Nowadays a big variety of genres are exist. In our electronic library you can choose any book that suits your mood, request and purpose. This website is full of free ebooks. Reading online is very popular and become mainstream. This website can provoke you to be smarter than anyone. You can read between work breaks, in public transport, in cafes over a cup of coffee and cheesecake.Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (most inspirational books .txt) đź“–
- Author: Anthony Hope
Book online «Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim<br />Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope (most inspirational books .txt) 📖». Author Anthony Hope
“Come, Count, you’d be the last man to trust Rupert of Hentzau.”
“If I made it worth his while?”
“But he’s a man who would take the pay and betray his associate.”
Again Rupert flushed. When he next spoke his voice was hard, cold, and low.
“By God, Rudolf Rassendyll,” said he, “I’ll kill you here and now.”
“I ask no better than that you should try.”
“And then I’ll proclaim that woman for what she is in all Strelsau.” A smile came on his lips as he watched Rudolf’s face.
“Guard yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Rassendyll.
“Ay, for no better than—There, man, I’m ready for you.” For Rudolf’s blade had touched his in warning.
The steel jangled. The girl’s pale face was at the crevice of the hinge. She heard the blades cross again and again. Then one would run up the other with a sharp, grating slither. At times she caught a glimpse of a figure in quick forward lunge or rapid wary withdrawal. Her brain was almost paralyzed.
Ignorant of the mind and heart of young Rupert, she could not conceive that he tried to kill the king. Yet the words she had caught sounded like the words of men quarreling, and she could not persuade herself that the gentlemen fenced only for pastime. They were not speaking now; but she heard their hard breathing and the movement of their unresting feet on the bare boards of the floor. Then a cry rang out, clear and merry with the fierce hope of triumph: “Nearly! nearly!”
She knew the voice for Rupert of Hentzau’s, and it was the king who answered calmly, “Nearly isn’t quite.”
Again she listened. They seemed to have paused for a moment, for there was no sound, save of the hard breathing and deep-drawn pants of men who rest an instant in the midst of intense exertion. Then came again the clash and the slitherings; and one of them crossed into her view. She knew the tall figure and she saw the red hair: it was the king. Backward step by step he seemed to be driven, coming nearer and nearer to the door. At last there was no more than a foot between him and her; only the crazy panel prevented her putting out her hand to touch him. Again the voice of Rupert rang out in rich exultation, “I have you now! Say your prayers, King Rudolf!”
“Say your prayers!” Then they fought. It was earnest, not play. And it was the king—her king—her dear king, who was in great peril of his life. For an instant she knelt, still watching. Then with a low cry of terror she turned and ran headlong down the steep stairs. Her mind could not tell what to do, but her heart cried out that she must do something for her king. Reaching the ground floor, she ran with wide-open eyes into the kitchen. The stew was on the hob, the old woman still held the spoon, but she had ceased to stir and fallen into a chair.
“He’s killing the king! He’s killing the king!” cried Rosa, seizing her mother by the arm. “Mother, what shall we do? He’s killing the king!”
The old woman looked up with dull eyes and a stupid, cunning smile.
“Let them alone,” she said. “There’s no king here.”
“Yes, yes. He’s upstairs in the count’s room. They’re fighting, he and the Count of Hentzau. Mother, Count Rupert will kill—”
“Let them alone. He the king? He’s no king,” muttered the old woman again.
For an instant Rosa stood looking down on her in helpless despair. Then a light flashed into her eyes.
“I must call for help,” she cried.
The old woman seemed to spring to sudden life. She jumped up and caught her daughter by the shoulder.
“No, no,” she whispered in quick accents. “You—you don’t know. Let them alone, you fool! It’s not our business. Let them alone.”
“Let me go, mother, let me go! Mother, I must help the king!”
“I’ll not let you go,” said Mother Holf.
But Rosa was young and strong; her heart was fired with terror for the king’s danger.
“I must go,” she cried; and she flung her mother’s grasp off from her so that the old woman was thrown back into her chair, and the spoon fell from her hand and clattered on the tiles. But Rosa turned and fled down the passage and through the shop. The bolts delayed her trembling fingers for an instant. Then she flung the door wide. A new amazement filled her eyes at the sight of the eager crowd before the house. Then her eyes fell on me where I stood between the lieutenant and Rischenheim, and she uttered her wild cry, “Help! The king!”
With one bound I was by her side and in the house, while Bernenstein cried, “Quicker!” from behind.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE KING
THE things that men call presages, presentiments, and so forth, are, to my mind, for the most part idle nothings: sometimes it is only that probable events cast before them a natural shadow which superstitious fancy twists into a Heaven sent warning; oftener the same desire that gives conception works fulfilment, and the dreamer sees in the result of his own act and will a mysterious accomplishment independent of his effort. Yet when I observe thus calmly and with good sense on the matter to the Constable of Zenda, he shakes his head and answers, “But Rudolf Rassendyll knew from the first that he would come again to Strelsau and engage young Rupert point to point. Else why did he practise with the foils so as to be a better swordsman the second time than he was the first? Mayn’t God do anything that Fritz von Tarlenheim can’t understand? a pretty notion, on my life!” And he goes off grumbling.
Well, be it inspiration, or be it delusion—and the difference stands often on a hair’s breadth—I am glad that Rudolf had it. For if a man once grows rusty, it is everything short of impossible to put the fine polish on his skill again. Mr. Rassendyll had strength, will, coolness, and, of course, courage. None would have availed had not his eye been in perfect familiarity with its work, and his hand obeyed it as readily as the bolt slips in a well-oiled groove. As the thing stood, the lithe agility and unmatched dash of young Rupert but just missed being too much for him. He was in deadly peril when the girl Rosa ran down to bring him aid. His practised skill was able to maintain his defence. He sought to do no more, but endured Rupert’s fiery attack and wily feints in an almost motionless stillness. Almost, I say; for the slight turns of wrist that seem nothing are everything, and served here to keep his skin whole and his life in him.
There was an instant—Rudolf saw it in his eyes and dwelt on it when
Comments (0)