Chapter IX The Kiss in the King’s Garden
O, that a man might know
The end of this day’s business, ere it come!
But it sufficeth that the day will end,
And then the end is known.
—Shakespeare: Julius Cæsar.
Nick and the General were not returned when I reached Framkor Castle, but they came puffing in for dinner on schedule time. Where they had been they did not divulge, nor did I question them, feeling that their rapid comings and goings had to do with the politics of Bharbazonia with which I was not concerned.
“Sorry to have run away from you, Dale,” said Nick, “but needs must when the Devil drives.” He jerked his head in the General’s direction.
“Humph,” grunted the General.
“What did you do with yourself all day?” asked Nick.
“I have had an enjoyable time. I’ve been over to Dhalmatia.”
“What?” exclaimed the General.
After his warning to me, I suppose the old fellow imagined I would not care to visit the Red Fox. Neither Nick nor I had told him of the result of our first visit. Had he known that, the storm clouds gathering upon his brow would have been twice as dark.
“Yes,” I continued, “and I have seen both the Prince and the Princess, General. The Red Fox was not tricking you when he announced the birth of twins.”
Then I told the story of my afternoon as rapidly as possible. But the General was not impressed. The aged, as the homely old expression has it, are frequently “sot in their ways” and I suppose the General had hugged this favourite delusion to his breast so long that he could not let it go. When I was through he remarked dryly:
“Then you did not see the Prince and the Princess together, after all?”
“I did not see them standing side by side,” I admitted; “but it was practically the same thing.”
“I always told you, General,” chimed in Nicholas, “that you were wrong. I agree with Dale, and you might as well surrender as gracefully as possible.”
But the General refused to surrender.
“’Tis some trick of the Red Fox,” he stoutly maintained, and no amount of argument could move him. He met every advance and escaped every tight corner with the same reply. In his mind Ananias was a truth-teller compared with the Duke of Dhalmatia. We finally dropped the subject, and talked of other matters.
“We are going down to Nischon in the morning, Dale,” said Nick. “Do you want to go along?”
“Indeed I do,” I replied. I was anxious to see the capital of which I had heard so much and more especially the Cathedral in which the Prince was to be crowned.
Accordingly, when the General awakened us before daylight, I dressed with alacrity. The sun was just rising when we passed Solonika’s summer-house, but, early as we were, others were abroad ahead of us. Drawn up on the side of the road, as if to permit us to pass, were six horsemen, muffled up to the eyes in long Spanish cloaks, their spirited horses backing, dancing and rearing as we passed. I could not be sure, but I received the impression that they were not riding forward upon the road, but waiting. One of their number recognized the General and saluted him with a familiar wave of the hand. But the General refused to return the salute. We passed swiftly on.
Although their action was military, the horsemen did not strike me as being soldiers; for one thing they were not dressed in uniform. Perhaps they were a party of young nobles out for a lark. They resembled Duke Marbosa’s messenger who had inquired about Nicholas’s return. But what could the gentry be doing on the road at such an unearthly hour in the morning?
It was a perfect automobiling day, one of those sunshiny mornings when one is glad to be alive. We passed many estates and small villages on the way, and the townsfolk had a smile and a hearty cheer for the General. As we whirled by a roadside tavern a bystander waved his hat in the air and shouted a greeting.
It sounded as if he said “Long live Palmora!” and the crowd joined in the general cheer that followed. But all was not love and good fellowship in this country. We received a rude shock on the outskirts of this very village.
There, beside a small chapel of the Greek Church, standing in the midst of a crowded graveyard, was a charred pyre of wood, from the center of which rose an iron post pointing to the sky. On the top of the post a gilded Greek cross glistened in the sunlight, unharmed by the smoke and flames which had raged below.
Tied to the post, blackened and burnt until the flesh had dropped off in places, exposing the bones beneath, was the naked body of a woman. Although the fire had been out for days, smoke still found its way upward, like a gentle blue vapor, fading quickly away. One or two villagers were leaning against the stone wall that surrounded the graveyard, but they were more interested in the automobile than in the terrible scene behind them.
“Look,” I cried, pointing it out to Nick.
He touched Teju Okio on the shoulder and the machine was brought to a standstill as quickly as possible; but we had so far overrun the place that we had to back to bring it opposite. The General talked with the idlers and translated their story to me.
“It is the witch of Utrepect,” he said. “The priests burnt her at the stake a week ago for blasphemy. She had considerable influence over the minds of the villagers, and was undermining their faith. The Patriarch at Nischon warned her to keep silent. The church excommunicated her and forbade her to come upon church property. She defied them and last Sunday cursed the priest of the chapel upon the spot where she now is. He seized her, aided by his congregation, raised the pyre and burnt her to death as an example for all men who refuse to listen to the church. No one is permitted to touch her on pain of death. So there she hangs until the dogs devour her.”
Could it be possible that such barbarism existed in the name of religion in any European country in this the twentieth century? Had anyone told me this a few hours before, I would have laughed at him. But here was the concrete fact before my horrified eyes.
“Drive on, Okio,” I cried, sick of the sight. The Jap obeyed.
“That must have been the witch Princess Solonika spoke of as having prophesied that Raoul would never be king,” said Nick, smiling at my show of disgust. Neither he nor the General seemed to think the priest’s action at all unusual. Cotton Mather had his following even among the Pilgrim Fathers.
Nischon was a matter of fifty miles from Castle Framkor, but Teju Okio manipulated his levers to such good purpose that, in spite of the stop at Utrepect, we came in sight of the ancient city before half past nine. Nischon in the sunlight was a beautiful city. It burst upon us as we reached the top of a high hill and we could thus look down upon its roof tops.
It lay in a valley on both sides of the river they call the Kneister, the only waterway of importance in Bharbazonia, which flows away to the south and empties into the Black Sea, at Bizzett, by means of a subterranean passage through the mountain wall.
The two hills which formed the valley sloped gently down on both sides to the water edge, leaving no level land anywhere. On the tableland, on top of these hills, we could see the numerous castles of the nobles, thrusting their proud stone turrets above the trees like self-appointed watchdogs of the city.
In all the myriad hives of houses below, one building caught my eye before the rest and I did not need to be told that it was the Cathedral. It was a huge structure, standing alone upon a terraced green square on our side of the river. Four minarets, one on each corner, piercing the sky, first riveted the attention. They bore aloft great gilded Greek crosses that flashed the blinding rays of the reflected sun in our eyes as we moved along the road.
Four great domes made up the main body of the structure, three huddling together in a single row in front and the fourth rearing its huge bulk high above the rest in the rear. Like the crosses, the tops of the domes were gilded and the whole effect was that of a building of gold.
“The Cathedral,” Nick informed me, “is one of the oldest buildings in the country. It is similar in architectural design to the mosque of St. Sophia which we saw from the yacht as we passed Constantinople. St. Sophia, considered the oldest Christian church in the world, was converted by the Mohammedans into a mosque in the sixteenth century.”
The palace of the King was also a noticeable building. Like the Cathedral it was surrounded by its green terrace gardens which held it aloof from the rest of the houses. It was on the other side of the river close to the bank. In fact a wall of ancient masonry enclosed the grounds and rose sheer from the water on the river side. Turrets were built in this wall at regular intervals, as a protection for the castle itself, which stood alone in the centre of the grounds, built more for warfare than for beauty.
The progress of the General in the machine through the streets of Nischon was like the approach of a conquering hero. Everywhere carters drew respectfully aside to let us pass. Men stood with uncovered heads, and women at the windows held their children up to see the great man. Thirty years had but enhanced the glory of the General’s achievements as the conqueror of the Turks at the head of the Bharbazonian army. Old men, who had seen service with him during that campaign, cheered and blessed their leader as he passed; and to these the General kissed his hand and shouted friendly greeting.
“I would give all I possess,” whispered Nick, “to have the love and respect of the people as the General has.”
“Do not despair,” I replied; “one day the opportunity may arrive when you will win their esteem. We are all children of chance.”
Green uniformed soldiers guarded the drawbridge which spanned the river and led to the King’s palace. They stood at attention as the heavy car rolled over the creaking planks. The iron doors in the castle wall swung back on their rusty hinges, and we passed over a driveway winding between green well-kept lawns until we came to the palace.
A lieutenant of the King’s Guard opened the tonneau door and assisted us to alight, and a uniformed courier ushered us into the presence of the King, the mighty hero of the battle at the Turk’s Head Inn. Gregory was seated at the council table with another old man who I learned was called Nokolovich, a prominent member of the king’s official family and his chief advisor. I suppose in any other country he would have had the title of Prime Minister.
Both greeted General Palmora effusively and were gravely attentive to Nicholas. From their manner toward him it was clear that he was known as a Bharbazonian among them and that he had their respect. I was formally presented to the King, in whose eyes, curious to say, I found favour because I was a countryman of General Grant.
“I take great pleasure even now,” said the King, “in reading the history of his battles. His example inspired me in our own wars.”
In due time all four plunged into the mysterious business of state which brought them together, conversing in the Bharbazonian dialect and I had ample opportunity to observe the great warrior.
Gregory was indeed a commanding figure. Nature meant him to be a king, for she had given him a stature above his fellows and a lordly mien which even old age could not destroy. And he was very old. His great beard, long and white, fell almost to his waist; his snowy locks were brushed back from his forehead and curled in silvery ringlets upon his broad shoulders. Time had bent him but little, and had not taken from him that penetrating glance which suggested his shrewd brother, the Red Fox of Dhalmatia.
But the King looked like a man who ate and drank too well; in whose veins the red blood ran too full. And Mother Nature it seems had sent him her first warning, if one might judge from the lack of control existing along one side of the body, most plainly visible in the halting way he moved his left arm and leg. His determination to abdicate, and bring his life work to a happy conclusion after thirty years of ruling, showed that he intended to heed the warning and take a well-earned rest. It was just as well, for the hand that adjusted the glasses to his dim-visioned eyes shook with a great trembling; it was clear to my medical mind that he could not withstand a second stroke.
I was glad when Nick’s part in the proceedings came to an end, and he suggested that we take a walk in the gardens overlooking the river. But I was not long in Nicholas’s company. In the gardens we encountered Princess Teskla, the King’s daughter. She came suddenly from the shrubbery at the side of the gravel walk and stood in our pathway smiling, her eyes on Nick.
Seldom have I seen a more handsome young woman, and handsome is the word, for “pretty” or “beautiful” would be too weak to picture her. Like her father she was cast in a generous mould. There was no denying the physical attraction of her voluptuous figure and finely chiselled face, wherein was the suggestion of Spanish beauty due no doubt to her swarthy skin and coal-black hair. Such beauty as this might Juno have possessed to dazzle the eyes of the gods on Mount Olympus.
“Nicholas,” she cried as she extended her arms toward him, red roses mantling her cheeks and a smile of happiness parting her full lips.
“Teskla,” cried he with equal warmth.
As I watched the friendly greeting it dawned upon me that all Nick’s journeys in the automobile during our stay in Bharbazonia had not in the past, and would not in the future, be to meetings of the Order at the Turk’s Head tavern.
Has it ever been forced upon you that the old saying is true, “Two is company and three is a crowd?” If you have ever been so unfortunate you will understand why I quietly stepped from the path and slipped into the bushes; and why it was that I continued my walk alone. When next they thought of me, if they remembered me at all, I had disappeared and I do not blame them if they were glad.
For my part I too was well content, for I found a comfortable seat on the low wall overlooking the river. Below me the water rippled over the pebble bottom, reflecting the flat-roofed houses on the further shore. It was pleasantly warm in the sun. A few more weeks, and Solonika, with the Prince and her father, might be walking in these gardens while I—I should be preparing for my journey back to America to resume my prosaic practice of medicine. My vacation in Bharbazonia so far had been pleasantly ideal. Somehow I did not view with joy the idea of leaving Framkor, the summer-house of Dhalmatia and, last of all, Solonika.
From my position on the wall I had a view of two walks in the garden which joined at right angles in front of me, one leading from the palace and the other corning from the depth of the garden. My reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps upon the gravel pavement. The King, General Palmora and the Prime Minister were approaching. Looking down the other walk I saw the Princess and Nicholas. Although I could see both parties, they could not see each other for the foliage.
Just as the King and his friends arrived at the junction, and turned to go down the walk toward Nicholas and the girl, Nick bent his head and kissed the Princess upon the mouth. They were totally unaware that they were observed. She gave a little cry and struggled, not too vigorously, I thought, to free herself. The three old men stood as if transfixed, watching the love scene. Nicholas refused to release her, although she playfully boxed his ears, and in return he kissed her again. Then they stood apart, looked at each other and laughed aloud.
“Teskla!” shouted the King.
They jumped as if a bomb had been exploded between them, their happy smiles fading. The Princess acted as if she were about to faint, but she recovered herself. I could see that she was speaking quickly and in a low tone to her companion, and that he was heeding what she said. Then, instead of fronting the King, as I fully expected him to do, Nick slipped away into the shrubbery and disappeared, leaving the woman to face her father alone. Truly Nicholas in America and Nicholas in Bharbazonia were two entirely different fellows.
But there was method in the Princess’s madness. That rosy young woman came timidly to her father’s side. He was fumbling with his glasses but he did not get them adjusted until Nick was gone. But he held them to his eyes and looked coldly at his daughter. She, too happy to care, saucily returned his angry stare.
The King asked her one question, which, being in the dialect, I could not understand. She continued to face him bravely and spoke two words in reply. It sounded as if she said “Prince Raoul.” Whatever her answer, it had a great effect upon the General and the Prime Minister. Those two worthies threw up their hands in astonishment, or remonstrance, but they were silenced by a look from the Princess.
The two words also had a remarkable influence upon the angry father. He dropped his glasses from his eyes and laughed, his former passion forgotten like an April shower. He nodded his old white head, rubbed his hands as if the news pleased him beyond expression, and kissed his daughter, not where Nick had kissed her, but upon the brow. Together they retraced their steps. It was all a mystery to me.
When they were at a distance I quietly slipped from my position on the wall and joined them. But I could not learn what had occurred to please the King so highly.
“Are we to congratulate Nick?” I whispered to the General, who had dropped behind with me.
“Shut up,” said he, rudely, and then I saw that he was very angry.
On the palace steps we found Nick waiting for us. The Princess waved her hand to him as if to signal that all was well, and he came fearlessly forward and walked beside her. He met the General’s scowl with a smile. The King seemed totally unaware that Nick had been the offender. It was plain that we had to thank a clever woman’s quick wit for saving a difficult situation.
But at what terrible cost I was to learn later!
The King was in high spirits during the luncheon, but the General and the Prime Minister were inclined to be moody. Princess Teskla and Nicholas behaved scandalously, I thought, openly “making eyes” at each other across the table. But on the whole the meal went off as smoothly as a marriage bell.
It was not until we were homeward bound in the machine that I was able to get to the bottom of the garden mystery.
“What did the Princess tell the King?” I asked in a whisper, that the General might not start his lecture again. He had given his godson a piece of his mind in the home language for the first ten miles, and it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.
“She is a clever little rogue,” whispered Nick, rather proud of the girl’s achievement, “she told him it was Prince Raoul.”
“But why was he so pleased?”
“He would like to see Teskla married to Raoul.”
“So?” I replied, remembering what Solonika had said. “But does the King think Prince Raoul is in the habit of visiting her in the gardens clandestinely?”
“Yes; she has often used that excuse before.”
“You are a lucky dog,” I said.
But Teskla’s little white lie was destined to grow big and bear unexpected fruit. We had not mastered the secret of the King’s great joy. A little thing like a kiss, it is said, was the cause for one exodus from a garden; or was it a purloined apple?