The Vagrant Duke | Page 5

gate. He knew that he had failed but still
he stood upright facing them. Another shot, the bullet this time grazing
his left arm. The sting of it angered him.
"Cowards!" he yelled, shaking his fist at them. "Cowards!"
A volley followed but no other bullets struck him. Behind him in the
Castle doorway he heard the voice of Boris Rylov, calling to him
hoarsely.
"Come, Master. For the love of God! There is yet time."

There was a crash of the heavy timbers at the gate.
"Come, Master--"
With a shrug Peter Nicholaevitch turned and walked across the terrace
toward the Castle. "Bolvany!" he muttered. "I've finished with them."
Boris and Vasil stood just within the door, pleading with him to hurry,
and together they made their way through the deserted kitchens and
over past the vegetable gardens to the stables, where Leo Garshin
awaited them, the saddles on several horses. Behind them they could
now hear the triumphant cries as the courtyard gate crashed in.
"Hurry, Master!" cried Garshin eagerly.
"Where are the others?" asked the Grand Duke.
"Gone, Highness. They have fled."
Boris Rylov was peering out past an iron door into the forest.
"There is no one there?" asked Garshin.
"Not yet. They have forgotten."
"Come then, Highness."
But the Grand Duke saw that the aged Vasili was mounted first and
then they rode out of the iron gate into a path which led directly into
the forest. It was not until they were well clear of the buildings that a
shout at one side announced that their mode of escape had been
discovered. Men came running, firing pistols as they ran. Boris Rylov,
bringing up the rear, reined in his horse and turning emptied a revolver
at the nearest of their pursuers. One man fell and the others halted.
Until they found the other horses in the stables pursuit was fruitless.
Peter Nicholaevitch rode at the head of the little cavalcade, down the
familiar aisles of the forest, his head bowed, a deep frown on his brows.

It was Vasili who first noticed the blood dripping from his finger ends.
"Master," he gasped, "you are wounded."
"It is nothing," said the Grand Duke.
But Vasili bound the arm up with a handkerchief while Leo Garshin
and Boris Rylov watched the path down which they had come. They
could hear the crackling of the flames at the Hunting Lodge to the
southward and the cries of the mob at the Castle, but there was no sign
of pursuit. Perhaps they were satisfied to appease their madness with
pillage and fire. Half an hour later Boris pointed backward. A new
glow had risen, a redder, deeper glow.
"The Castle, Master--" wailed Vasili.
Peter Nicholaevitch drew rein at a cross-path, watched for a moment
and then turned to his companions, for he had reached a decision.
"My good friends," he said gently, "our ways part here."
"Master! Highness!"
But he was resolute.
"I am going on alone. I will not involve you further in my misfortunes.
You can do nothing for me--nor I anything for you except this. Vasili
knows. In the vault below the wine-cellar, hidden away, are some
objects of value. They will not find them. When they go away you will
return. The visit will repay you. Divide what is there into equal
parts--silver, plate and gold. As for me--forget me. Farewell!"
They saw that he meant what he said. He offered these few faithful
servitors his hand and they kissed his fingers --a last act of fealty and
devotion and in a moment they stood listening to the diminishing
hoof-beats of Vera as the young master went out of their lives.
"May God preserve him," muttered Vasili.

"Amen," said Boris Rylov and Leo Garshin.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING PETER NICHOLS
The British refugee ship Phrygia was about to sail for Constantinople
where her unfortunate passengers were to be transferred to other
vessels sailing for Liverpool and New York. After some difficulties the
refugee made his way aboard her and announced his identity to the
captain. If he had expected to be received with the honor due to one of
his rank and station he was quickly undeceived, for Captain Blashford,
a man of rough manners, concealing a gentle heart, looked him over
critically, examined his credentials (letters he had happened to have
about him), and then smiled grimly.
"We've got room for one more--and that's about all."
"I have no money--" began the refugee.
"Oh, that's all right," shrugged the Captain, "you're not the only one.
We've a cargo of twenty princes, thirty-two princesses, eighteen
generals and enough counts and countesses to set up a new nation
somewhere. Your 'Ighness is the only Duke that has reached us up to
the present speakin' and if there are any