The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (the little red hen read aloud .TXT) 📖

“Your Royal Highness’s wish is, humbly, my own,” said Rupert, with a bold glance that brought a blush to Flavia’s cheek.

I bowed; and Rupert, bowing lower, backed his horse and signed to his party to proceed. With a sudden impulse, I rode after him. He turned swiftly, fearing that, even in the presence of the dead and before a lady’s eyes, I meant him mischief.

“You fought as a brave man the other night,” I said. “Come, you are young, sir. If you will deliver your prisoner alive to me, you shall come to no hurt.”

He looked at me with a mocking smile; but suddenly he rode nearer to me.

“I’m unarmed,” he said; “and our old Sapt there could pick me off in a minute.”

“I’m not afraid,” said I.

“No, curse you!” he answered. “Look here, I made you a proposal from the duke once.”

“I’ll hear nothing from Black Michael,” said I.

“Then hear one from me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Attack the Castle boldly. Let Sapt and Tarlenheim lead.”

“Go on,” said I.

“Arrange the time with me.”

“I have such confidence in you, my lord!”

“Tut! I’m talking business now. Sapt there and Fritz will fall; Black Michael will fall—”

“What!”

“—Black Michael will fall, like the dog he is; the prisoner, as you call him, will go by ‘Jacob’s Ladder’—ah, you know that!—to hell! Two men will be left—I, Rupert Hentzau, and you, the King of Ruritania.”

He paused, and then, in a voice that quivered with eagerness, added:

“Isn’t that a hand to play?—a throne and your princess! And for me, say a competence and your Majesty’s gratitude.”

“Surely,” I exclaimed, “while you’re above ground, hell wants its master!”

“Well, think it over,” he said. “And, look you, it would take more than a scruple or two to keep me from yonder girl,” and his evil eye flashed again at her I loved.

“Get out of my reach!” said I; and yet in a moment I began to laugh for the very audacity of it.

“Would you turn against your master?” I asked.

He swore at Michael for being what the offspring of a legal, though morganatic, union should not be called, and said to me in an almost confidential and apparently friendly tone:

“He gets in my way, you know. He’s a jealous brute! Faith, I nearly stuck a knife into him last night; he came most cursedly mal a propos!”

My temper was well under control now; I was learning something.

“A lady?” I asked negligently.

“Ay, and a beauty,” he nodded. “But you’ve seen her.”

“Ah! was it at a tea-party, when some of your friends got on the wrong side of the table?”

“What can you expect of fools like Detchard and De Gautet? I wish I’d been there.”

“And the duke interferes?”

“Well,” said Rupert meditatively, “that’s hardly a fair way of putting it, perhaps. I want to interfere.”

“And she prefers the duke?”

“Ay, the silly creature! Ah, well, you think about my plan,” and, with a bow, he pricked his horse and trotted after the body of his friend.

I went back to Flavia and Sapt, pondering on the strangeness of the man. Wicked men I have known in plenty, but Rupert Hentzau remains unique in my experience. And if there be another anywhere, let him be caught and hanged out of hand. So say I!

“He’s very handsome, isn’t he?” said Flavia.

Well, of course, she didn’t know him as I did; yet I was put out, for I thought his bold glances would have made her angry. But my dear Flavia was a woman, and so—she was not put out. On the contrary, she thought young Rupert very handsome—as, beyond question, the ruffian was.

“And how sad he looked at his friend’s death!” said she.

“He’ll have better reason to be sad at his own,” observed Sapt, with a grim smile.

As for me, I grew sulky; unreasonable it was perhaps, for what better business had I to look at her with love than had even Rupert’s lustful eyes? And sulky I remained till, as evening fell and we rode up to Tarlenheim, Sapt having fallen behind in case anyone should be following us, Flavia, riding close beside me, said softly, with a little half-ashamed laugh:

“Unless you smile, Rudolf, I cry. Why are you angry?”

“It was something that fellow said to me,” said I, but I was smiling as we reached the door and dismounted.

There a servant handed me a note: it was unaddressed.

“Is it for me?” I asked.

“Yes, sire; a boy brought it.”

I tore it open:

Johann carries this for me. I warned you once. In the name of God, and if you are a man, rescue me from this den of murderers!—A. de M.

I handed it to Sapt; but all that the tough old soul said in reply to this piteous appeal was:

“Whose fault brought her there?”

Nevertheless, not being faultless myself, I took leave to pity Antoinette de Mauban.