The Golden Bough

This visit was a warning to them all. Rowland and Tanya crawled out of their hole in the wall, somewhat pallid, and covered with dust, but determined that an effort of some sort to escape must be made at once. Herr Markov agreed with them and a council was held. Rowland, who had been doing some serious thinking, at once startled them by revealing what was in his mind.

"If Herr Markov will sell his donkey and piano-organ," he said, "I will give him ten thousand marks for them."

Zoya Rochal turned on her pillow and looked at him curiously, while Frau Nisko threw up her hands and repeated the fabulous sum.

But Herr Markov had straightened.

"So you had thought of that, too, Herr Rowland?"

"There is nothing else," shrugged Rowland helplessly. "Whatever happens I must get this money through to Switzerland-and in the machine there is perhaps room-"

"Yes, yes-there is room," said Markov thoughtfully. "We could make room. My poor instrument of torture! And Fra Umberto!"

"You do not wish to part with them?"

"It is not that. But I would not sell them, Herr Rowland. What I give, I give, – in the fullness of my heart."

"I can't ask more of you. Perhaps it will be but a loan-"

"Wait-," said Markov, his hand to his brow. "I am thinking." They watched in a moment of silence, when Herr Markov rose and took a pace or two toward the window.

"Yes. Yes. It could be done. It shall be done. My poor machine! We shall disembowel it-take out all its poor noisy entrails. It can be done in a short while. And the Fräulein shall sit inside, and travel in state to the Swiss border."

"A stroke of genius," cried Rowland excitedly. "I hadn't thought of that. And the money-?"

"A soft cushion of bank notes to sit upon."

"Ten thousand marks-a hundred thousand if you will but do it."

Matthais Markov looked at him reproachfully.

"Herr Rowland does not understand," he said gently. "It is not my poverty-but my heart-that consents."

Rowland bowed his head and caught Markov by the hand.

"Forgive me, my friend," he muttered.

Markov waved his apologies aside.

"It shall be done. The Fräulein shall go and-"

Zoya gave a hard little laugh.

"And what becomes of me?" she asked.

Markov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The question it seemed for the moment had stricken him dumb.

"It will be some days, Zoya," said Rowland quickly, "before you can be moved-"

"In the meanwhile you will leave me here at the mercy of Baron von Stromberg?" she asked querulously.

Frau Nisko looked pained but spoke up bravely: "They have done what they could-you were not recognized-"

"But if he should come-" she shuddered.

"The chances are one in a hundred-"

"But that one chance-! It is the one he never neglects."

Another silence in which Zoya relaxed again upon her pillow, groaning. Markov crossed to the side of the bed and bent over her.

"What is it that you wish-Maria-" he paused in a significant confusion, and then finished painfully, calling her by the name they knew-"What can we do-Madame Rochal?"

She straightened again and sat up in bed, her eyes flashing feverishly.

"Who is to stay here with me?" she asked. "Am I to be deserted, flaunted, cast aside into the gutter for my enemy to step upon? Am I no longer of any value-any account in your reckonings?" She laughed hysterically. "Go!" she whispered. "Go! I don't care."

"Sh-! Mariana! Sh-! Madame," whispered Markov soothingly. "There is no danger. No one can harm you. Did you not vote as Von Stromberg wished? He can have nothing against you. What can he do? In less than a week I will return-"

"You!" muttered Frau Nisko.

Zoya slowly raised herself on one elbow while Tanya looked at Rowland uncomprehendingly, the nature of the sacrifice Markov was making slowly dawning on her.

"Who else?" said Markov quietly. "It would be suicide for Herr Rowland. I have my papers. It is simplicity itself. In four days I shall be at Lindenhof. It is a mile from Lindau, on the Bodensee-Lake Constance. The Fräulein and the money shall cross into Switzerland from there at night in a boat. It is a village I know well. It can be arranged. Then I shall return by train to Munich."

Tanya had said nothing and her lips were tightly compressed with a meaning that Rowland had learned to understand.

"And you, Philippe?" she asked quietly.

"What I have done once before," he murmured soberly, "shall be accomplished again."

His look silenced the protest that was rising to her lips. She only clasped her hands nervously a moment, but said nothing.

"And you will stay here-mon ami, for a few days-until I am better," questioned Zoya eagerly.

"There's nothing else," he said with a shrug.

Pain clutched at the hearts of at least three persons in that room, but Matthias Markov suffered the most. Rowland could see it in the lines of his eyes, which had suddenly made him seem quite old again. The years that had parted Markov and the woman who bore his name had only served to widen the breach between them-a breach that all the love and tenderness in the world from such a man as he could never hope to fill. Even on her bed of pain Zoya remained the mondaine while Matthias Markov, to her at least, was only the hurdy-gurdy man. She had repudiated him, had forbidden him to use her name. It was piteous. But Herr Markov shrugged his lean shoulders and managed a smile for Rowland and Tanya, in which they both read a new meaning of abnegation and sacrifice.

Zoya had sunk back upon her pillow, so Herr Markov gave her another opiate and presently she slept. Then while Frau Nisko went down stairs to reassure herself that all was well below, Rowland and Tanya listened to Markov's itinerary between Munich and Lindau. Fra Umberto could travel thirty miles a day if he had to. It was nothing-if the Fräulein would not get tired within the instrument of torture-Landsberg tomorrow night, Memmingen the night after, then Weingarten and Lindenhof-four days at the most. He, Markov, had been over the road often and knew it well. At Lindenhof he had a great friend, a fisherman and a vine-grower named Gratz who lived with his poverty like a prince in the ruined schloss of Kempelstein. There they would go. And there take boat from the very walls of the schloss to Switzerland and freedom.

In the meanwhile they must decide upon a simple code of numerals and letters for the telegraph, to be sent to Weingarten in case of important information or warning. When that was arranged, Markov went down stairs to find a screw driver, wrench and hammer to "disembowel" the dear "machine of torture."

They followed him out of the room with their glances and then with one accord gazed at the sleeping woman. She lay breathing deeply, one graceful arm under her head and her lips were smiling. Tanya's mood toward her had changed.

"You saw?" she asked in a whisper. "She repudiated him. She is not worth waiting for." And then impulsively she threw her arms around Rowland's neck, whispering tensely, "Come, Philippe-tonight, with me. He should stay here-it is his place-"

Rowland kissed her gently.

"It would not be safe, dear. You must get through to Switzerland-with the money. Don't make things too hard for me-"

"Ah, Philippe," she whispered. "I am nothing without you. His papers-a disguise-"

But Rowland shook his head.

"It is dangerous. We should both be lost and that which I came to save. In this way you at least shall get through surely-"

"But you? We have found life together-I am frightened for you."

"Don't worry. I'll pull through-some way."

"Come, Philippe," she whispered again. "Life or death-together!"

He held her close in his arms, aware that the moment of her weakness should be his for strength, and soothed her gently.

"This way means life for both of us-success. I am not afraid. I will follow soon. Would you have me less noble than he?" he asked.

She was silent and after a while she raised her head and he saw that the moment of her uncertainty had passed.

"I will go," she murmured, and he kissed away the moisture that had gathered at her eyes before it fell.

"Princess Tatyana!" he laughed, "if you will only wave your wand-no evil can come to me."

* * * * *

And so it was that that evening, just after dark, a very tall man and a very small donkey hauling a hurdy-gurdy, passed southward along the Sommer Strasse and were soon lost in the darkness of the night.

CHAPTER XXI

THE VISITOR

For three days the President of the Order of Nemi had sat in the room upon the third floor of Number 16 Schwaiger Strasse, keeping the convalescent Zoya company, sleeping at night on a pallet of straw in the dark hole under the eaves. Frau Nisko brought food and water and dressed Zoya's wound, which was of a much less serious character than had been supposed. Rowland had at last prevailed upon Frau Nisko to accept five hundred marks from the roll that he had abstracted from a package of the bank notes-legitimate traveling expenses on this extraordinary commission. Nothing had disturbed the quiet of his imprisonment but the itching desire to be on his way, and the impatience of his difficult companion, who with her improvement showed growing symptoms of a gayety which Rowland could not share. Frau Nisko had reported that all was quiet in the neighborhood, the guard of soldiers having been withdrawn, and from his view from the dormer window, the peaceful streets were tempting. Rowland longed to go down the stairs and carelessly saunter forth under the very eyes of the police. That was the sort of an escape that appealed to him-something simple, something obvious and then-to the woods and fields by night-they'd never catch him there. He knew that game.

But Zoya Rochal bothered him. With convalescence had come a desire for cigarettes and companionship. She was now quite reconciled to her situation and except for the fear of Von Stromberg which she continually expressed, seemed to be suffering no great hardship. It was perhaps unfortunate that Rowland thought of Tanya and Matthias Markov, followed them in his mind's eye in their long pilgrimage to the Boden See, for Zoya Rochal was clever and with returning spirits discovered the restraint in his manner which was so different from that to which she had been accustomed.

"Mon pauvre Philippe," she said at last, with a smile at the lighted candle, "you are never quite contented unless you are shooting somebody. Come, let us be happy. I am getting very strong. See, I move my arm easily. Tomorrow, tonight even, I should be able to go away with you."

"Tomorrow! But you were to wait for Matthias Markov!" he said in surprise.

"Pouf! It is precisely because of Herr Markov that I do not propose to wait. Herr Markov is-well-a friend of my girlhood- But one outgrows one's early associations, n'est-ce pas? He is very kind, but oh! so tiresome." She gave an expressive shrug and frowned. "I do not like to look back. I might be turned into a pillar of salt. The future is difficult enough without thinking of the mistakes of one's past."

She cared for nothing, thought of nothing-but herself. But whatever his own opinion, Rowland had no curiosity, no wish to encourage confidences that might be painful. He knew what she was…

"Escape?" he questioned. "That is easily said. But how?"

"That we shall walk forth, arm in arm, mon ami, take a train like a newly wedded couple and be off-"

"And be arrested at the Bahnhof-?"

"The chance is worth taking-"

"You have passports-you might get through-"

"And you-where is your resourcefulness? Are you not the President of Nemi? Give Frau Nisko your coin to take to Herr Yaeger. He is not unlike you in appearance. His papers would serve-"

But Rowland shook his head.

"Impossible. My faith in your associates has failed. When Markov returns he will help you to freedom and I-"

"You would desert me, mon brave?" she said softly, one hand upon his arm. "Can it be true that after all my admiration for you, my aid in your cause, my faith, my devotion, you will turn against me? Don't say that, mon Philippe. You do not know the depths of the heart of a woman of my kind. You are a man of experience. You know what a woman who has come from nothing must suffer to rise in the world."

"Oh, I say, Zoya," he broke in with a smile, "I haven't reproached you-"

"Perhaps I should be more happy if you did. For then I would know that you cared. But you say nothing-say nothing and only smoke and smile." She broke off with a bitter little laugh. "You do not flatter me, mon vieux."

"Is this a time for flattery, Zoya? Over a hundred miles of hostile country to be passed-"

"We will not pass them more quickly by losing confidence in each other-"

He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Have I not remained-?" he asked.

She made a grimace at the hand that he had released.

"Such a cold little kiss!" she smiled. "What has come over you, mon Philippe? A few days ago you were so different. I had begun to hope that you cared as-as I do. Have I grown ugly because of my wound? Or was your devotion only a means to an end-the rescue of Fräulein Korasov?"

"Zoya, what's the use. You know-"

"I am no fool, mon vieux," she went on coolly. "I have a seventh sense. Fräulein Korasov-she is very pretty. You are her D'Artagnan. You play the hero in the piece. You rescue her-she adores you-"

She waved a hand in protest as he began to speak.

"Oh, I have eyes in my head. And you, mon Philippe, you are filled with pity-beauty in distress-you care for her a little, perhaps, and you forget your great pact of loyalty and friendship with Zoya Rochal-"

"It is not true-"

"You send her away with Matthias Markov and the money of Nemi. What do you know of the honesty of Matthias Markov or of her? And you keep me here to be taken by General Graf von Stromberg and to be shot perhaps against a wall."

"There was nothing else to do. You were in no condition-"

"Ah, yes, but you might at least have given me the privilege of your confidences."

"I did what I thought was best," he said shortly. "Do I not share your danger?"

She shrugged.

"With regret, with impatience, but without tenderness, mon brave. Do you suppose that I cannot see? I am merely an impediment. I hold you back while you long to be off yonder-to escape and leave me here-"

"Zoya-"

She laughed and rose.

"Beware of the fury of the woman scorned, mon vieux. Tell me that you love me, tell me that you hate-but indifference-that, at least, I will not bear!"

There was nothing for it but to mollify her. He put his arm around her and kissed her.

"Hang it all, Zoya! You ought to know me by this time," he muttered. "Desperation and sentiment won't mix. I'm not going to be caught here if I can help it-"

She relaxed a little in his arms.

"Philippe," she murmured, "you know the worst of me. Don't judge me with those terrible accusing eyes of yours. I want to begin-again. Give me my chance to forget. I love you, mon Philippe, since the first-"

She paused, startled, for Rowland had released her suddenly, a warning finger at his lips. And then they heard clearly again a thin voice in the hallway below, a man's voice that they both knew-and the sound of footsteps upon the stairs.

The color had all gone from Zoya's cheeks and she stared helplessly at Rowland.

"Von Stromberg!" he whispered.

He snatched up his cap and vanished out of the window into the darkness upon the roof. Hurriedly he crawled up astride the peak of the dormer window where he lay forward listening.

A loud knock upon the door.

"Where is this sick lady?" said the voice. "I would like to see her-" A pause, and then, "Ah! And so it is you after all, Madame Rochal! This is most extraordinary-most extra-or-din-ary!" He caressed the words as if they were something good to the taste. "You have nothing to say. You are very pale. I have frightened you? I am sorry. Bitte, lie down again upon the bed from which you have arisen and be quite composed. I will not harm you. Why should I? Did you not vote for my wonderful resolution? Ach so!"

The tones of the voice were eloquent-cynical and soft by turns, and Rowland did not need to see the cadaverous, leering face, the air of sardonic condescension, the deep baleful eyes which glared and charmed by their very malignity.

"Ach, you are feeling better, nicht wahr? A swallow of water. So. We will now have a quiet amicable chat. Will you not ask me to sit down? Will you not ask after my wound? I have no wound," he laughed dryly. "Herr Rowland is a bad shot. Danke. But if there is one thing in the world that irks me, it is the climbing of stairs… Now we will begin. Will you now have the kindness to tell me how you managed to come here…?"

A low murmur scarcely distinguishable in reply.

"Over the roofs? Wounded? There is some negligence here. My men searched." And then more quietly, "You were always resourceful-most resourceful, Madame. Wounded too. That is a pity. I trust not seriously… That is good. It would be a pity… Your beautiful neck, in a ball dress. But it is not possible that you could have accomplished this escape alone… In the storm! … a desperate venture…"

Rowland heard her murmur again.

"Ach. It is unbelievable. Alone-you, Madame … so frail-and wounded, too."

"I was hurt and frightened, Excellency," Rowland heard her say as her voice gathered strength. "But it was not difficult."

"Very easy. So. It is a pity I am such a credulous old man, nicht wahr? I am growing old. I am losing my cunning. What a pity!"

"I tell you the truth, Excellency."

"You surprise me. But I am suspicious. It is my trade-to believe in the universality of the lie, which is the basis of all successful intrigue. You will pardon me, Madame, but I do not believe you." And then in a quick concentrated tone, menacing-vicious, "Who helped you across those roofs, Madame? Herr Rowland, nicht wahr?"

"No."

"Herr Rowland-!"

"I did not see him."

"You lie! Answer me."

"Excellency! You are hurting my arm."

"Answer me."

A long silence, then a murmur of pain.

"You shall-"

It was with an effort that Rowland controlled his will to descend … but he clutched at the tiles and did not move.

"Ach, so-" came the triumphant voice. "It was he-"

"But he has escaped-gone yesterday. I swear it!"

"So-and the black bag? It was here? Answer me!"

"Yes, it was here."

"And Fräulein Korasov-?"

"She, too."

"A nice party-and they have all escaped? Some one shall suffer for this."

Rowland could hear him stamping to and fro, heard his voice at the window, while he peered out and Rowland had even prepared to risk discovery by crawling up to the shelter of the chimneys above, when Von Stromberg turned back into the room again. Rowland heard him call to the man in the corridor who had accompanied him and between them find the loose boarding into the loft. And after a while the malicious voice again.

"So it was there he slept? While these pigs of officers played tag upon the roof tops." And then to the soldier, "Go. Wait below!"

Just above his head, Rowland grinned to himself and breathed more freely. Luck! Sheer luck!

There was silence in the room for a long moment.

"So! Escape-and you have helped to accomplish it. Accessory to treason, Madame. You know the penalty of that."

"Excellency, I had nothing to do with it. I was under the influence of morphine. I slept."

"You do not then know how it was accomplished?"

"No, Excellency-"

A silence and then the quiet tones that were so dangerous.

"It will not pay you to be stubborn, Madame. It is my habit always to find out what I want to know-"

"But if I am ignorant-?" she appealed.

"Who is this Herr Markov who occupies this room? Markov! A name not unfamiliar. Markov!"

She was silent.

"Who is he? Speak!"

"He is-my husband, Excellency."

Rowland heard the thin raucous laugh.

"You lose a lover only to find a husband! A real husband? The long arm of coincidence? Or another lie?"

"The truth-" in a lowered voice. "I had not seen him for years."

"Well, and if-I believe you? Herr Markov helped our birds to escape?"

"We came. What could he do? Give me up to the police after all these years-?"

"But-the others-the black bag-"

A silence, and then-

"Have I not told you, Excellency, that I was sick-sleeping-?"

"You have told me many things. I shall believe what I choose. How much of this did Frau Nisko know?"

"Nothing-except that I had come to him. She did not know how. She believed that I came up the stairs. We all shared the food of two. The others went out into the streets at night and escaped-"

"With the black bag? Impossible. There is not a black suit-case in Germany that we do not know about."

He broke off suddenly and a change came into his voice.

"Come, Madame. You and I have worked together before and you have not found me ungenerous. I will make a bargain with you. Help me to find the black bag and I will give you-say-two hundred thousand marks. Ah, you are tempted? The woman who is tempted falls."

"I know nothing," she murmured.

"Perhaps three hundred thousand will sharpen your intelligence."

He laughed and chose another method.

"How was the money taken from this room?"

"I do not know. At night while I slept."

"Who took it?"

A long silence. And then another change of tone.

"You are young, Madame, and still beautiful. It would be a pity-"

She understood what he meant.

"Excellency!" Her tone was raised now in fear, in horror. "What, Excellency?"

"Death! Tomorrow!" The words fell from his lips sharply. "Will you speak or will you not? On the one hand-what I have promised-on the other-a military trial-a matter of minutes, and then-a stone wall-a volley-and a tumbled heap of soiled clothing upon the ground. Zoya Rochal-the most beautiful woman in Europe. I paint a true portrait. I have seen-"

"Excellency-!"

"You will speak?"

Her voice had sunk to a murmur and Rowland could not distinctly hear but he felt suddenly very ill. She was telling. Zoya was betraying Tanya and Matthias Markov. A sudden fury possessed him. He gripped the tiles in a struggle to control the impulse to murder that was in his heart. But the fever passed. Tanya! He must get word to Markov-a hurdy-gurdy-a donkey-their trail from Munich was wide and long and the expedient that had seemed so certain of success was now doomed to sudden disaster unless he could reach Markov before von Stromberg's men were put upon the track.

Did Zoya know which way the pair had gone? He tried to think. Only Markov and he knew the itinerary-he listened intently.

"I do not know, Excellency," said Zoya in a suppressed voice. "I do not know more. To Switzerland, by the nearest route. A piano-organ, a donkey. You promise?"

"Herr Markov and the Fräulein shall meet with no harm. I give you my word, as Councilor of the Empire. He shall go free. For your sake I will merely send him to Austria and you-" He broke off with a laugh, "You, Madame, shall have the rest of Europe to yourself."

"Thanks, Excellency," she murmured. "And I am free?"

"As the air. Once a day you will report at the Police Headquarters of Munich until further notice."

Rowland heard his footsteps and the sound of the door latch.

"My compliments, Madame Rochal, upon your discretion. I hope that your beautiful neck may not be scarred. I will indeed see that a doctor is sent to you at once. In the meanwhile-au revoir."

The door closed with a bang and Rowland heard the heavy footsteps going down the bare stairs. And in a little while from a perch in the shadow of the dormer window he marked the tall figure with his soldier attendant enter an automobile and drive swiftly away.

Rowland waited a moment, desperate-uncertain-sure only that he must find some means of getting a message over the wire to the luckless Markov and Tanya at Weingarten, where they would have arrived tonight, but in a grim apprehension as to his ability to reach a telegraph office. But there was no time to delay. The moments were precious. In half an hour-perhaps less-Von Stromberg would have instructions wired to his agents in every town between Munich and the Swiss frontier. And so, reckless of his silhouette as he crawled in at the window, he again entered the room. Zoya was standing, facing him, pale, expectant, terrified at the look she saw in his eyes. She caught at his arm but as he strode to the door she seized him again and held him fiercely.