TALKING-TALBOT-Chapter-06

It was with no small satisfaction that Talbot found himself one day established in one of Budapest’s best hotels.

He had gone first to Vienna, where he had used his credentials to such good purpose that he had been furnished with other letters to the proper persons in Budapest. He felt that his search for Donald was nearing an end, and, he hoped, a successful one.

He had told the people at the American legation of his experience with the Hungarian revolutionists in Paris, and they had not only taken his story very seriously, but had urged him to hurry through with what he had to do, and, above all things, to say nothing about it unless he wanted to find himself mixed up in it in spite of himself.

“There really is something in it?” he asked.”The whole of Hungary is ripe for a rupture with Austria.” he was told. “If the Hungarians were only united it would be a matter of days only. As it is there are two claimants for the throne, and a strong minority that favors a republic.”

“And my little countess?”

“Your little countess is the most dangerous of the lot. She has been an exile for a number of years, and has spent her time gathering men and money in America. She is in favor of a return to the old regime — the nearest representative of the ancient reigning house.”

“I thought,” said Talbot, “she might be meaning to mount the throne herself.”

“You think it a joke,” was the quick response; “but let me tell you that if the man she favors is put on the throne she will undoubtedly be his queen.”

“And to think,” laughed Talbot, “that I have had the honor of familiar intercourse with her.”

“Steer clear of them all,” his adviser urged. “The three parties are at war among themselves. We got word a day or two ago that the other claimant to the throne had disappeared, and it is suspected that she has met with foul play, poor child !”

“Child?” queried Talbot, with mild interest.

“A girl. I’m told she’s an unwilling participant, but it seems she has a few drops of the very oldest, simon-pure strain of blood royal in her veins and has been dragged into the affair.”‘

“She’s part Slav,” interposed one of the attaches, who had been listening, “and that is supposed to make her desirable as likely to reconcile the Slavic part of Hungary. However, she’s done for now. If the Magyar party has her she’s not likely to bother anybody for long.”

“Well,” said Talbot, with a sort of

disgust, “I thought the Hungarians were a fine people.”

“Fine?” was the general outcry. “Nothing better in the world; nothing better than the Hungarian people. We’re not talking of them, but of the ruling class. The ruling class the world over is rotten and despicable to the last degree. The hope is that in the end the people will come into their own.”

“Well.” said Talbot, “they have my best wishes. In the meantime, I’m busy with just one thing, and nothing will divert me from it.”

Budapest has the reputation of being the gayest city in the world, and the naughtiest, and when Talbot found himself set down there, where only a short time before he had not dreamed of being, he might have indulged a perfectly justifiable curiosity to explore it.

It was as gay and bright as ever it had been, even though the Russian army threatened from the Carpathians ; but it held nothing seductive for Talbot. He was intent on finding Donald so that he might send the good word to the waiting mother in America.

He presented his letters at the headquarters of the military governor, and was received with a courtesy that almost revived the suspicions he had had in Paris.

When he was shown in to see the governor, however, he quickly forgot his suspicions in face of the promptness and frankness of his treatment by him.

“You are seeking a friend among our prisoners, I believe,” said the governor.

“A young American who enlisted in the French army.”

“Tell me all about it, please.”

Talbot told his well-rehearsed story, refraining carefully from any reference to his difficulties. The governor asked a few questions, all of which Talbot answered.

“What made you think he might be here?” the governor demanded.
Talbot explained that he had been captured by the Austrian troops, which at that time were in Alsace.

“Was he wounded?”

“1 don’t know.”

“It would make it easier to free him. But no matter! It shall he arranged somehow, once you find him.”

He rang a bell, explained the situation to the young aid who came in response, and bade him prepare the necessary permits and passes to enable Talbot to search the detention camp.

“You see,”‘ he said, “we have but the one camp here. You will have some difficulty in reaching it, but with money you can accomplish it, no doubt. This young gentleman will give you all the information you require. Kindly report to me when your search is over. You understand that I am promising nothing more than that I will do my best for you.”

“When his highness says that,” laughed the young officer when they were outside, “it is as good as done.”

At any rate, the plainly manifested good will of the governor made smooth sailing for him. Everybody helped him frankly and freely; so that the next morning saw him making his way to the camp.

It was quite fifty miles from the city, and was reached by a slow journey by rail for part of the distance, and by any conveyance he might get for the remainder.

It was still early in the afternoon when he reached the village that was nearest to the camp, but he found that by the time he could get to the camp, some three miles distant, it would be too late for him to gain admittance.

He had so far seen nothing in the nature of a spy, and, therefore, felt reasonably secure from the interference that had annoyed him so in Paris.

Almost everybody spoke German, so he had no difficulty as a consequence of not understanding Hungarian. The

head of the village, with great solemnity, had interviewed him at once on his arrival and had retired, bowing profoundly to the combination of authority from the military governor, a handful of gold, and avowed American citizenship.

The American gentleman was welcome to the best the village afforded ; a conveyance should be ready for him in the morning to take him to the detention camp; in the meantime there were the paths in the forest and by the banks of the little river, where he was most welcome to walk. No doubt if his highness the Prince of Something unpronounceable were at home he would welcome the stranger at the castle; as it was the gentleman might find the exterior of the old castle worth looking at.

The suggestion of a walk in the noble forest near by struck Talbot as a very good one, and he had no sooner washed the dirt of travel from his hands and face than he set put.

The few people he saw — mostly old men and females of all ages — were not disposed to be friendly ; or, perhaps, they did not understand German outside of the villages. At any rate, the workers in the fields only looked up and stared in response to his greetings, and then went on with their work.

An hour’s sauntering walk through the wonderful forest brought him to a vast open space, at the farther side of which rose a great castle, flanked on each side by a high and apparently massive wall.

It was plainly a very, very old structure, though in perfect repair, and in the days long past must have been a formidable fortress. The romance in Talbot made him feel that he would liketo explore the interior of it, but it was so plainly in use that he dismissed the idea.

He even refrained from approaching any nearer, lest his presence should annoy the inmates. Wishing, however, to get some idea of the size of the place, he kept at the edge of the woods, and started to skirt the wall.

He neither saw nor heard a human sound, and if it had not been for the smoke coming out of some of the chimneys he would have believed it uninhabited.

The wall stretched on and on, forbidding and insurmountable by ordinary means. Nothing less than a good ladder would have enabled any one to climb up and look over it.

He passed two doors in the wall ; both were of recent date and of oak bound with wrought-iron straps. Later he came upon a small door of open ironwork, but very heavy.

He could not resist the impulse to look through the bars to get a glimpse of the grounds hidden by the- great wall. He was obliged to stoop in order to do so.

For a few seconds he was conscious only of looking into a small inclosure, which had once been a garden, but which now bore not only the blight of a cold November, but of years of neglect. A small stone cottage stood in the midst of the garden, and beyond stretched the well-kept grounds of the castle.

For a few moments he studied the scene in wonder; then he became aware of a human occupant of the garden, and. flushing with shame, he stammered in German: “I — I beg your pardon; I — I — I’m a stranger.”

Much chagrined at having been detected in so undignified a proceeding, he was hurrying away when a soft voice called out in tones of mingled terror andentreatv: “Don’t go! Please come back !”

He turned back and looked again through the grating, ready to make the most abject of apologies, but saying nothing.

A simply but richly dressed young

woman stood in plain sight, in an attitude of fear, her hands tightly clasped in front of her, her lips parted, her eyes wide open.

In spite of her manifest terror it seemed to Talbot he had never seen so lovely a creature as this. Her slender but well-rounded figure, and the firm, fresh lines of her exquisite face indicated that she was about twenty years of age.

“I am very sorry,” he said earnestly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I am a stranger and was walking about the castle.”

“You are a stranger?” she demanded in a low tone, glancing furtively around.

“Yes, an American. – ‘

“Oh-h!” she breathed, and softly moved toward him, her great gray eyes studying his face. “Not a Hungarian?”

“Oh, no ; an American.”

She approached closer, and the nearer she came the more wonderful she seemed in her pure, sweet beauty. “You are not deceiving me?” she asked, with a pathetic quiver of her sensitive lips.

“I give my word of honor,” he answered. “Why should I deceive you? What reason would I have?”

She came to within three feet of the grated door, her little hands clinging tightly to each other, her eyes searching his face. But all the while she seemed to be listening intently and to be moving softly so that she might hear the better.

“You look honest,” she whispered.

“Are you in trouble? Do you need help?”

She wrung her hands. “If I could only be sure.”

“You may trust me,” he said, with a fervor that he wondered at himself. “I never betrayed a trust in my life. Do you need help?”

“I am a prisoner here,” she breathed, “and — and I am afraid.”

“Who keeps you a prisoner? What for?” demanded Talbot, instinctively trying the door to see if it could be forced open.

‘”Oh, I don’t know if I dare to speak — to tell you.”

“Who are you?”‘ he asked.

“I am afraid,” she half sobbed. “Oh, why did they drag me into this? I didn’t want it.”

‘”I wish you would trust me,” he pleaded, his heart torn by her distress. •”I will never betray you, and I will help you.”

“I’m such a coward,” she wailed softly. “I’m not fit for this sort of thing. If they had only left me where I was.”

“If you would only tell me something that would enable me to help you,” pleaded Talbot, more moved than he remembered ever to have been.

She looked fearfully about, and crept close to the grating. “I am tbe Princess Sonia,” she whispered, and then clapped her little hand to her lips, terrified lest she had made a fatal mistake.

Talbot looked puzzled. “The Princess Sonia!” he repeated softly. “But what have you done that you should be imprisoned ?”‘

“You don’t know?*’ she cried, a new light of hope leaping to her eyes. “You really are a stranger then?”

“I reached Budapest yesterday for the first time in my life. I am here to rescue an American boy who is a war prisoner in the camp near here. On my honor, you can trust me.”

She reached out eagerly, and put her soft little hand on his as it clung to the bar of the door. He shivered and grew weak at the touch. It was the most extraordinary sensation he had ever felt.

“Oh.” she breathed. “I wonder if you can help me? I had lost all hope. I am so afraid. You see” — she lowered her voice so that he could hear her only by putting his face so close to the bars that he could feel her warm 3

breath on his cheek — “they wanted to make me head a revolution and become ” Her voice trailed off to

nothing. She was afraid to utter the words.

“Now I understand,” Talbot cried. “You are the poor little girl the Countess Elsa’s party kidnaped.”

“The Countess Elsa isn’t here?” the princess gasped in fright. “Don’t say she is here yet.”

“I don’t think she is. I left her in Paris.”

“You know her? You are a friend of hers?” And the poor child crept away from him in horror.

“No, not a friend,” he answered reassuringly. “Indeed, I think she is very near to hating me.”

“Oh!” she said softly, and drew closer again. “Do you think she will be here soon?”

“I don’t know. I suppose she will come as quickly as she can.”

“They are keeping me for her,” the princess said, staring at him.

“You mean she is to decide what ”

He couldn’t put into words a thought that seemed so monstrous.

The princess nodded her head slowly. “What to do with me,” she said in completion of his phrase. “And I know what it will be.”

He dared not ask her. He recalled the countess, and remembered what he had heard about her. He couldn’t believe the frightful suggestion that lay in the low-spoken words of the princess, however.

“I don’t believe she’s as hard as they say,” he contrived to murmur.

“She wants to be queen herself,” the princess whispered. “She will be married to the duke. You know there was a plan to marry me to the duke. That is why I was stolen away and brought here.”

“Do you love the duke?” demanded Talbot, understanding that he must be the pretender to the throne.
“I can’t bear him. But they would have made me marry him, you know. You see, it doesn’t matter about me; 1 have to do what I’m told. But that’s all over now ; the Countess Elsa won’t let me be in her way. As long as I live,” she added piteously, “they think I’m a menace. And all I want is to live in humble obscurity. I was never born to be a queen. It was so unreasonable to want to make me be one.”

“Have you no friends?”‘ he demanded. “I mean is there any one I could appeal to for you?”

“W hat could they do?” she answered liopelessly. “The Countess Elsa’s party is the most powerful. The leaders of my party must know where I am, but they have done nothing.”

“Will you let me help you?” he asked.

“But” — she stared at him eagerly — “what can you do?”

“I don’t know; but if you will trust me I will do my best to get you away from here and out of the country.”

“Oh, could you ? Do you think you could? I would be safe in Russia. I am half Russian, you know. But” — and her head drooped sadly — “you are alone, you say. You can do nothing.”

“Will you let me try?”

He took one of her little hands in his and held it. She looked into his eyes as if fascinated.

“You give me courage,” she said in a tone of surprise. “But I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

“Never mind about me. Tell me you will trust me, and let me try to get you away from here.”

“You know you will be risking your life,” she murmured. “They would kill you if they saw you now talking to me. Why should you take such a chance for me?”

“Do you suppose I could be happy if I did not try to help you? Come, that is settled. Have you any suggestions?”

“About escaping? Oh. no! I have

thought of everything, but nothing was worth while. Y’ou can see how secure they feel when they let me out here. The first day they made me stay in the cottage.”

“Are you locked in at night?”

“Yes.”

“And is no one about in the daytime ? Can no one see or hear us ?”

“There won’t be anybody here till

Oh, some one is coming now. Go ! Go quickly!” ‘

“To-morrow, at this time, be here,” he said, drawing back.

“Yes, yes !” And she turned her back on him.

He waited by the side of the gateway long enough to hear the rough voice of a man address the princess in Hungarian, and to hear her reply in the same tongue ; then quickly and silently he went on.

It was hard for him to realize that such things as he had just been hearing of could be true, but the sight of the suffering Princess Sonia and her certainty that she was facing death deprived the plot of the comic-opera effect it had theretofore had for him.

And Sonia. the girl herself, appealed to him with her helplessness, her gentleness, and for her piteous unfitness for the role she had been called on to play.

But how was he to help her? What could he do there alone, an utter stranger, knowing nobody, ignorant even of the language of the people?

Suddenly, as he strode swiftly along, he remembered Donald. Up to that time he had forgotten him completely; evidence of his absorption in the troubles of the princess.

How was he to reconcile the two tasks? He was pledged to find and free Donald, if possible. He had pledged himself to succor the princess, and even if he had not pledged himself he would not have deserted her.

It seemed hopeless to reconcile the two enterprises, and he went to sleep that night still racking his brains to find a way out of his distressing dilemma.