Rupert of Hentzau: From the Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim
Chapter IX: The King in the Hunting Lodge

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THE moment with its shock and tumult of feeling brings one judgment, later reflection another. Among the sins of Rupert of Hentzau I do not assign the first and greatest place to his killing of the king. It was, indeed, the act of a reckless man who stood at nothing and held nothing sacred; but when I consider Herbert’s story, and trace how the deed came to be done and the impulsion of circumstances that led to it, it seems to have been in some sort thrust upon him by the same perverse fate that dogged our steps. He had meant the king no harm--indeed it may be argued that, from whatever motive, he had sought to serve him--and save under the sudden stress of self-defense he had done him none. The king’s unlooked-for ignorance of his errand, Herbert’s honest hasty zeal, the temper of Boris the hound, had forced on him an act unmeditated and utterly against his interest. His whole guilt lay in preferring the king’s death to his own--a crime perhaps in most men, but hardly deserving a place in Rupert’s catalogue. All this I can admit now, but on that night, with the dead body lying there before us, with the story piteously told by Herbert’s faltering voice fresh in our ears, it was hard to allow any such extenuation. Our hearts cried out for vengeance, although we ourselves served the king no more. Nay, it may well be that we hoped to stifle some reproach of our own consciences by a louder clamor against another’s sin, or longed to offer some belated empty atonement to our dead master by executing swift justice on the man who had killed him. I cannot tell fully what the others felt, but in me at least the dominant impulse was to waste not a moment in proclaiming the crime and raising the whole country in pursuit of Rupert, so that every man in Ruritania should quit his work, his pleasure, or his bed, and make it his concern to take the Count of Hentzau, alive or dead. I remember that I walked over to where Sapt was sitting, and caught him by the arm, saying:

“We must raise the alarm. If you’ll go to Zenda, I’ll start for Strelsau.”

“The alarm?” said he, looking up at me and tugging his moustache.

“Yes: when the news is known, every man in the kingdom will be on the lookout for him, and he can’t escape.”

“So that he’d be taken?” asked the constable.

“Yes, to a certainty,” I cried, hot in excitement and emotion. Sapt glanced across at Mr. Rassendyll’s servant. James had, with my help, raised the king’s body on to the bed, and had aided the wounded forester to reach a couch. He stood now near the constable, in his usual unobtrusive readiness. He did not speak, but I saw a look of understanding in his eyes as he nodded his head to Colonel Sapt. They were well matched, that pair, hard to move, hard to shake, not to be turned from the purpose in their minds and the matter that lay to their hands.

“Yes, he’d probably be taken or killed,” said Sapt.

“Then let’s do it!” I cried.

“With the queen’s letter on him,” said Colonel Sapt.

I had forgotten.

“We have the box, he has the letter still,” said Sapt.

I could have laughed even at that moment. He had left the box (whether from haste or heedlessness or malice, we could not tell), but the letter was on him. Taken alive, he would use that powerful weapon to save his life or satisfy his anger; if it were found on his body, its evidence would speak loud and clear to all the world. Again he was protected by his crime: while he had the letter, he must be kept inviolate from all attack except at our own hands. We desired his death, but we must be his body-guard and die in his defense rather than let any other but ourselves come at him. No open means must be used, and no allies sought.

All this rushed to my mind at Sapt’s words, and I saw what the constable and James had never forgotten. But what to do I could not see. For the King of Ruritania lay dead.

An hour or more had passed since our discovery, and it was now close on midnight. Had all gone well we ought by this time to have been far on our road back to the castle; by this time Rupert must be miles away from where he had killed the king; already Mr. Rassendyll would be seeking his enemy in Strelsau.

“But what are we to do about--about that, then?” I asked, pointing with my finger through the doorway towards the bed.

Sapt gave a last tug at his moustache, then crossed his hands on the hilt of the sword between his knees, and leant forward in his chair.

“Nothing, he said,” looking at my face. “Until we have the letter, nothing.”

“But it’s impossible!” I cried.

“Why, no, Fritz,” he answered thoughtfully. “It’s not possible yet; it may become so. But if we can catch Rupert in the next day, or even in the next two days, it’s not impossible. Only let me have the letter, and I’ll account for the concealment. What? Is the fact that crimes are known never concealed, for fear of putting the criminal on his guard?”

“You’ll be able to make a story, sir,” James put in, with a grave but reassuring air.

“Yes, James, I shall be able to make a story, or your master will make one for me. But, by God, story or no story, the letter mustn’t be found.

Let them say we killed him ourselves if they like, but--”

I seized his hand and gripped it.

“You don’t doubt I’m with you?” I asked.

“Not for a moment, Fritz,” he answered.

“Then how can we do it?”

We drew nearer together; Sapt and I sat, while James leant over Sapt’s chair.

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, and the light burnt very dim.

Now and again poor Herbert, for whom our skill could do nothing, gave a slight moan. I am ashamed to remember how little we thought of him, but great schemes make the actors in them careless of humanity; the life of a man goes for nothing against a point in the game. Except for his groans--and they grew fainter and less frequent--our voices alone broke the silence of the little lodge.

“The queen must know,” said Sapt. “Let her stay at Zenda and give out that the king is at the lodge for a day or two longer. Then you, Fritz--for you must ride to the castle at once--and Bernenstein must get to Strelsau as quick as you can, and find Rudolf Rassendyll. You three ought to be able to track young Rupert down and get the letter from him.

If he’s not in the city, you must catch Rischenheim, and force him to say where he is; we know Rischenheim can be persuaded. If Rupert’s there, I need give no advice either to you or to Rudolf.”

“And you?”

“James and I stay here. If any one comes whom we can keep out, the king is ill. If rumors get about, and great folk come, why, they must enter.”

“But the body?”

“This morning, when you’re gone, we shall make a temporary grave. I dare say two,” and he jerked his thumb towards poor Herbert.

“Or even,” he added, with his grim smile, “three--for our friend Boris, too, must be out of sight.”

“You’ll bury the king?”

“Not so deep but that we can take him out again, poor fellow. Well, Fritz, have you a better plan?”

I had no plan, and I was not in love with Sapt’s plan. Yet it offered us four and twenty hours. For that time, at least, it seemed as if the secret could be kept. Beyond that we could hardly hope for success; after that we must produce the king; dead or alive, the king must be seen. Yet it might be that before the respite ran out Rupert would be ours. In fine, what else could be chosen? For now a greater peril threatened than that against which we had at the first sought to guard.

Then the worst we feared was that the letter should come to the king’s hands. That could never be. But it would be a worse thing if it were found on Rupert, and all the kingdom, nay, all Europe, know that it was written in the hand of her who was now, in her own right, Queen of Ruritania. To save her from that, no chance was too desperate, no scheme too perilous; yes, if, as Sapt said, we ourselves were held to answer for the king’s death, still we must go on. I, through whose negligence the whole train of disaster had been laid, was the last man to hesitate.

In all honesty, I held my life due and forfeit, should it be demanded of me--my life and, before the world, my honor.

So the plan was made. A grave was to be dug ready for the king; if need arose, his body should be laid in it, and the place chosen was under the floor of the wine-cellar. When death came to poor Herbert, he could lie in the yard behind the house; for Boris they meditated a resting-place under the tree where our horses were tethered. There was nothing to keep me, and I rose; but as I rose, I heard the forester’s voice call plaintively for me. The unlucky fellow knew me well, and now cried to me to sit by him. I think Sapt wanted me to leave him, but I could not refuse his last request, even though it consumed some precious minutes.

He was very near his end, and, sitting by him, I did my best to soothe his passing. His fortitude was good to see, and I believe that we all at last found new courage for our enterprise from seeing how this humble man met death. At least even the constable ceased to show impatience, and let me stay till I could close the sufferer’s eyes.

But thus time went, and it was nearly five in the morning before I bade them farewell and mounted my horse. They took theirs and led them away to the stables behind the lodge; I waved my hand and galloped off on my return to the castle. Day was dawning, and the air was fresh and pure.

The new light brought new hope; fears seemed to vanish before it; my nerves were strung to effort and to confidence. My horse moved freely under me and carried me easily along the grassy avenues. It was hard then to be utterly despondent, hard to doubt skill of brain, strength of hand, or fortune’s favor.

The castle came in sight, and I hailed it with a glad cry that echoed among the trees. But a moment later I gave an exclamation of surprise, and raised myself a little from the saddle while I gazed earnestly at the summit of the keep. The flag staff was naked; the royal standard that had flapped in the wind last night was gone. But by immemorial custom the flag flew on the keep when the king or the queen was at the castle. It would fly for Rudolf V. no more; but why did it not proclaim and honor the presence of Queen Flavia? I sat down in my saddle and spurred my horse to the top of his speed. We had been buffeted by fate sorely, but now I feared yet another blow.

In a quarter of an hour more I was at the door. A servant ran out, and I dismounted leisurely and easily. Pulling off my gloves, I dusted my boots with them, turned to the stableman and bade him look to the horse, and then said to the footman:

“As soon as the queen is dressed, find out if she can see me. I have a message from his Majesty.”

The fellow looked a little puzzled, but at this moment Hermann, the king’s major-domo, came to the door.

“Isn’t the constable with you, my lord?” he asked.

“No, the constable remains at the lodge with the king,” said I carelessly, though I was very far from careless. “I have a message for her Majesty, Hermann. Find out from some of the women when she will receive me.”

“The queen’s not here,” said he. “Indeed we’ve had a lively time, my lord. At five o’clock she came out, ready dressed, from her room, sent for Lieutenant von Bernenstein, and announced that she was about to set out from the castle. As you know, the mail train passes here at six.”

Hermann took out his watch. “Yes, the queen must just have left the station.”

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