Chapter II: Part 2

For several days we steamed quietly along, the blue Mediterranean beneath and the bluer sky above, until we entered the Dardanelles and passed in front of the Turk's capital, the city of Constantinople. When we came in sight of the white, flatroofed town, the captain hauled down the white flag with the blue diagonals of the Russian navy and hoisted the stars and stripes. What he meant by the deception I could not imagine and, when I ventured to ask him, he laughed and said:

"What a man dinna' see he canna' forget."

A sunny old Scotchman was Captain MacPherson, and he took a great liking to me because I knew his friend Thomas Anderson, who had charge of the dissecting room at the University.

"Tamas was e'er a gude hand with those as could na answer him back," said the Captain. "His first occupation at hame was as an undertaker's assistant. He comes by it honestly."

He pointed out the fortresses on both shores of the narrow channel, which was only a mile wide in front of the city, and told me that the Turks had mounted them with the most improved modern guns.

"They could e'en blow us out of the water," he said, "had they a mind to."

Constantinople was like an open book to him and he showed me the Sultan's Palace, standing white and high like an office building, the Mosque of St. Sophia, and various points of interest as the city, thrusting its myriad minarets to the sky, slipped swiftly by like a beautiful panorama. Somewhere along these shores both Leander and Byron swam the Hellespont, and Xerxes, the Persian king, smote the waves in a rage because they, troubled by a storm, forbade for a time the passage of his Greek conquering army. I was awakened from my historic reverie by hearing the voice of Nicholas. He and the General were leaning over the railing with their eyes fixed on the Palace of the Sultan. There was an expression of intense hatred on the faces of both.

"Oh, Thou, who holdest the destinies of nations in thy hand; Oh, Thou, who gavest the land of Canaan to thy chosen people; how long must we wait the coming of that glad day when thou wilt send a Joshua to us, that we may become the humble instruments of destiny to drive the Turk from Europe back to the sands of Bagdad whence he sprang?"

"Amen," came the deep bass of the General.

"Amen," said the voice of Captain MacPherson at my elbow.

They watched the city in silence until distance and darkness swallowed it up as the yacht continued its way up the north coast of the Black Sea. So intent were the three in getting all the pleasure they could out of their mutual hate that they forgot my existence entirely.

"French became an accomplishment rather than a necessity in the English court in the fifteenth century," I said to Nick that evening at table.

"What do you mean?" he said with a frown.

"It is still the language of the Russian court. But why are you so interested in fighting Russia's battles, you a Bharbazonian?"

"Archaic though she may be, I love Russia, Dale," he said, "for without Russia there would have been no independent Bharbazonia to-day. Even now she is paying into our treasury 24,000 rubles a year, which we in turn must pay as tribute to the Turk."

"How soon shall we reach your little kingdom, Nick?"

"We should be there day after to-morrow."

Sure enough, on the day set the little yacht's engine came to a stop early in the morning while we were still in our berths. All the gloom had vanished and Nick was in high spirits when he came to get me up.

"All ashore for Bharbazonia. Change cars for the Belle of the Balkans. This train doesn't go any further. Come, come, out of bed, you lazy one. We are home at last!"

*CHAPTER IV*

*AT THE TURK'S HEAD INN*

Oh, Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars.
--_Bryant: Antiquity of Freedom_.

When I came on deck I found the Black Sea had disappeared and we were at rest in a deep, narrow river which ran swiftly and noiselessly through a sombre gorge between two high mountains that almost shut out the light of day and hid the ocean from our sight. The sudden change of scene from the hard white glare of the sea to the soft black sheen of the land was startling. The foliage was so close to the ship that it seemed one could almost reach out the hand and touch it, although the yacht was moored at the end of a long dock. I experienced a foolish fear that the high hills were about to fall upon the little vessel and crush it. That impression wore off in a short time as the motion of the ship left me.

At the other side of the dock, set down upon a narrow space of rocky level land between the mountains and the river, was the little fishing village of Bizzett. In the rear the houses rose on terraces along the edge of the mountain and in front the town extended into the river on piles. There were no windows in the houses looking upon the street. If windows existed at all, they opened upon an inner court.

All the women and children of the town were on the dock, curious to see the travellers, filling the air with the babel of strange voices. It was plain that the landing of the yacht was an event. A few of the fishermen, who had not gone seaward upon their daily toil, were watching us from their boats.

Some of the women, after the manner of Turkish women, wore veils over their faces, having nothing but the eyes exposed, but the girls went about uncovered, their long black hair braided and ornamented with coins. The few of the male peasantry in sight were dressed much alike, in brown sheepskin caps, jackets of undyed brown wool, which their women folk spin and make, white cloth trousers and sandals of raw leather.

The natives were lively and hospitable. They greeted General Palmora with loud cheers as soon as he stepped on the dock and several of the older men came forward to shake him by the hand. The General, in anticipation of his reception, had donned a splendid uniform richly embossed with sparkling shoulder epaulettes and much gold braid. Nick, on the other hand, stood beside me attired in a plain dark blue serge suit which he had purchased in America. The women, walking two by two with their arms around each other's waists, examined us curiously, but the men never glanced once in our direction. Two young girls, without the least timidity, stopped in front of us and examined us as if we were tailors' models. That is to say, our clothes appeared to interest them more than the men inside of them. They talked and laughed and even went so far as to feel the texture of the goods. Their remarks made Nicholas frown.

"What are they saying, Nick?" I asked.

"They are saying, 'The English dogs have well trained wives who weave such fine cloth,'" he replied.

"You seem to be a stranger in your own country. These people take you for a foreigner."

"They do not know me," he sighed. "The penalty one pays for being a nomad. How they love the General!"

But the General's popularity faded when the automobile was placed upon the dock, and Teju Okio became the centre of attraction. The townsfolk crowded around the Jap boy, honked the horn with all the delight of mischievous newsboys and watched each piece of baggage as it was stowed away in the tonneau. But they departed with much speed and many frightened cries when Okio started the engine, running in all directions as if a demon had fallen from the sky in their midst. In a twinkling the dock was vacant and the village apparently deserted. They only came to the doors of their houses to watch us leave the village in a cloud of dust. But our attention was brought to the front by an expression of surprise from Teju Okio.

"Very dam-fine," he said, referring to the hill which the machine had to climb. Teju's English vocabulary was limited to three words which he used to express every emotion. This time it was admiration and respect. And the road was worthy of both. It ran diagonally up the side of the mountain until it reached the top at a depression or gap caused by two mountains pressing their foreheads together. One could see the end from the beginning, for it was a singularly straight road laid out as if the builder had placed a schoolboy's ruler upon the mountainside, drawn a line from the village to the gap and said, "Build ye here the way as I have drawn it," just as the Tzar is said to have laid out his eighteen-day railroad across Siberia.

A perfect arbour of tall trees lined both sides of the way, interlocking their branches overhead. The foliage on the lower side of the mountain was trimmed so as to give a view of the sea; the early morning sun streamed gratefully in, taking the chill from the air and casting long shadows across the road in front. As we ascended we looked back and saw part of the village still in sight. The peasants were standing in the streets, marking the progress of the strange vehicle which had within itself the power to conquer the hill of Bizzett without the aid of oxen.

At the top was a stone fortress, called Castle Comada. It came in sight suddenly as we reached level ground and turned our back to the sea. Castle Comada was a spacious building completely filling up the gap and extending across the road as far as the eye could reach among the trees. The roadway ran through the centre of it in a sort of tunnel of solid masonry and over this archway the main part of the castle rose higher than the rest, supported on the four corners by square watch towers. A fifth tower, even more lofty, sprang from the centre, and from this tower snapping gaily in the wind was the flag of Bharbazonia, alternate stripes of light blue and gold.

Beneath the castle walls, lining both sides of the way, were five regiments of cavalry, their horses' heads forming a perfect line and each man sitting erect in the saddle. As we came in sight, the garrison band burst forth in the national air and, at the given order, hundreds of bared sabres flashed in the sun and came to rest in an upright position before each man's chin. The salute was for the General; the army of the kingdom was welcoming home its commander-in-chief, warned, possibly, the night before by the sharp-eyed watchman in the tower who had sighted the yacht.

It was sure that the defences of the government, ever watchful of the Turk, were in modern hands, and, if one noticed the look of pleasure on the old General's countenance at the visible signs of a well oiled system, one had not far to seek the master mind.

Nicholas preferred to remain in the car with me while the General paid his respects to Governor Noovgor of the Southern Province. I was very glad of that, because he was able to explain the country, whenever the band was stilled long enough to permit conversation.

"This road is known as the Highway of Bizzett," Nick said. "Sometimes it is called the 'King's Highway.' It traverses Bharbazonia from north to south almost in a straight line over several hundred miles of fertile, rolling country. The mountain range, running east and west as you see, gradually turns toward the north until both arms meet at the other end of the highway in a similar pass, guarded by a similar fortress. Thus Castle Comada, on the Black Sea, and Castle Novgorod, on the Russian border, are the Beersheba and Dan of Bharbazonia. No man may enter or leave the country unless he pass under the guns of one or the other; and let me tell you, Dale, there is no fortress in America, or in any other country, which is the peer of these for modern disappearing guns, garrison equipment, or perfection of discipline."

As the General seemed in no hurry, Nick and I killed time by strolling around the grounds and inspecting the castle from all sides. I found that its guns commanded not only the Black Sea and the harbour of Bizzett, but also the approaches from the inland side; for the mountain formed a precipitous wall at the castle foundations, which left us standing on a high promontory, viewing, like Moses, a land flowing with milk and honey. Below us lay a level country, which even in its winter garb showed evidences of being in an excellent state of cultivation. Here and there were villages clustered along the great limestone pike--the straight white way of Bharbazonia.

An army attacking the fortress from either side would be equally powerless. Nicholas had every reason to be proud of his country's war craft, but, in spite of the modern atmosphere of the cavalry, there was something about this Bharbazonia that smacked to me of the fourteenth century, when men slept at night behind the barred gates of their walled cities.

The General was already in his seat beside Teju Okio when we returned. He was impatient to be off; but, before we were able to enter the Kingdom, ten soldiers put their shoulders to a pair of solid iron gates that blocked the road through the Castle, and swung them open. The guns fired their salute to the commander-in-chief, the band struck up a lively air, and the Jap boy threw in his high speed clutch.

As we raced through the tunnel and down the hill on the other side, I looked back and saw the men close the gates, those relics of the hundred years' war against the terrible Turk, and knew that we were locked in the Kingdom of Bharbazonia. The sun shone warmly down upon us, the peaceful valley lay invitingly below, but somehow I felt as a mouse must feel as he peers between the wire openings of his trap and realizes that he cannot get out.

Once free of the mountain, we sped along through a country as beautiful as any in America. Farmers, working in the fields, paused at their labour to watch us go by. Teju made the most of a fine road and lifted us along at the rate of sixty miles an hour, leaving many slain chickens behind to mark his swift passage.

Fortunately there was little travel along the highway that morning, for we frightened every human being and every animal we met. Patient plodding horses, dragging creaking carts in the same direction in which we were going, were too surprised to continue their journey. They stood still in their tracks unable to move until we disappeared over the crest of the next hill. The drivers, open-mouthed, were too startled to urge them. But the horses we met coming toward us had more time to watch our approach and thrill with fear. All of them lowered their heads, pricked up their ears and, like the cows, showed signs of confusion as to which side of the road they should take; then, as we came opposite, they bolted across the front of the speeding machine into the adjoining field. Their frightened owners, slowly gathering courage in a ditch, shook their fists and hurled Bharbazonian epithets after us.

It is amusing to play havoc in a country where there are no license tags, no mounted policemen and no fines to pay.

At noontide we made our first stop at a fine old road-house called the Turk's Head Inn. It was a queer little brick and red stone structure approaching the colonial style of architecture in its small, leaded glass windows and white paint, with the curious addition of Byzantine doors and windows, the result of Turkish influence. The main doorway, with its huge circular top, was in the centre of the building and formed an imposing entrance, reaching to the second floor. On an iron arm, extending from the top of this doorway, hung the signboard after which the inn was named.

It presented no written words; only a terrible life-sized painting of a Turk's head, dripping with blood and resting on a spear point. A red fez sat jauntily over one ear, giving the head a gala appearance; but the eyes, wide open, staring eyes, speedily dispelled any such thought. They were filled with a terrible expression of pain and horror, as if the head still breathed and felt the agony of the spear piercing its inmost brain, while its lips moved in the throes of cursing its tormentors, even in the face of death. The frightful signboard sent a shudder through me which the General noticed.

"What a grewsome thing," I said.

"It is the head of Helmud Bey," he replied, looking into the suffering eyes without a show of compassion; "he ruled over my sad country for forty years, the creature of the Sultan. So great was his ferocity that even now the peasantry tremble at the mention of his name. He was killed in this Inn thirty years ago by Oloff Gregory, the king. Clad in suits of French mail, they fought on horseback with sword and spear, while the Turkish and Bharbazonian army looked on, drawn up out there on opposite sides of the road.

"It was agreed that whichever champion won, his forces would be declared victorious without further fighting. It was the Turks' last stand after Shipka Pass and, had Gregory lost, Bharbazonia might not now be free. At the first shock Gregory unhorsed Helmud Bey and was himself thrown to the ground. Then the fighting was continued with heavy swords until the Turk, badly wounded, fled within the inn where Bharbazonia's champion killed him by cutting off his head.

"For a long time the head was displayed on the victor's pike before the roadhouse door. The Turks surrendered and the war was over. By this feat of arms Gregory became king, for, when Russia tried to rehabilitate the kingdom, she found that the Turks had killed or driven into exile every member of the royal house of Bharbazonia which was reigning in the fifteenth century before the time of the conquering Salaman the Magnificent. Gregory, you know, was only a soldier and a noble. His house never laid claim to royalty. And that is why his brother, the 'Red Fox,' is still a Duke although his children by special grant of the King are Prince and Princess of the land."

At the inn were the usual number of idlers. They gathered around the car at a respectful distance and watched us dismount. The innkeeper, in white apron and with bared head, appeared in the high doorway, scattering the crowd to make a passageway for us. He was a jolly old Frenchman.

"Back, ye hounds," he shouted in his native tongue, "cannot ye give the gentry room to alight?"

If the Bharbazonians understood they made no sign; neither did they give back a pace, standing their ground like stolid cattle. The reign of the invader had left the common people in a condition little above the brute. Gone was the warlike spirit of their Slavonic ancestors who inhabited the banks of the Volga in the seventh century. I experienced a feeling of pity for them. Ignorance, poverty and suffering had been their birthright. I could scarcely bring myself to believe that Nick and the General were their countrymen.

"Welcome home, my General," exclaimed the Frenchman.

"Thank you, Marchaud," returned the General. "What news have you?"

"Ah, sir; such coming and going. The coronation is all the talk. The Grand Duke Marbosa was here yesterday with the young men. You know, General," he added, winking slyly.

"Yes, I understand," said Palmora. "What then?"

"He was impatient for your return. He has a plan which lacks only your approval."

"Humph. How goes the dinner?"

"You are just in time. Will you enter?"

Again he made a passageway through the peasants with angry shouting and waving of hands. They were all respect for the General; some bowed in the dust before him and others raised a feeble cheer. He paid no particular attention to them.

The innkeeper led the way to the interior of his hostelry. Once past the door, we were immediately in the large room of the inn. On one side was a broad stairway which communicated with a balcony which in turn had access to all the sleeping rooms on the second floor. Off from the main room were smaller rooms, like booths, where the dining tables, covered with snow white linen, were invitingly set. He placed us at one of these tables and, with the assistance of two of his waiters, soon had a splendid feast spread before us.

The General was the life of the party. He was hungry and, judging from the amount of native wine he indulged in, thirsty, too. The change in Nick was also remarkable. Ever since his eyes fell upon the flag of Bharbazonia, and the well set-up cavalrymen at the castle, he seemed to grow in stature. Usually lazy and indolent, he became alert and active, as if the sleeping tiger within arose at the call of the setting sun to go forth to the water runs. Here, indeed, was a new Nicholas. The American youth whom I knew was becoming a Bharbazonian.

"Everything goes well for the great event," said the General, when we arrived at the coffee and cigarette stage of the repast. "Governor Noovgor tells me that he and Governor Hasson of the Northern Province will have 25,000 men before the Cathedral, both infantry and cavalry. The Tzar will be represented by a regiment of Cossacks from Moscow, and the Grand Duke Alexoff will come from St. Petersburg as the Emperor's personal representative. The first day of the new year will be a great day for Bharbazonia, my boy."

"You couldn't be more interested in the crowning of the Red Fox's son than if it were I you were honouring," said Nick, a bit petulantly.

"My boy; my boy," said the old man, patting his favourite on the back with a show of affection, "little prejudices must fall before patriotism."

"I wish you knew how repulsive this incognito business is becoming to me," said Nick. "I could scarcely keep myself from swinging my hat in the air and shouting for the flag when I saw those splendid fellows drawn up in front of Comada."

"All in good time," purred the General, pleased at Nick's reference to the army; "for the present it is best that I should be entertaining two American travellers. I do not want the Red Fox or his following to know who you are. If they suspect you, your usefulness to Russia would come to an end. For what they know is soon talked of in Constantinople. You must not forget that you are more than a Bharbazonian. You are of the Order."

The General's words had their effect upon Nicholas.

"I shall be glad when the day arrives that I can fight in the open," he said, much mollified. "I never felt so weary of this secret work as I do to-day."

"Am I to understand, General," I said, "that Nick is supposed to be an American?"

"Such is the intention, Dr. Wharton," he replied. "Should occasion arise, we will appreciate it if you will tell your questioner that Nicholas is a countryman of yours."

"Come," said Nick, "let us get started."

"How much further do we have to go to-night?" I asked, as we arose from the table.

"We will not reach Framkor until to-morrow evening," put in the General, but Nick interrupted him with a laugh.

"Why, General, we are at the Turk's Head Inn now, and it is not yet two o'clock. We shall be home before nightfall."

"So it is," murmured the old man. "It is the machine. I cannot become used to it. We usually consume two days coming from Bizzett on horseback."

Leaving the inn, we struck off into the country roads to the right and the travelling was not as luxurious as on the smooth government pike. Nevertheless, Teju Okio made good time. Toward evening, when we were near enough to our journey's end for Nick to recognize the country and point out some of his childhood haunts, we met a horseman on the road. It was just after the Jap boy lighted his two gleaming headlights, for the day was almost done. It may have been the glare of the lamps or the suddenness of our approach around an unexpected corner that caused the accident; for, as soon as the horse caught sight of us, he reared on his hind feet, stood upright in the air a moment and toppled over backward, crushing his rider beneath him in the fall.

Teju Okio stopped the machine as soon as he saw the frightened horse and we all shouted directions to the horseman; when they fell, Nick and I leaped from the machine to render what aid we might. Before we could grasp his bridle the horse struggled to his feet and was off like the wind, the empty stirrups pounding his ribs at every jump; but the rider lay motionless.

He was a youth of about eighteen or twenty years. His wide riding breeches and neat fitting coat of black velvet were covered with dust; but they were not torn, neither did they show any evidence of blood which would have shown had the horse kicked and cut him. Although he lay crumpled in a heap, I was able to see that he was tall and slender and that one arm was either dislocated or broken. His eyes were closed and his face was exceedingly pale. His most distinguishing feature was the mass of red hair, which he wore as long as Nick's, and which was of a dark rich shade.

Nick tenderly raised the sufferer's head, while I tried to get some whiskey down his throat. But the boy showed no signs of returning consciousness.

"Better get him into the car, Nick, and take him to the nearest hospital," I advised.

"Hospital?" smiled Nick. "The nearest approach to one is at the Castle barracks. You are the best medico we have in Bharbazonia, Dale. Get busy yourself."

Teju Okio edged slowly up with the car until his white lights shone upon the scene in the road.

"Is he badly hurt?" called the General from his seat beside the driver.

"We do not know the extent of his injuries, General," I said, "he is unconscious."

"Who is he, Nick?"

"Haven't an idea."

The lamplight fell upon the boy's face.

"Good heavens," exclaimed the General, "get him into the machine as quickly as possible. We must procure medical assistance at once. On, on, to Dhalmatia Castle. This is the Red Fox's son, Prince Raoul, the future King of Bharbazonia. He must not die. Hurry! Hurry! for God's sake!"

*CHAPTER V*

*THE RED FOX OF DHALMATIA*

He entered in the house--his home no more;
For without hearts there is no home;--and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome.
--_Byron: Don Juan_.

Castle Dhalmatia proved to be but a short distance ahead. I held the unconscious Prince in my arms while Nick leaned forward and called road directions into the Japanese driver's ear. General Palmora remembered a byway which was a short cut across the Red Fox's estate and we saved several minutes thereby. The walls of the Prince's home loomed up black and sombre against the sky line on the top of a hill vacant of trees. Like Castle Comada it was a fortress built for defence rather than for comfort. Its battlements and watchtowers were stern and forbidding.

Rapid as were our movements, the news of the accident preceded us, borne no doubt by the returning horse with the empty saddle. Stable grooms were coming down the road toward us carrying lanterns; house servants were arousing the master. Some were weeping aloud, running wildly about; others were shouting orders and talking, like persons who desired to do something but did not know what to do. Lights began to show in different rooms of the castle and, when we drew up with a rush and a grinding of brakes under the _porte-cochere_, a crowd of retainers were there to meet us.

As soon as they caught sight of the limp figure in my arms they imagined the Prince dead and their wailings broke out afresh. In the midst of the excitement, which even the commanding voice of the General failed to quell, a little, bent, old man with a weazen, wrinkled face, but with a certain virility of manner which proclaimed him master, appeared in the doorway. His voice vibrated through the air and forced obedience. He called to his servants in the Bharbazonian dialect and a silence fell upon them, in which there was more of fear than of love. I knew at once that I was in the presence of the Red Fox of Dhalmatia, the father of the Prince.

Standing in the lantern light he made a curious picture. He was attired in black from head to foot. On his head was a black fez that only partially concealed a mass of hair which, though darker in shade and streaked with gray, was the same colour as his son's. The first part of the Red Fox's name was derived no doubt from the colour of his hair.

Around his neck was a broad lace collar of white, extending to his narrow shoulders. He wore a close fitting coat buttoned up the front with a row of large ornamental buttons. Knee breeches with buckles at the side, silk stockings, and buckled shoes made up the rest of his costume. Over his shoulders hung a long Spanish cloak which partially concealed the hilt of a jewelled sword suspended from his left hip. There was that about him which suggested the stern, hard, old Pilgrim fathers who conquered the Massachusetts wilderness and burned witches three centuries ago.

If he felt any emotion at the condition of his son, he did not permit himself to show it, but, with a gesture in which was the majesty of command, he bade me enter with my burden.

I carried the Prince to the nearest couch in the spacious hallway, followed by Nick and the General. The Red Fox shut the door in the faces of his servants and dismissed them with a few terse words. The only one he permitted to remain was an aged man whom I recognized was the butler. The room was dark and this old fellow held a lantern close to the boy's face and fell into a fit of weeping. As soon as I placed the Prince on the divan, and before I could make an examination, I was rather rudely brushed aside by the boy's father and the old butler, both of whom seemed suddenly crazed by the accident.

They crowded me away and bent over the Prince, together making a rapid, superficial examination of the boy for broken bones, and finding none. There was a slight wound above the right ear and a cut on the left arm above the elbow. The right arm was dislocated. With the old servant's assistance, the father experienced little difficulty in slipping it back into place. I was rather impressed with the Red Fox's deftness and sureness of touch.

During the examination, General Palmora explained that I was a physician and that I could give the Prince the best of treatment. He made his explanations in French, which I think was for my benefit, and the Red Fox replied in the same tongue.

"A doctor," he queried, "what have we to do with doctors in Dhalmatia?"

"But, my dear Duke, the boy is seriously injured."

"So? So?" cried the Fox, "and is that any reason why I should permit strangers to intrude upon the privacy of my house, especially friends of yours, Palmora, to run things as they please?"

"I would have you understand, sir," replied the General with dignity, "that only such untoward circumstances as the present would have permitted me to enter your house, and to so far forget the respect I owe my friends as to allow them to cross your threshold."

"'Tis unfortunate," said the Duke, still working over the boy. "The General should remember that the House of Dhalmatia can take care of itself."

"The General did not forget," replied the soldier, hotly; "but in this case he begs the Duke to consider that the Prince is not the son of Dhalmatia--"

"What!" shouted the Duke, going suddenly pale with extreme agitation and advancing threateningly toward the General, who did not seem to mind the feelings the remarks were stirring up.

"Not the son of Dhalmatia, but the heir to the throne of Bharbazonia, and therefore he is my liege lord and master. As a patriot I must care for him. Beside, it was our automobile which caused his accident."

The Duke sank down on his knees beside the couch at his son's feet as if his strength had forsaken him. He offered no further objection to our presence and watched as the old servant attempted to revive the patient. When at last, under the effect of the restorative, the boy opened his eyes the first person he saw and smiled upon was his father. Then his eyes met mine.

They were the most beautiful I have ever seen in a boy's head, and they thrilled me with the look of quiet suffering in them. Large and expressive, they reminded me of Nicholas in his best mood, when he sang his Balkan love songs. From the colour of the Prince's hair I expected his eyes to be a pale blue, but, on the contrary, they were a deep rich brown, almost black. Shining in their mysterious depth was something akin to sorrow, which I could not understand but which became clearer later.

The old Duke did not seem greatly relieved when his son recovered consciousness; possibly he realized that the boy had been nearer death than he imagined; possibly there was another reason. At all events, he waved us all back from the couch and gathered the Prince in his arms.

"My son! My son!" he repeated again and again, sometimes in French and sometimes in his own language. But it did not seem to me to be the agonized cry of a broken-hearted father; there was a note of caution in it, as if he would say, "My son, be careful; the enemies of your father are present."

The Prince lay still, studying each face in the room over his father's shoulder. He recognized the General with a bright friendly smile. The General returned the salutation with a frigid ceremonial bow. Nick seemed to puzzle him. He looked at the handsome youth a long time as if trying to remember where they had met before, and yet not sure they had met at all.

"If you are satisfied, Dr. Wharton, that the patient is on a fair way to recovery," broke in the General, still chafing under the impoliteness of the Duke, "I suggest that we take our departure from this ungrateful house."

But his voice was gentle and caressing when he added to the Prince:

"I trust your Highness will experience no further evil results from your unfortunate fall."

"We also crave the Prince's pardon for causing his fall, and will do ourselves the honour of calling with the doctor in the morning to inquire after his health."

While Nicholas was speaking the Duke shifted his head so that he could see the young man's face over his shoulder without appearing to do so. All the time he seemed to be devoting his whole attention to his son. The movement was secretive and, I thought, uncalled for; but it revealed why those who knew him called him "The Fox."

"Before we go," I said in my character of physician, "I would suggest that the Prince remain in bed for the next few days in order to rest the arm which was dislocated and to determine the presence, if any, of internal injuries. With your permission, Duke, I will take the liberty of calling again. I trust, if anything develops which you may not feel equal to coping with, that you will not hesitate to make use of my services."

With the Grand Duke's cry of "My son! My son!" as our only answer, we bowed our way through the doorway and entered the car which was still chug-chugging away at the door, the tired Jap boy asleep at the wheel. It was very dark when we resumed our journey, which was quickly at an end. Two miles from Dhalmatia we turned through a high stone archway of a private estate and came to Castle Framkor.

It was too dark for me to see anything of the outside of the castle except the _porte-cochere_, under which we stopped, and the open front door from which the servants trooped with cries of welcome. If there was a similarity about the entrance there was none in the spirit of the two castles.

A tri-colour collie dog was the first to greet us. He ran wildly about the car barking at the engines and sniffing at the visitors. He recognized the General and tried to get into the seat with him.

"Down, Laddie; down, sir," commanded his master as he sprang to the ground, to be overwhelmed by the excited dog, which leaped against his shoulder and tried to caress his face.

Willing hands opened the tonneau door and Nick and I descended. The dog sniffed at our legs and growled at us. Smiling women servants gathered around the master while the men, in obedience to his commands, carried our trunks and hand luggage into the hall.

"Welcome home to Framkor, Nicholas," cried the General. It was the first word he had spoken since his farewell speech at Dhalmatia. But all his gloom had left him.

Nicholas made no reply. Not a single servant knew him and no one welcomed him back to his own home. While it was indeed a splendid homecoming for the General, I pitied Nick and realized what he had been sacrificing all his life for the sake of his country. It is one thing to choose a vocation for yourself and quite another to have some one choose it for you.

The hall room was comfortably warmed by an open grate fire which burned under the mantelpiece. Above hung a full length picture of a man about the General's age in scarlet regimentals. He bore a striking resemblance to Nick.

"That's dad," said the boy as we gathered round the fire to drive out the cold of the night. He looked long and earnestly upon his father's portrait. What moody thoughts were passing in his mind I could not imagine. But the sternness of the pictured face was reflected in the living one beneath.

"What we need most of all is dinner," said the General.

"Hear, hear," I cried lightly.

The thought was scarcely expressed before a servant bade us enter the dining room. The meal that followed could not have been surpassed by the French chef at the Turk's Head Inn. Bharbazonia might be archaic, but Framkor Castle under the direction of Nick's father's executor was delightfully modern. I promised myself considerable gastronomic enjoyment during my vacation in Bharbazonia.

After the feast, which we all ate with a hunger born of our long ride in the bracing air, the General and I settled ourselves in the drawing room for a long, comfortable chat before bedtime. I was burning to learn more about the Red Fox, now that I had seen the Castle tower from which the old nurse fell the night the Prince was born. The General was still suffering from his injured feelings.

"Can you wonder, now, why I hate the Fox?" he said. "The ingrate, to return our kindness with such discourtesy. The low-bred hound, better we had left his son in the road to die. Never again will I find myself under his roof and you boys, too, would do well not to visit that castle again. He will insult you if you attempt it; now mark my words."

Nick, who did not share my interest in the Red Fox, had gone on an exploring trip through the house, recalling childhood memories. He came into the music room adjoining and began fingering the keys of the piano.

"I am glad, at all events," he called, "that the young fellow was not seriously hurt."

"Humph," grunted Palmora under his breath, "you would have more reason to be happy if the horse had made a good job of it."

At this remarkable outburst I stared at the regicidal old person, who, seeing my surprise, leaped to his feet and paced the floor, pulling on his long pipe to keep his temper down. No doubt he felt that he had overreached himself, for he came back with an apology.

"There are things in this Kingdom that are unknown even to Nicholas," he said mildly, lowering his voice. "I trust that the time will come when it will be given him to know. Then I would like to be the messenger."

"The Prince," I said, "is the handsomest boy I have ever seen."

But the General did not reply. He was listening with rapt attention to the fine whole-souled barytone voice of his Bharbazonian boy, singing a folksong in the language. The expression on his face partook of the look of a devout worshipper before his best loved shrine.

"_Volt nekem egy daru ssoru paripam_," sang Nick.

The accompaniment he was playing was in that weird minor strain which always sends a shiver down one's back. The words of the song told of the sorrow of a nation in bondage. It was an old favourite with me, for Nick often sang it when the lights were low and the schoolroom problems were laid away for the night. I admired it so much that Nick gave me the music, written by Francis Korbay, and it was even now lying on my piano at home. In English the song runs:

"Had a horse, a finer no man ever saw;
But the sheriff sold him in the name of law.
E'en a stirrup cup the rascal would not yield.
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field.

"Had a farmhouse, but they burnt it to the ground;
Don't know even where the spot may now be found.
In the county roll 'tis safe inscribed and sealed;
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field.

"Had a sweetheart; mourned her loss for years and years;
Thought her dead and every day gave her my tears.
Now, I find her 'neath another's roof and shield;
But, no matter! more was lost at Mohacs' field."

As Nick poured his soul into the rendition of the war song of the Balkans, a song which he told me every native knew and revered as he loved his Bible, I could almost picture the little handful of 25,000 men who fell before the overwhelming force of 200,000 Turks on that fateful day, August 29, 1526, when "Mohacsnal" became to the Slavs what "Don't give up the ship" was to the Americans hundreds of years later. I was not surprised to hear the General's deep bass join in the single line refrain at the close of each verse:

"No, de se baj, tobb is veszett Mohacsnal!"

With such a spirit abroad in the land, I could understand how the defeated but unconquered Hungarian and Balkan warriors continued the struggle until there is little left of the dwindling empire of the "unspeakable Turk" in Europe to-day except the dissatisfied country around his capital city of Constantinople.

"Great song," panted the General when Nick concluded, but the light of battle died out of his eyes when Nick, after a few preliminary chords, broke into the popular American songs of the day and cleared the atmosphere of its political heaviness. We were all in the best of spirits when we retired. Although there were many rooms in the castle, I found to my delight that Nick and I were to sleep together in his boyhood chamber. Possibly it was the association of ideas, but believe it who will, we romped about like children and did not get to sleep until the General came to the door to interrupt our pillow fight with the natural complaint that he was unable to sleep, and the dry suggestion that we repair to the lawn to finish it.

At sight of the bristling old warrior in his pink nightcap and pajamas to match, we scurried beneath the covers with such a perfect imitation of two naughty boys who expected to be spanked and put to bed, that even the General, forgetting his irritation, was forced to lose his gravity and join in the general merriment.

Long after the lights were out and we were quieted down, too tired to laugh any more, I heard Nick drawl sleepily in memory of our college days:

"Let's go over to Woodland avenue and steal a lamp post."

Outside a gentle wind rustled the ivy vines clinging patiently to the Castle wall. Not another sound disturbed the stillness of the country night. Overcome by the silence I drifted away in the arms of sleep well content with my first hours in the Kingdom of Bharbazonia.

The next day we met Solonika.

*CHAPTER VI*

*SOLONIKA'S SUMMER-HOUSE*

And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
--_Gay: Fables_.

The General's was one of those angelic, choleric dispositions that frequently blow up under pressure of sudden anger, but emerge smiling from the havoc of the explosion, bearing no malice. When we met him at the breakfast table the next morning, the only reference he made to the boyish escapade of the night before was concealed in his pleasant greeting.

"Good morning, children."

"Good morning, sir," we unisoned like a Greek chorus.

"What new deviltry are you two planning this morning?"

We assured him that we felt our age and the responsibilities of life, and that we intended henceforth to be very good boys indeed if he would cease reminding us of our youth.

The talk about the table was of the impending coronation. The General was impatient for news as to how the preparations for that great event were progressing. During his rapid journey to America, in search of Nicholas, much had been done, but he had no doubt much remained undone.

"How would you both like to run down to Nischon with me?" he asked. "We will be back by nightfall if we take the machine."

To my surprise Nicholas did not immediately acquiesce. He usually found it agreeable to do what the General proposed, but for some reason he did not grow enthusiastic over the coronation. As for myself, it did not suit my purpose to go to the capital city, much as I desired to see it. I had other plans, but I could not tell the General for fear of risking his displeasure. For, notwithstanding his admonition to the contrary, I intended to go over to Castle Dhalmatia and see the Prince. Down in my heart I suppose was the hope that I might also make the acquaintance of his twin sister the Princess Solonika. Ever since I heard their romantic story from the General's lips, I experienced a great desire to get to the bottom of the mystery and prove the General right or wrong. The opportunity of seeing Nischon was mine any time, but the chance of visiting the inhospitable Castle in the guise of a physician was not to be lost.

"The king has set his heart upon making this occasion one long to be remembered in Bharbazonia, and we must stand ready to help him," continued the General. "He will be happy to see you, the heir of Framkor, Nicholas. He loves the young men of his country and was much interested in my trip to find you."

Still Nicholas remained silent.

"Don't you care to go?" asked Palmora.

"If my preference is to be considered, Godfather," said Nick, "I would rather stay at home. I will gladly accompany you another time. But to-day I am tired after our long journey."

"And you?" said the General turning to me.

"I would rather stay here with Nick."

"All right," he replied, "I will go alone, provided I may borrow your car, Nick."

"Gladly," said Nick, relieved at being let off so easily.

Teju Okio brought the big machine under the _porte-cochere_, and we were preparing to see the General off when a lone horseman cantered up the driveway among the trees, his long Spanish cloak waving in the breeze and his sword jangling at his side. He was a good looking black haired youth, and he rode his charger with the ease of a cavalryman. It took all his horsemanship to get his restive animal to face the running engines, but by dint of a liberal use of spurs and much coaxing he finally came within hailing distance.

The General seemed to recognize him and returned his salute graciously. Upon the rider's breast, under his wind-tossed cloak, was the same kind of a Greek cross, two parallel bars and one at an angle, which I had seen both the General and Nicholas wearing upon the yacht. Whatever his business was, it was speedily transacted. He shouted a question at the General, received a reply, waved a parting salute, and was off like the wind, his struggling steed showing a fine pair of heels to the demon in the _porte-cochere_.

"The Grand Duke Marbosa seems much concerned for my safe arrival," said Nick. "His messenger is here early."

"I suppose Marchaud, the innkeeper, has spread the news of our return," said the General.

"What have I to do with Marbosa?" said Nick.

"I'll tell you about that when I see you to-night," replied the General, waving his hand to Teju Okio. The Jap boy threw in his clutch, the General's head went back, and they were off for Nischon.

"There is some mystery here," said Nick, watching the car thoughtfully until it was gone from sight.

"Who is Marbosa?" I asked.

"He is the recognized leader of the nobles of Bharbazonia and a great friend of the General's. He is about Palmora's age, but as hot-headed and impetuous as a youth."

It was too fine a day to be indoors, and I suggested that we employ the morning by riding about the country on horseback. Nick forgot the weariness he had offered the General as an excuse for remaining behind and readily assented. The stables were in the rear of the castle and we found them full of the finest horses money could buy. Nick conversed with the stablemen by means of the sign language, remembering his American character, and we were soon upon the road astride the best travellers I have ever seen.

"Wither awa'," I cried gaily as we left the estate, coming into the public road by the porter's lodge and gates which I recognized from the evening before.

"Let us go to Dhalmatia and see how the Prince is this morning," said Nick.

I turned my head to hide the smile. So he, too, was interested in the Prince? I wondered if the General's suspicions had at last awakened in Nick's breast a desire similar to my own, or was it that he wished to improve his acquaintance with the future king?

"On to the lair of the Red Fox," I said.

Nick's estates, I found, were on one side of the road and the Red Fox's on the other. The entrances were at opposite ends and about two miles apart. I remembered that it must have been over this very highway that Nick's father and his friend the General had hurriedly galloped that memorable night twenty years ago drawn by the strange ringing of the natal bell. Our journey was made more decorously, but upon a strangely similar errand as far as I was concerned.

The castle on the hill was visible from the road. Although it stood bathed in sunlight in the clearing high above the woodland, it retained all its sombreness. And the General's remarks came back to me with renewed force. Had I been alone I might have turned back.

No one came forward to take our horses when we dismounted. The silent battlements grinned down upon us as though to warn us away. I held the bridle reins while Nick beat upon the oaken door with the handle of his riding crop.