The Traitors Part 42

"The odds are too great--and you know it," was the quiet reply.

"Besides, the Turkish army is led by Russians and supplied with Russian artillery. The result is certain."

"There may be intervention!"

"From whom?" Domiloff asked, smiling. "France is the monkey who dances to my master's music--Austria is bound to us, Germany is geographically powerless."

"There is England."

Domiloff laughed outright.

"England as a European Power," he declared, "has ceased to exist. A few Dutch farmers have p.r.i.c.ked the bubble of her military reputation.

If she should have the sublime impudence to lift her voice we should treat her with the contempt she has earned. No, Reist, there will be no intervention. Your brave Thetians will be cut to pieces, your country will be pillaged and burned, your women will become the consorts of the Turkish soldiery, your ladies will go to grace a Turkish harem. These things must be unless you have the courage to hold out your hand. You call yourself a patriot. Prove it! The issue is plain enough."

The words bit into Reist's heart. He sat in gloomy silence. From afar off he seemed to hear the battle-cry of his beloved soldiers, the thunder of hoofs, the flas.h.i.+ng steel, the glory of the charge thrilled his blood. There was patriotism indeed--there, where the lances dripped red and the bullets flew. And he, Nicholas of Reist, sat skulking in the back room of a doubtful _cafe_, safely out of harm's reach, talking treason with one who had ever been the foremost of his country's enemies.

"You bought Metzger," he said, "and the people cast him out. You may buy me, and yet the people will not accept your terms. They will not have Russians in authority over them. The hatred of your country is a religion with them."

"They believe in you as they would believe in no other man," Domiloff answered. "You can make the situation clear to them. In your heart you know that it is their only salvation."

"They may save their skins," Reist admitted, "but after all life is a short thing. It is better to die like G.o.ds than to live like slaves."

Domiloff shook his head.

"My friend," he said, "there is but one life that we know anything of, and it should not be lightly thrown away. You can save Theos if you will. Supposing, however, that you are obstinate--that you cling to your ancient prejudices--well, what will you do then? Consider your position. You have quarrelled with the King. Your place in the army has gone, you have surrendered your sword. How can you ever show yourself in Theos again, who lingered here in the hour of battle? Be wise, my friend. Before you there is but one possible course. Take it.

The day will come when every man who calls himself a Thetian will bless your name."

"Or curse it!" Reist muttered.

"Curse it, indeed," Domiloff answered, "if you play the coward. It is the hour now for a strong man to rise. You are that man. Ughtred of Tyrnaus, whom you call your king, is even now forging the fetters to lead Theos into slavery. It is for you to thrust him aside and save your people."

"His is the n.o.bler way," Reist cried, bitterly. "Domiloff, I can listen to you no longer. I am not the man you seek. My feet are not used to these tortuous ways. I will ask the King's pardon. He will give me back my sword, and I can at least find a glorious death."

"You can fight then for a King who has deprived you of your sword?"

Domiloff whispered. "You can forgive him the insult he has thrust upon your sister. You can bear to think of her, slighted for the daughter of an American tradesman. Who is Ughtred of Tyrnaus that he should do this thing, and that the Duke of Reist should ask his pardon!"

Reist ground his teeth.

"I can force my way into the ranks and fight unknown," he said, hoa.r.s.ely. "It would be better to die there than to live to listen to your poisonous whisperings. I do not trust you, Domiloff. I cannot. I have no pledge that you would keep your word."

A sudden change flashed into the white face of the Russian. He sat perfectly still--listening. Reist opened his lips to ask a question, but it remained unasked. He, too, heard the sound. Somewhere behind the part.i.tion a man's breathing was distinctly audible. Domiloff's hand sought his pocket, and he rose softly to his feet.

The intruder, whoever he might be, did not hesitate for a second. He leaped through the window by which he had entered, and ran down the pa.s.sage. Domiloff followed him, and peering forward fired a couple of shots in rapid succession. Apparently they were fruitless, for the fugitive gained the open s.p.a.ce in front of the _cafe_ and mingled with the crowd. There was a rush of bystanders towards the two men, but Domiloff raised his hands and cried in Thetian--

"A Turk! A Turk! A spy! Follow him!"

There was a rush across the street. Domiloff and Reist exchanged rapid glances with one another.

"A spy indeed, but a spy from the other side," Domiloff muttered. "I wonder how much he heard."

But Reist was speechless. To him the interruption had come like the awakening from a horrible dream. There was a man then--a man of Theos who knew him for a traitor.

The hue and cry had left them alone. Suddenly Domiloff stooped down. A soft felt hat lay almost at their feet. Through the brim and crown was a small round hole.

"It is his hat," Domiloff muttered. "Why did I not aim an inch lower?"

He struck a match, and looked for the name inside the lining. It was Scott and Co., Bond Street, London.

Reist felt his cheeks burn, though the night was cool. Domiloff's voice sounded unnaturally calm.

"It was the Englishman then, Walter Brand. Good!"

"The King's friend," Reist faltered.

Domiloff nodded.

"I do not think," he said, "that he will ever see the King again."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

Late that night a man stood motionless amongst the shrubs in the garden of the Reist house. His eyes were fixed always upon a certain window where a light was burning. He muttered often to himself, and the things which he said were not pleasant to hear. He was tired and cramped with his long waiting--yet so long as that light burned he dared not approach the house.

There came to him at last a welcome sound, a light footstep and the trailing of a skirt upon the gravel path. He leaned forward.

"Countess, I am here."

Marie stooped to pluck a flower, and slipped behind the shrub. They were now invisible from the house.

"You received my note?" he asked.

"Yes."

"It was more than two hours ago. I am cold and tired with waiting. Was it necessary to keep me here so long?"

"Quite," she answered. "I came as soon as it was safe."

"Who has been with your brother to-night?" he asked.

"How do you know that we have not been alone?"

He pointed to the light still burning in the window.

"That light," he said. "See, it is just extinguished. Your visitor has gone."

She laughed bitterly.