Michael Karl gathered up his coat and discarded cap and was about to start down the walk after the now impatient Ultmann when Marthe came hurrying in to press a packet neatly done up in the cleanest of linen napkins into his hand.
“A little somethin’ to eat. The mountains be cruel sometimes, Laddie. What will thy mother be a-thinkin’ to let ye go?”
Michael Karl looked at her very gravely and then stooped to kiss her wrinkled hand. “Thank you very much. You see, my mother isn't here to worry any more.”
He went quickly out of the door and joined Ultmann in the yard.
“We cross to the stables, Lad. It is a good thing ye can ride for I'll have to be givin’ ye Lady Spitfire, and she be none too gentle with a stranger.”
They tramped across the field and into the dirt lane which led to the stables. A groom was busy rubbing down a muddy horse and a boy was whistling through his teeth as he unloaded bales of straw from a farm wagon. But for these two, a sleepy black cat and a pair of uneasy but very plump pigeons, the stable yard was empty.
“Hans!” shouted Michael Karl's guide.
The groom dropped his brush and turned with a half salute to answer.
“Bring out the Lady and the light huntin’ saddle. This young man be of a mind to try her.”
The groom led his horse into an empty stall and disappeared. In a minute or two he was back leading a dainty black mare who picked her way disdainfully with her small hooves and sneered at the groom by her head.
“Here she be, Herr Ultmann. Is the young Dominde wishful for to try her on the round track?”
Ultmann shook his head. “No. He will be a-takin’ her for the afternoon. He comes with orders from His Grace. Now, then, saddle her, Hans.”
He followed Hans into the saddle room while the boy with the straw bales held the Lady. When he returned, he had a pair of small saddle bags over his arm.
“Will ye be so kind as to drop these at the head shepherd's hut, Lad? The mountain trail leads by it.”
“Of course.” Michael Karl answered as he mounted.
The Lady was inclined to be skittish, and Michael Karl found that he needed a steady hand to bring her down to business.
“Follow the path through the orchard,” Ultmann said, “and when ye're through the pass give the mare her head. Good-by and good luck to ye, Lad.”
“Good-by!” shouted Michael Karl over his shoulder. He could hold the dancing Lady no longer and they were off down the orchard path.
A regular shower of fragrant petals rained down upon them to tangle in the mare's-short mane and powder Michael Karl's shoulders. The heavy, sweet scent of plum blossoms years after could always make him see again the dancing mare and the dirt track winding among the flowering trees. There was at least a mile of the orchard road and the mare settled down to a steady trot.
Michael Karl pulled the leather coat more comfortably across the saddle horn so that the pistol pocket lay on top. The saddle bags seemed empty and he guessed that they were to be his passport to some guardian of the hill ways.
A gate gaped before them, and they were out on a stony track which stumbled its way into a wood and so up the mountain side. The mare picked her path as daintily as a cat on a wet day and seemed to know her way. They entered the wood, and Michael Karl was grateful for the shade. The afternoon sun was decidedly warm on his shoulders.
The wood was so still about him that he dared to whistle a song that he had heard a street musician play a day or two before. It had been just at twilight, and he had shared the upper balcony with Ericson when the man had come wandering along playing the violin and singing softly.
“Listen,” Ericson had gripped his arm, “he's singing one of the mountain songs which you rarely hear nowadays.”
The lilting air was very sweet and they had both tossed him coins as he had passed beneath them. And now Michael Karl tried to remember the notes.
Gradually the forest thinned out, and the trees became shrubs, the shrubs pasture land. Here and there a newly clipped sheep, its pink skin still shining through the scanty, dirty wool, stared stupidly after them or went on grazing. A wary, tangle-coated dog barked at Michael Karl sharply from the top of a rock where he had established his lookout over his master's flock.
As if the dog's bark had summoned him, a gaunt man, whose shoulders bent forward under a heavy sheepskin coat, appeared around the base of the watchdog's rock and stood quietly waiting for Michael Karl to come up to him. Michael Karl unfastened the saddle bags.
“Good day,” he said pleasantly. The man stared at him and then at the worn saddle bags Michael Karl was holding out to him.
He reached for them slowly. “Ye come from Ultmann,” he asked rustily as if he had not had occasion to speak for a long time.
“Yes, I do,” answered Michael Karl. The mare was restless, suspicious of the dog who had left his place and come down to sniff around her ankles.
“Ye go straight up to the long peak,” the shepherd pointed up the mountain, “cross the pass and down, then over the river and tell the sentry ‘Rein Post.’”
He nodded curtly in answer to Michael Karl's thanks and turned away, calling his curious dog sharply to heel as he disappeared behind the rock with the saddle bags over his arm.
Michael Karl dismounted; the slope was too steep to force the mare to carry him. He hooked the reins over his arm and started to climb. It was an hour before they reached the long peak, a shaft of solid rock like a giant's needle. A faint path wound around beneath its shadow. This must be the pass, Michael Karl thought.
He stood awhile to rest. The valley of Rein, he could see the Fortress towers and the Cathedral spire easily, lay behind him and the mysterious hunting ground of the Werewolf sloped downward from his feet before him. The mare sighed and sniffed at the downward track.
Swinging into the saddle Michael Karl obeyed Ultmann's instructions and gave the mare her head. With a right good will she started downwards. Almost immediately they were swallowed up in a forest ten times as thick and wild as that on the other side of the mountain, and yet a faint track led them on. It was the faintest of trails, but Michael Karl placed his trust in the Lady's knowledge and she seemed to know her way very well. Evidently it wasn't the first time she had used the mountain path.
The shadows were growing, and here in the forest there was a chill in the air. It wasn't long before Michael Karl was glad to slip into the leather coat he had had the forethought to bring along.
The mare halted and sniffed the air and then turned aside confidently. Within the screening bush a spring bubbled cool and clear, and she buried her nose deep in the water while Michael Karl hastened to dismount and drink from his cupped hands.
He pulled a wisp of the coarse grass and rubbed down the mare's thin legs and flanks. She was content to stand for awhile, so he pulled out the napkin-wrapped lunch Marthe had given him and ate two of the thick, satisfying sandwiches. The ride over the mountain through the crisp air had whetted his appetite.
Thrusting remains of the lunch back in his pocket, he caught the reins and swung into the saddle. It must be growing late; the shadows were very deep now. They continued their way down the slope, the mare picking her way very carefully, measuring her distances as she went.
The forest was growing thinner. Once they came upon a rude stack of wood and there were scars of recent cuttings all about them. The sun shone hot in the clearings, but the mare avoided the open spaces and kept to the tangle of trees and vines.
They were on level ground at last and through the trees Michael Karl could hear the river. He halted the mare and bent over the saddle to pull up the campaign boots. It was a good thing after all that he had raided the royal wardrobe, the ford might be deep.
Out of the trees unto a sloping bank they came at last. The mare turned downstream a hundred feet or so and then walked out cautiously in the pebble-bottomed stream. Almost at once she was beyond her depth and swimming strongly with the water rippling around her powerfu
l shoulders and lapping unpleasantly over Michael Karl's boot tops.
As suddenly as it had fallen beneath them the bottom arose again. The mare found her footing, sneezed and stepped to shore where she stopped and shook herself tike a dog. Michael Karl leaned forward to turn down his boots when some one on the bank above him spoke softly.
“Good girl, Lady. Well done!”
The mare whinnied and Michael Karl looked up. A man, in the same drab uniform that the Duke had worn the night before, was looking down, but his eyes were all for the mare instead of her rider.
Then he appeared to remember that the Lady might have a rider and the rifle which hung so comfortably in the crook of his arm pointed towards Michael Karl. This then was the sentry.
“Rein Post,” said Michael Karl swiftly.
“Who to?” asked the man coolly.
“I am interested in yellow roses,” answered Michael Karl deliberately, “and would like to meet any one who is interested in the same thing.” Great guns, he thought, that sounded just like one of those advertisements one puts in the back of magazines asking for correspondents.
“Yellow roses,” the man laughed. “If you will come up here, friend, I think I can find you some one who is interested in yellow roses.”
Without waiting to see if Michael Karl followed he turned away. The mare, with a little urging from her rider, scrambled up the bank and followed their guide. This bank of the river looked almost civilized. A broad road ran along it, and the gravel-filled ruts testified not only to its use, but also to the care spent in keeping it up.
The sentry swung along it easily until he came to a mammoth oak tree where he stopped and, putting his fingers to his mouth, whistled shrilly. Out of the bush, almost at their feet, appeared a youngster whose drab blouse was crossed by two well filled cartridge belts and who had a long-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder by a strap.
“Messenger to see him,” the sentry indicated Michael Karl with a thrust of a dirty thumb. “Take him in.”
Without another word the sentry turned back to his post by the river, and the boy came forward to take the mare's loose reins. He stared at Michael Karl curiously but did not speak.
Michael Karl longed to ask him if he were one of the wolf pack and if the American had arrived safely for his meeting with the Werewolf, who might or might not be the King of Morvania. But the guide forged straight ahead and gave him no opening. Almost unconsciously Michael Karl began to hum the mountain air which had attracted him.
The boy stopped. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Michael Karl answered with the old formula, “A seeker of yellow roses.”
His questioner refused to be satisfied with that. “But that isn't their signal, that is the password of the—” Then he stopped suddenly and hurried on, deaf to Michael Karl's questions.
The road curved away from the river back into the forest, and they plodded on. Little spurts of dust arose from between the mare's hooves and the soldier's boots. Michael Karl shivered and drew the coal closer, the last warmth of the sun disappeared, and only a pale gold in the west remained. He was learning just how cool a May night in the mountains might be.
Then they came into the camp. Five tiny cabins grouped in a rough circle was the nucleus of a large city of brush huts and weather-stained tents. Before each crackled a fire fed by countless hurrying shadows. It was the camp of a large army. The Werewolf was evidently more of a power in the land than the Council guessed.
Michael Karl and his guide were noticed almost at once, and a young man in a black uniform from which all badges of rank had been removed held a whispered conversation with the soldier.
“If you will please’ dismount and come with me,” the newcomer said at last and, as Michael Karl hesitated, added, “Reptmann will see after the horse.”
Michael Karl obediently slid down from the saddle. His stiff legs moved woodenly, and he stumbled when he tried to walk. It appeared that this was the price for hours in the saddle when there were three months between this and the last ride.
He reeled in the wake of the newcomer towards the largest of the cabins. A soldier lounging near the door pulled himself up stiffly and saluted the young man smartly.
The cabin was small but it wasn't dark. Two lamps, lighted, Michael learned later, from storage batteries, stood on the table among some badly rolled maps, part of one of the huge round loaves of black bread, a bottle of the sour mountain wine and a greasy tin plate with a gnawed chicken leg on it.
A middleaged man with very tidy gray hair and a small, neatly waxed mustache was absent- mindedly nibbling at a chunk of bread while he listened to a long list being read droningly aloud by a thick-lipped young man with a too-tight collar.
He looked up quickly as they entered and Michael Karl knew, by the little sigh of relief he gave, that he was very glad indeed to be interrupted.
“Well, Urich?” he asked as Michael Karl's companion saluted.
“A messenger, Colonel Haupthan.”
“From whom?” The Colonel leaned forward and stared in a puzzled way at Michael Karl's face.
“Duke Johann,” answered Michael Karl. Lukrantz had sent him but Johann was head of the Rein party.
“What is it?”
“I am afraid,” Michael Karl said respectfully, “that I must decline to answer. I am to deliver my message directly to Mr. Ericson.”
Colonel Haupthan frowned. “What do you mean? There is no Mr. Ericson with us.”
Michael Karl mentally kicked himself. It was very probable that Ericson went under some other name when visiting the royal forces.
He began again. “My message is to the American who is negotiating with the Werewolf.”
The Colonel arose slowly. They were all staring at him now.
“There is no American in this camp,” said the Colonel.
Michael Karl's companion spoke harshly. “He claims to be one of the Yellow Roses and yet he used the signal of the Black Coats. What—”
The Colonel nodded. “I fear, my friend, that there is a great deal you must explain.”
“But Ericson is here or wherever the Werewolf is. He left instructions that if anything important happened we were to reach him through the Yellow Roses.”
“And I repeat that there is no Ericson among us and there never has been.”
“Perhaps he calls himself something different, but he is here unless something happened to him since this morning.”
“Who are you?”
Before he thought Michael Karl answered truthfully, “Michael Karl.”
The Colonel sat down again. “That I know to be a lie.” He picked up his bread and bit off a piece.
“Really, you know,” Michael Karl answered with some dignity, “I am not used to being called a liar. And,” he tried to make himself as tall as possible, “I want to see the Werewolf. You might send for him.”
The Colonel looked shocked. “You will take this —this—”
“Young ruffian,” Michael Karl instantly supplied for him.
“Young ruffian,” obediently repeated the Colonel somewhat dazed, “and keep him under guard until His Majesty comes.”
Michael Karl bowed mockingly. “Thank you so much. I trust my cell is comfortable. It is just possible that I won't need a chair; indeed, I shall probably not need one for months and months after that ride, but I do think that I deserve supper. After all, I tried to save your kingdom for you. Inform His Majesty that I'll see him at once, but then I still think that you should produce the Werewolf.”
Leaving the Colonel apparently overcome by his nonsense, Michael Karl marched stiffly out to follow his soldier companion to another and much smaller hut. There was a box for a chair, another for a table and, what looked best of all, a canvas cot.
“I bag this,” Michael Karl sank down on the cot. “And look here, I'm not going to play Desperate Desmond, so you needn't hang around. Just call me when you bring supper in. And while I think about it, I don't like bread and water.
You may tell the Colonel so.”
He buried his head in the pillow with a determined thump and closed his eyes for a moment. His jailer watched him in open-mouthed amazement and then sat down gingerly on the chair box.
Michael Karl shifted a little so he could see the top of the larger box which served as a table. There was something there which looked oddly familiar. He was right, it was the blue cover of the Kipling book, that treasure which the Werewolf had torn from him along with his cloak at their first and last interview. Then the Werewolf was here after all. What a mess if he were the King and Michael Karl's cousin.
Some one had been reading the Kipling book lately, a pinkish book mark dropped limply from between its pages. Interested and forgetting his guard, Michael Karl sat up in the cot to see the better. The book mark was a twisted silk cord with a small carved ivory ball at one end. Michael Karl whistled softly; he knew he had seen that ball before.
The American had shown it to him one day, telling him that it was a single bead and part of the cord of a Tibetan rosary. Ericson had declared that he never traveled without it, it being his lucky piece. Then this was Ericson's cabin, and the Colonel did know him.
Michael Karl lay back. He was safe, but the message he had come to deliver worried him. The guard was still sitting there on his uncomfortable box.
“I say,” Michael Karl addressed him, “when is the chap who owns this cabin coming back?”
The guard looked uncomfortable. “This is my cabin,” he answered shortly.
“Yes?” said Michael Karl unbelievingly. “Then what is that book doing there?” He pointed to the Kipling book.
“His Majesty,” answered the guard with stiff pride, “left that there this morning.”
“Well, well. That happens to belong to me.” Before the guard could prevent him, he got up and reached for it.
No, he hadn't been mistaken, it was his book, and it was Ericson's charm between the pages. He opened to the pages at the back where he had kept his informal diary. Some one had been reading it and enjoying it for here and there were comments in the neatest of print.
Opposite the description of the General's table manners, the unknown had printed: “Only too true; I had to sit opposite him at maneuvers one year.” Michael Karl got no farther when the book was snatched out of his hands and he looked up into the blazing eyes of the guard.