; a sword, too,
clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one another;
the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then
came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box;
next we heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along
the stones; his footsteps came towards us, and in a second he
appeared at the door.
"What was it?" I whispered.
"I fell," said Sapt.
"Over what?"
"Come and see. James, stay here."
I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet
along the passage.
"Isn't there a lamp anywhere?" I asked.
"We can see enough with a match," he answered. "Here, this is
what I fell over."
Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across
the passage.
"A dead man?" I guessed instantly.
"Why, no," said Sapt, striking a light: "a dead dog, Fritz." An
exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the
same instant Sapt muttered, "Ay, there's a lamp," and, stretching
up his hand to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit
it, took it down, and held it over the body. It served to give a
fair, though unsteady, light, and enabled us to see what lay in
the passage.
"It's Boris, the boar-hound," said I, still in a whisper,
although there was no sign of any listeners.
I knew the dog well; he was the king's favorite, and always
accompanied him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every
word of the king's, but of a rather uncertain temper towards the
rest of the world. However, de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he
lay dead in the passage. Sapt put his hand on the beast's head.
There was a bullet-hole right through his forehead. I nodded, and
in my turn pointed to the dog's right shoulder, which was
shattered by another ball.
"And see here," said the constable. "Have a pull at this."
I looked where his hand now was. In the dog's mouth was a piece
of gray cloth, and on the piece of gray cloth was a horn
coat-button. I took hold of the cloth and pulled. Boris held on
even in death. Sapt drew his sword, and, inserting the point of
it between the dog's teeth, parted them enough for me to draw out
the piece of cloth.
"You'd better put it in your pocket," said the constable. "Now
come along"; and, holding the lamp in one hand and his sword
(which he did not resheathe) in the other, he stepped over the
body of the boar-hound, and I followed him.
We were now in front of the door of the room where Rudolf
Rassendyll had supped with us on the day of his first coming to
Ruritania, and whence he had set out to be crowned in Strelsau.
On the right of it was the room where the king slept, and farther
along in the same direction the kitchen and the cellars. The
officer or officers in attendance on the king used to sleep on
the other side of the dining-room.
"We must explore, I suppose," said Sapt. In spite of his outward
calmness, I caught in his voice the ring of excitement rising and
ill-repressed. But at this moment we heard from the passage on
our left (as we faced the door) a low moan, and then a dragging
sound, as if a man were crawling along the floor, painfully
trailing his limbs after him. Sapt held the lamp in that
direction, and we saw Herbert the forester, pale-faced and
wide-eyed, raised from the ground on his two hands, while his
legs stretched behind him and his stomach rested on the flags.
"Who is it?" he said in a faint voice.
"Why, man, you know us," said the constable, stepping up to him.
"What's happened here?"
The poor fellow was very faint, and, I think, wandered a little
in his brain.
"I've got it, sir," he murmured; "I've got it, fair and straight.
No more hunting for me, sir. I've got it here in the stomach. Oh,
my God!" He let his head fall with a thud on the floor.
I ran and raised him. Kneeling on one knee, I propped his head
against my leg.
"Tell us about it," commanded Sapt in a curt, crisp voice while I
got the man into the easiest position that I could contrive.
In slow, struggling tones he began his story, repeating here,
omitting there, often confusing the order of his narrative,
oftener still arresting it while he waited for fresh strength.
Yet we were not impatient, but heard without a thought of time. I
looked round once at a sound, and found that James, anxious about
us, had stolen along the passage and joined us. Sapt took no
notice of him, nor of anything save the words that dropped in
irregular utterance from the stricken man's lips. Here is the
story, a strange instance of the turning of a great event on a
small cause.
The king had eaten a little supper, and, having gone to his
bedroom, had stretched himself on the bed and fallen asleep
without undressing. Herbert was clearing the dining-table and
performing similar duties, when suddenly (thus he told it) he
found a man standing beside him. He did not know (he was new to
the king's service) who the unexpected visitor was, but he was of
middle height, dark, handsome, and "looked a gentleman all over."
He was dressed in a shooting-tunic, and a revolver was thrust
through the belt of it. One hand rested on the belt, while the
other held a small square box.
"Tell the king I am here. He expects me," said the stranger.
Herbert, alarmed at the suddenness and silence of the stranger's
approach, and guiltily conscious of having left the door
unbolted, drew back. He was unarmed, but, being a stout fellow,
was prepared to defend his master as best he could.
Rupert--beyond doubt it was Rupert--laughed lightly, saying
again, "Man, he expects me. Go and tell him," and sat himself on
the table, swinging his leg. Herbert, influenced by the visitor's
air of command, began to retreat towards the bedroom, keeping his
face towards Rupert.
"If the king asks more, tell him I have the packet and the
letter," said Rupert. The man bowed and passed into the bedroom.
The king was asleep; when roused he seemed to know nothing of
letter or packet, and to expect no visitor. Herbert's ready fears
revived; he whispered that the stranger carried a revolver.
Whatever the king's faults might be--and God forbid that I should
speak hardly of him whom fate used so hardly--he was no coward.
He sprang from his bed; at the same moment the great boar-hound
uncoiled himself and came from beneath, yawning and fawning. But
in an instant the beast caught the scent of a stranger: his ears
pricked and he gave a low growl, as he looked up in his master's
face. Then Rupert of Hentzau, weary perhaps of waiting, perhaps
only doubtful whether his message would be properly delivered,
appeared in the doorway.
The king was unarmed, and Herbert in no better plight; their
hunting weapons were in the adjoining room, and Rupert seemed to
bar the way. I have said that the king was no coward, yet I
think, that the sight of Rupert, bringing back the memory of his
torments in the dungeon, half cowed him; for he shrank back
crying, "You!" The hound, in subtle understanding of his master's
movement, growled angrily.
"You expected me, sire?" said Rupert with a bow; but he smiled. I
know that the sight of the king's alarm pleased him. To inspire
terror was his delight, and it does not come to every man to
strike fear into the heart of a king and an Elphberg. It had come
more than once to Rupert of Hentzau.
"No," muttered the king. Then, recovering his composure a little,
he said angrily, "How dare you come here?"
"You didn't expect me?" cried Rupert, and in an instant the
thought of a trap seemed to flash across his alert mind. He drew
the revolver halfway from his belt, probably in a scarcely
conscious movement, born of the desire to assure himself of its
presence. With a cry of alarm Herbert flung himself before the
king, who sank back on the bed. Rupert, puzzled, vexed, yet
half-amused (for he smiled still, the man said), took a step
forward, crying out something about Rischenheim--what, Herbert
could not tell us.
"Keep back," exclaimed the king. "Keep back."
Rupert paused; then, as though with a sudden thought, he held up
the box that was in his left hand, saying:
'"Well, look at this sire, and we'll talk afterwards," and he
stretched out his hand with the box in it.
Now the king stood on a razor's edge, for the king whispered to
Herbert, "What is it? Go and take it."
But Herbert hesitated, fearing to leave the king, whom his body
now protected as though with a shield. Rupert's impatience
overcame him: if there were a trap, every moment's delay doubled
his danger. With a scornful laugh he exclaimed, "Catch it, then,
if you're afraid to come for it," and he flung the packet to
Herbert or the king, or which of them might chance to catch it.
This insolence had a strange result. In an instant, with a fierce
growl and a mighty bound, Boris was at the stranger's throat.
Rupert had not seen or had not heeded the dog. A startled oath
rang out from him. He snatched the revolver from his belt and
fired at his assailant. This shot must have broken the beast's
shoulder, but it only half arrested his spring. His great weight
was still hurled on Rupert's chest, and bore him back on his
knee. The packet that he had flung lay unheeded. The king, wild
with alarm and furious with anger at his favorite's fate, jumped
up and ran past Rupert into the next room. Herbert followed; even
as they went Rupert flung the wounded, weakened beast from him
and darted to the doorway. He found himself facing Herbert, who
held a boar-spear, and the king, who had a double-barreled
hunting-gun. He raised his left hand, Herbert said--no doubt he
still asked a hearing--but the king leveled his weapon. With a
spring Rupert gained the shelter of the door, the bullet sped by
him, and buried itself in the wall of the room. Then Herbert was
at him with the boar-spear. Explanations must wait now: it was
life or death; without hesitation Rupert fired at Herbert,
bringing him to the ground with a mortal wound. The king's gun
was at his shoulder again.
"You damned fool!" roared Rupert, "if you must have it, take it,"
and gun and revolver rang out at the same moment. But
Rupert--never did his nerve fail him--hit, the king missed;
Herbert saw the count stand for an instant with his smoking
barrel in his hand, looking at the king, who lay on the ground.
Then Rupert walked towards the door. I wish I had seen his face
then! Did he frown or smile? Was triumph or chagrin uppermost?
Remorse? Not he!
He reached the door and passed through. That was the last Herbert
saw of him; but the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless
player whose part had been so momentous, took the stage. Limping
along, now whining in sharp agony, now growling in fierce anger,
with blood flowing but hair bristling, the hound Boris dragged
himself across the room, through the door, after Rupert of
Hentzau. Herbert listened, raising his head from the ground.
There was a growl, an oath, the sound of the scuffle. Rupert must
have turned in time to receive the dog's spring. The beast,
maimed and crippled by his shattered shoulder, did not reach his
enemy's face, but his teeth tore away the bit of cloth that we
had found held in the vise of his jaws. Then came another shot, a
laugh, retreating steps, and a door slammed. With that last sound
Herbert woke to the fact of the count's escape; with weary
efforts he dragged himself into the passage. The idea that he
could go on if he got a drink of brandy turned him in the
direction of the cellar. But his strength failed, and he sank
down where we found him, not knowing whether the king were dead
or still alive, and unable even to make his way back to the room
where his master lay stretched on the ground.
I had listened to the story, bound as though by a spell. Halfway
through, James's hand had crept to my arm and rested there; when
Herbert finished I heard the little man licking his lips, again
and again slapping his tongue against them. Then I looked at
Sapt. He was as pale as a ghost, and the lines on his face seemed
to have grown deeper. He glanced up, and met my regard. Neither
of us spoke; we exchanged thoughts with our eyes. "This is our
work," we said to one another. "It was our trap, these are our
victims." I cannot even now think of that hour, for by our act
the king lay dead.
But was he dead? I seized Sapt by the arm. His glance questioned
me.
"The king," I whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, the king," he returned.
Facing round, we walked to the door of the dining-room. Here I
turned suddenly faint, and clutched at the constable. He held me
up, and pushed the door wide open. The smell of powder was in the
room; it seemed as if the smoke hung about, curling in dim coils
round the chandelier which gave a subdued light. James had the
lamp now, and followed us with it. But the king was not there. A
sudden hope filled me. He had not been killed then! I regained
strength, and darted across towards the inside room. Here too the
light was dim, and I turned to beckon for the lamp. Sapt and
James came together, and stood peering over my shoulder in the
doorway.
The king lay prone on the floor, face downwards, near the bed. He
had crawled there, seeking for some place to rest, as we
supposed. He did not move. We watched him for a moment; the
silence seemed deeper than silence could be. At last, moved by a
common impulse, we stepped forward, but timidly, as though we
approached the throne of Death himself. I was the first to kneel
by the king and raise his head. Blood had flowed from his lips,
but it had ceased to flow now. He was dead.
I felt Sapt's hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw his other
hand stretched out towards the ground. I turned my eyes where he
pointed. There, in the king's hand, stained with the king'sblood,
was the box that I had carried to Wintenberg and Rupert of
Hentzau had brought to the lodge that night. It was not rest, but
the box that the dying king had sought in his last moment. I
bent, and lifting his hand unclasped the fingers, still limp and
warm.
Sapt bent down with sudden eagerness. "Is it open?" he whispered.
The string was round it; the sealing-wax was unbroken. The secret
had outlived the king, and he had gone to his death unknowing.
All at once--I cannot tell why--I put my hand over my eyes; I
found my eyelashes were wet.
"Is it open?" asked Sapt again, for in the dim light he could not
see.
"No," I answered.
"Thank God!" said he. And, for Sapt's, the voice was soft.
