Trusia: A Princess of Krovitch

  XXI

  CARRICK WAS FAR BEHIND

  Carrick was far behind. Overhead the tattered roof of leaves made alacework of the sun. Birds were singing; their bright eyes turnedcuriously on the young couple passing beneath their verdant bowers. Tinyfeathered brides nodded dainty heads, urging the great, stupid, humanfellow to sing the love song in his heart to the girl by his side. "Matenow," they chirped, "in leaf time, in flower time, while fields are warmand nature yielding. The great mother, herself, commands it."

  The impulses of nature were astir in the breasts of both Trusia andCarter, awakening in each a silent rebellion against a destiny which wasforcing them to talk of trivial nothings which add naught to the greaterissues of life. So far they had bowed to the dictates of destiny, butwere growing more and more restive under the self-imposed restraint.

  The horses stopped to drink from a stream which crossed their path.Carter, glancing in the direction of its source, saw that a heavy limbhad fallen from a dead tree, blocking the passage of what had otherwisebeen but a wavering string of water. Restrained, however, it hadmounted higher and higher, until at last, broadened, strengthened, anddeepened, it had swept triumphantly over the dam and kept on its way. Hefelt that he was undergoing the same process in restraining the naturalexpression of his love for Trusia. Unconscious of his comprehension,she, too, had grasped the lesson of the stream. Their satiny nozzlesdripping sparkling drops of water, the horses resumed their progressbeneath the forest colonnade.

  Trusia turned to him. Her resolution had been difficult to reach.

  "When Krovitch is free," she said, "you must still remain with ourarmy." She observed him covertly as she awaited his reply. Thehopefulness, which at first drew him erect, gradually disappeared,leaving in its wake the bending lines of despair. There was a drawn lookin his face as he turned to answer.

  "No," he said, and moodily turned his eyes away again.

  "That means you will return to America." A subtle sensitiveness couldhave construed this to embrace a query, a request and a regret. Theslightest quiver inflected her voice as she had spoken, but she bravelyfinished without a break. Poor girl, she, too, was suffering. She wassending away her ideal lover with only a meagre taste of maiden romanceto make life all the more sorrowful for the having. All this he felt. Ashe recognized what it must mean to her--to any woman--deprived of man'sright of initiative in declaration, he was tempted to gather her roughlyin his arms and carry her away from duties, friends, country even, tofulfil her own happiness, which was his. The maxillary muscles achedwith the strain his restraint put upon them.

  "I must go. I must," he replied. "Pride, honor, sanity demand it."

  "It is better so," she said softly as she bent her head. She, a JeanneD'Arc to her people, was inured to sacrifice. Above all, sweet andclean, she saw Duty shine through Love as the sun shone through theleaves above her head. So was the royal duchess fortified for herfuture. Then Trusia, beautiful and desirable, Trusia, the woman,rebelled that destiny should have ignored her in the plans for Trusiathe princess.

  "I will never see you again--as a dear friend--after you have gone. ButI--but Krovitch will never forget you." Then in her royal pride thatfelt no noble confession could shame her womanhood, she turned almostfiercely upon him.

  "Oh, why was I chosen for the sacrifice? Why couldn't I be as otherwomen? Natalie need not drive her friends away. Alone; I stand alone."Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps which she fought courageously tosilence.

  Carrick was far behind. Forgetting everything except the quivering heartof the girl beside him, Carter leaned over and drawing her gently towardhim, patted the convulsive shoulders with awkward masculine solace. Likea child in the shelter of maternal arms, the glossy head, forgetful forthe instant, nestled against his shoulder, soothed and at peace. WhileDuty had manacled the queen, the woman had been justified. Then shesighed. With a weary gesture of renunciation she sat upright in hersaddle, looking directly to the front. A single tear hung quivering onher lashes.

  "Another dream for the Queen to sigh over," she commented with a quicklaugh, flavored of wormwood.

  "Why must it be?" he queried. "You do not love the King." Then all thetide of courage flooding past his lips, he asserted against alldenial,--"You love me."

  The regal head drooped as she turned from him.

  "'I would not love you, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more,'"

  she quoted sadly.

  "But it is not honor; it is sacrifice," he argued.

  "What duty is not?" she questioned sadly.

  "It is madness," he fumed impotently.

  "Think of my people." She shook her head in magnificent self-abnegation,putting aside the tenderer visions which were thronging her heart,picturing her life with the man at her side. "Their welfare demands it."

  He leaned across to plead with her. The loose flying tresses of her hairtouched his cheeks in elusive salute. They beckoned him closer and evercloser. His heart could be heard, he feared, so loudly did it beat. Hecould feel the great red surges being pumped through arteries, too smallfor their impulsive torrents. They choked him.

  "Trusia," he cried hoarsely, for the first time using her Christianname. The entire soul of the man, every particle of his entity, hadentered into the saying of that name.

  Startled, she turned to learn the reason for his vehemence; that voicehad spoken so compellingly to her eyes, ears, heart and body, and hadsought out every resistance and overcome it. Her eyes, held captive tohis gaze, were wide with question.

  "I love you," he continued with quiet masterfulness, as one who, stakingall on one throw of the dice, dispenses with pretense and braggadocioin the face of despair. "Listen to me. I would make you happy. I'd beyour devoted slave, till white-haired, aged and blissful, life shouldpass from us gently as the echoes of a happy song of spring."

  "You make it so hard for me," she said pleadingly.

  "Forgive me, sweetheart, but love will not be denied," he answered. "Letthe King have Krovitch, and you come with me." His face was close tohers, his heart was slowly, strongly closing on her own flutteringheart.

  She felt that, unless she could at once throw off the spell, in anotherminute she would be limply lying in his arms in complete surrender tohis plea. For a long eternity it seemed that, strive as she would, shecould not conquer herself. Then she sat erect; the victory was won.

  "I cannot; I cannot," she replied tensely, the last modicum of willsummoned to resist what he sought and she desired. "The King"--shebegan, bethinking her of her reason; "you know that he is not alwaysprudent. Mine is a hot-headed though loyal people. I must be by to guidehim--for Krovitch. But, ah, 'twill be with a heavy heart!"

  He leaned across from his saddle. "I care not for Krovitch so much asyou do. Tell me that you love me."

  She turned away her face that the eye of the man might not see and beblinded by the white light of the woman's love which shone in her owncountenance.

  "Say it, Trusia," he urged; "say it for my soul's peace."

  With a royal pride in the confession, she turned her head, meeting hisregard with level eyes.

  "I love you, Calvert," she responded simply.

  Carrick was far behind. Though she struggled faintly, he drew her tohim. Her face was turned up to his. Her eyes shone misty, dark andwonderful, like the reflection of stars on the shimmering waters of alake. They illumined his soul. Her lips for the first time received akiss from any lover. Then cheek to burning cheek, they passed the crestof a little hill and rode slowly down its thither side.

  Like an accusation, from some place behind them, rang out theunmistakable clang of sword on sword. They reined in their horses tolisten.

  "Carrick," hazarded Trusia, voicing the premonition paralyzing both.Then, forgetful of self, in the chivalrous creed of her race, shepointed back in the direction of the noise. "Go," she commanded, "heneeds you."

  "But you?" he demurred, his first thought, lover-like, being for hersafety. His eyes fell approvingly u
pon the thick covert by the roadside.He nodded suggestively toward it.

  "Yes, I'll be safe--I'll hide," she promised eagerly; "now go." Hefairly lifted his horse from its feet as he swung it around. In mightybounds it carried him over the crest of the hill.

  Two hundred yards away, Carrick could be seen defending himself gamelyagainst the combined attack of three mounted men. Something, even atthat distance, about their uncouth horses and absurdly high saddles,sent a shiver of recognition through Carter. He had seen thousands oftheir ilk along the Neva. The trio of strangers were Russian Cossacks.How had they passed the Krovitch outposts some miles back? The boldnessof their onslaught argued the presence of reinforcements in theneighborhood. Could it be part of a reconnoissance in force? The suddenmemory of the passing of the invisible army in the darkness came back toCarter with sinister meaning. He realized that it had been an invasionby a Russian army. Krovitch had been betrayed--by Josef. Carrick was indanger.

  He roweled the horse's side. The animal, smarting under the punishment,plunged forward like some mad thing. Settling firmly back in his saddlefor the crash to come, Carter drew his sabre with the yell that hadswept the Americans up San Juan Hill and the Spaniards out of Cuba.

  One Cossack, startled at the unexpected shout, turned his head for aninstant in the direction of the approaching succor. It served forCarrick. Like a tongue of lightning his nimble sword entered the toughbrown throat. Even from that distance the American could distinguish the"Ht" of the brute as he fell, lifeless, in the road. In order to makeshort work of the agile swordsman, the other two closed grimly in. TheCockney had had some difficulty in disengaging his blade from thefalling man, permitting his adversaries to push their ponies so close tohis sides that he could work only with a shortened blade. Appreciatingwhat terrific additional handicap this would be to Carrick, Carter wasyet scarcely prepared for the immediate tragedy that followed. Like thephantasmagoria of dreams, he saw the Cockney, cut, slashed, and pierced,fall heavily from his horse.

  Just a second too late, he burst upon them. With the yell of a baffledanimal Carter hurled himself upon the nearest Cossack. His fury wasvolcanic. Terrified by such titanic rage the pair gave way as tosomething superhuman, wielding an irresistible sword. Blood-lust madehim see everything through a mist, red and stinging. He was a Cave Man.His opponents were pigmies who shrank back, appalled, by his murderousmight. One Slav saw death beckon him, so fell, wild-eyed, to the ground,his neck spurting a fountain of blood. The other, too paralyzed withterror to fight or flee, stood irresolutely in the mid-road, his uglyface twitching with an idiotic grin. Carter, hell in his heart, rodefiercely against his horse. The Cossack raised a futile blade. Carterbattered it down with vengeful satisfaction, driving its point throughthe fellow's heart.

  The last of the Russian trio lay dead upon the ground, but Carter, inshort nervous excursions, rode back and forth as he searched for newprey. The mood for killing--and killing--was upon him. He was aprimitive savage.

  His horse shied violently and stood still. Blinded with rage, the riderwould have wreaked his unreasoning hatred on the animal who, even for asecond, had stopped the ceaseless, prowling movements inseparable fromthe man's strange jungle mood. With a curse he drove his spurs deep. Thepoor brute quivered, but would not budge. Carter looked ahead of him toascertain the cause, determined if it was a living obstacle, to batter,slash, and cut it into nothingness.

  He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving toregain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes andsanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.

  "I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his handheavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sobchoked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urgedas a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterlyagainst him.

  Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does existbetween men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of thedying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.

  "But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved herlife." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.

  "Her Grace is safe, then?"

  Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, noddedaffirmatively.

  "It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.

  "Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the othershook his head in resignation to the inevitable.

  "She's a lydey--you understand--but would it be too great a shock--to'er--for me to speak to 'er--before--before--I croak?" he stammeredwistfully.

  "I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carriedhim to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortablepillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bringTrusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace toa dying man.