Prince Cecil: II

Chapter II.

Over the Border

Cecil strode aimlessly up the length of the train coach and wondered if it was nearly time to go to the dining car. It had been a long journey and he was getting good and tired of it. He had already examined the emergency brakes and converted his seat into a bed and back into a seat again several times. He wanted to let down the window and put his head out so he could feel the wind in his hair, but when he had done this a cross old gentleman had shouted at him and made him put it up again.
There were notices posted about the car, written in German because it was a German train, which told you not to smoke or to please pull the brake handle only in case of emergency. Having nothing better to do, Cecil stopped to read these notices and to copy them into his notebook.
He was very busy writing when he suddenly happened to look up and encounter the eyes of the ticket collector, who had stopped opposite him and stood glaring at him. Cecil had run into him twice before—once when he was getting on the train, and then when the collector had taken his ticket—and both times the man had looked at him with the same suspicious stare.
‘Can I do anything for you?’ asked Cecil in faultless German.
The man’s expression stayed the same.
‘Who’s with you?’ was all he said.
‘Nobody. I’m travelling by myself.’
‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
It seemed that the English were not very popular in that part of Europe.
‘No, I’m not,’ replied Cecil stiffly. ‘Besides, I’ve paid for my ticket.’
He met the man’s stern gaze squarely and there followed a long battle of looks between them. Cecil was just about to speak again when the ticket collector opened his mouth and bawled loudly,
‘All passengers to descend and proceed through customs!’
Cecil was quite taken aback but quickly recovering, he raced to the window and looked out. A station advanced down the tracks and before it stood a sign which read,

FRONTIER

He fetched his knapsack from the seat and descended with the rest of the passengers onto the station platform. Cecil had already been through customs several times so he did not expect to have any difficulties. The official behind the desk sorted through his knapsack rapidly and efficiently. Socks, ties, handkerchiefs, New Testament, toothbrush, cartridges, chocolate, wire clippers, electric torch, ball of string, marbles, chewing gum, Swiss Army pocket knife, railroad map, rubber eraser, small battery, Virgil’s Aeneid. Deftly he stuffed everything back, handed Cecil his passport and waved him on.
Cecil stopped in the station house to buy peanuts and found that the room was full of noise from a group of men playing at cards in the corner. One of the men wore a heavy beard and had a Jack of clubs stuck into his hat brim. He was one of the most absorbed players, but when he noticed Cecil he seemed to forget all about the game and stared at him fixedly. Such intense scrutiny rather annoyed Cecil and he was quite relieved when the man left off staring to cross the room and speak to the person at the ticket counter. The train whistle hooted and Cecil hurried out onto the platform.
He had waited longer than he had meant to and the train was just about to leave. A railroad official waved to him impatiently and Cecil hurried towards the nearest car. Just as he reached it he saw the bearded man coming out with the station master and a Pyromanian policeman. (He was now on Pyromanian soil.)
‘Hi! Stop!’ the man called when he saw Cecil.
Cecil climbed up on the step and watched as the train pulled out and picked up speed, leaving the three men fruitlessly pursuing. They were only in time to get onto the very last car and the station master was not quite fast enough to manage even this. He stopped at the end of the platform and watched the train pull away at a rapid speed.
Cecil entered the car and took a seat, squeezing himself between the window and a fat gentleman and pulling his cap over his eyes until he saw the policeman and the bearded man walk past down the aisle. He followed them with his eyes and wondered what they were up to, chasing him like that. He must be on his guard. After all, you cannot be too careful if you are a prince returning to your country while it is under the rule of an evil and ruthless dictator. When he had made quite certain the coast was clear he made a few emergency arrangements in the coach, stowed his knapsack above his seat, and made his way to the dining car.
The dining car was full of interesting smells, it being supper time. Cecil took a table in a far corner and ordered sausages and mash, a boiled egg, preserved peaches, a dundee cake, and bottled root beer. He would also have ordered chicken soup, but he was afraid he would not have been able to manage it should the train take a curve.
His supper came at last although, being train service, it took its own time about it and Cecil was just getting comfortable over it when a railway official came into the car with two men after him. Cecil had his back turned and would not have noticed them except that what the official was saying caught his attention.
‘I know the one you mean,’ he said. ‘He was the last one to board—before you, anyway.’
Cecil looked around. It would have been better if he had not, for his eyes met the direct gaze of the bearded man and the policeman.
‘There he is!’ said the bearded man, pointing straight at Cecil.
Cecil didn’t wait to hear more. He leaped up and made for the rear of the car with the three men in hot pursuit, or at least as hot as one can pursue in a coach full of tables while everything is moving at over forty miles per hour.
‘Stop him! Stop him!’ cried the bearded man.
But Cecil got out a good bit ahead of them and dashed through the next car. He hoped he’d be able to keep ahead of them until he got to his own coach which was three coaches down. He was upsetting a lot of people already, tearing through the cars like that, but what could he do? He reached his own car at last and, snatching his knapsack from the shelf, glanced back in time to see the bearded man and the policeman just entering.
‘Hi! Stop!’ they shouted.
Cecil ignored them and was about to dash on through the other door when it opened and the ticket collector entered, running smack against him.
‘Beg pardon; please let me pass,’ said Cecil when he had gotten his breath back.
‘Stop him!’ cried the policeman.
‘Aha, my fine friend!’ replied the ticket collector, attempting to collar him.
Cecil dodged and ran to the nearest window. The train was slowing down for a curve.
‘Don’t let him do it! Stop him!’ cried the policeman.
The passengers began to sit up and take notice.
‘Hi! Shut that window!’ cried an old gentleman, but it was too late.
Cecil perched for an instant on the sill and the next he had catapulted himself out of the moving train. His pursuers, rushing to the window, were just in time to see his heels disappearing into a stack of straw which stood beside the tracks. Inside the car a lady screamed.
‘We’ll get him yet,’ said the policeman. ‘Somebody pull that brake handle!’
Cecil struggled out of the straw stack and dusted himself off. Far off down the track the train was rapidly growing smaller while on one coach three men shook their fists at him and shouted.
‘Just as well I disconnected the emergency brake earlier,’ said Cecil. ‘But they’ll manage to stop it soon enough and it’s no good being here when they do. I say, I wish they’d had the decency to wait until I’d finished my supper!’
He was in a wide open field dotted with straw stacks. The sun had just set and it was beginning to grow dark and Cecil thought wistfully of a comfortable sleeper car. But there was no use in wishing; he had to set out on foot and avoid roads that might have policemen on them who would be warned of his arrival.
He found a footpath leading across the fields and struck out along it, following it until it led into a thick wood. The night fell around him suddenly and Cecil soon found himself sleepy as well as immensely hungry. Besides these discomforts there were a lot of mosquitos in the wood. Mapleton did not seem such a bad place at the moment.
He trudged on. The footpath came to a road, but Cecil, referring to his map of Pyromania, found that it was a rural thoroughfare and didn’t lead directly to the capitol city. Of course the capitol city was his destination, but it was still over twenty miles away according to the map. He kept on the footpath and tried to stay awake. He did not know how many hours he had walked before he saw off in the distance a light shining through the trees.
‘If it’s a farmhouse, I’ll risk it and ask for shelter,’ thought Cecil. ‘Maybe it’ll be a loyal farmer who will give me a ride to the city.
He picked up his pace but tried to advance cautiously in case the place kept a dog. He didn’t want to rouse the whole neighbourhood. He had just passed through a clump of trees and come close enough to get an idea of what kind of building the light came from when he was stopped by a voice close behind him.
‘Halt! Hands up!’
‘Who are you?’ came a second voice, as Cecil complied.
‘Drop your knapsack. No fast moves, hear?’
‘What are you doing out after curfew? You’re not a farm labourer—you’re urban. How did you get here?’
‘My passport’s correct,’ said Cecil as soon as the voices gave him a chance to speak.
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
Two of the men came round in front of him and Cecil heard them fumbling through his knapsack in the dark.
‘Here’s his passport,’ said one. ‘Strike a light, Hertzler.’
‘Nah, it’s too dark,’ said Hertzler, making an abortive effort to read by the faint glow of a match and lighting a cigarette with it instead. ‘Might as well take him to the guard house and let the Leutnant look him over.’
They—Cecil thought there were about five or six of them—made Cecil march in front of them in the direction of the light. It grew much brighter as they came closer and Cecil saw that it was a spotlight on a pole in a yard enclosed with barbed wire. Inside the yard stood a concrete building with bars in the windows. The men marched Cecil through a gate and into this building.
‘Found him out after curfew,’ they explained to an officer who sat behind a desk in the office.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the lieutenant without wasting any time.
‘My name?’ asked Cecil, trying to remember the name in his passport. He knew it started with Mont-something. Was it Montgomery? Or Montmorency?
‘Yes, what’s the matter? You know your own name, I suppose.’
One of the soldiers handed Cecil’s passport to the lieutenant.
‘Oh, Montague, I see,’ he said, flipping it open. ‘Well, where did you come from?’
‘I fell off the train.’
‘Clumsy of you. Your passport looks all right. Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere right now.’
‘You have to sign immigration papers if you want to come here to stay. Don’t you have any parents?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said one of the soldiers, speaking up. ‘He’s a spy.’
The lieutenant looked at Cecil dubiously.
‘He looks a bit young for that,’ he said.
‘They start them out at that age,’ said one of the other soldiers. ‘Karl’s right. This countryside’s crawling with spies and saboteurs. It’s on account of that shipment of tanks Germany’s sending in.’
The lieutenant leapt to his feet and, dashing round his desk, pulled the soldier’s helmet down over his face.
‘Idiot!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nobody was supposed to know about that. I thought they taught you to keep your mouth shut at training camp: they obviously didn’t teach you anything else.’
‘The word’s probably leaked out already, anyway,’ said the soldier, righting his helmet abashedly. ‘I’m sure the farmers know something’s up.’
‘He knows now, whoever else does or doesn’t,’ replied the lieutenant angrily. ‘What do we do with him, I’d like to know? We can’t let him go now. You know what The Superior’s orders were.’
The soldier swallowed at mention of The Superior.
‘Now see what a mess you’ve gotten me into,’ said the lieutenant, sitting down again and mopping his forehead. ‘Lock him up in the cell over there. I’ve got to think this thing through.’
The soldiers complied and then skulked out, hoping they wouldn’t get into trouble. The cell they had locked Cecil in was bare save for a concrete bench and a barred window. It was small and it did not take Cecil long to examine it minutely enough to realise that there was no possible way of escape. He sat down on the cold bench and tried to think.
Here he was, barely even over the border, and already he had been caught. It could only be a matter of time before they discovered who he really was—he knew the men who had chased him on the train had been suspicious—and once they did, it was all up with him. –Even if he was only twelve years old.
He went to the window and looked out. In the darkness he could see the vague shape of a guard walking back and forth in front of the barbed wire fence and could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel. Cecil turned and went to the other side of the cell where the barred door separated it from the outer room.
The lieutenant sat at his desk rubbing his forehead and staring at an ashtray. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind and twice picked up the telephone as if he were going to make a call and then put it back again without doing so. Once he got up from the desk and walked up and down, sighing and scratching the back of his neck like a star-crossed lover. Cecil soon grew tired of watching him and sat down on the bench again. He had nearly fallen asleep when he was roused by a particularly despondent sigh from the lieutenant.
‘Why do you let it bother you so much?’ asked Cecil, sitting up and observing the lieutenant curiously. ‘You don’t have to, you know. You could just let me go. Your men will keep their mouths shut if you do.’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ said the officer suspiciously.
‘Wouldn’t you if you were me?’ asked Cecil.
‘Maybe,’ said the lieutenant, scratching the back of his neck again. ‘I should let you go—you’re only a boy.’
‘Well, why not, then? After all, my passport was all right.’
‘But it’s so suspicious—you out at this hour in the middle of the forest without a satisfactory explanation.’
‘I’m a boyscout,’ said Cecil.
‘That’s not satisfactory enough. I have to detain you at least for the night. I’m just afraid if I call up Headquarters they’ll be angry with me for bothering them with insignificant information.’
‘I’m sure they’d be very angry,’ said Cecil. ‘I wouldn’t bother them, if I were you, and this cell’s beastly uncomfortable. You might let me sleep in your room if you’ve got to keep me all night.’
‘No, I couldn’t do that. You might escape. I know it’s not very pleasant in there, but what can I do? I wouldn’t do things like this, but I—I don’t know what to do.’
He ended with another sigh and began to pace again.
‘Well dry up, then,’ said Cecil; ‘and let a chap get some sleep at least.’
At that moment an automobile engine rose above the sound of the crickets outside and they heard a voice shouting to someone at the gate to open up. The lieutenant went quickly to the window and Cecil strained to see out over his shoulder—which was difficult because his shoulder was all the way across the room.
In a minute the door opened and two uniformed officers stepped inside. Through the open door Cecil could see a shiny black staff car bearing the Javotski party flags parked just outside.
The lieutenant sprang away from the window and saluted feverishly as they entered.
‘My Colonel,’ he said. ‘I was not expecting… is there something—I mean, is there anything—’
‘Shut up,’ said the colonel peremptorily. ‘Where’s the spy you telephoned about?’
‘Telephoned? I didn’t—’
‘Where is he?’
‘In—in the cell over there.’
‘Why didn’t you say so at once? Where’s the record of his arrest?’
‘I have not yet made one. I was waiting… that is, I thought—’
‘I don’t believe you ever think. You are incompetent, Leutnant. I expect you searched the prisoner?’
‘Oh yes, of course, Colonel. He had nothing of consequence except for a shortened cavalry sabre and an automatic. Of course we took those away.’
‘That’s his, I suppose?’ asked the colonel, pointing to Cecil’s knapsack which had been left on a bench.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Search it, Schneller.’
The officer with him emptied the knapsack and spread out the contents on the bench. The colonel stepped forward and examined the motley array of objects.
‘What’s this? Nothing of consequence, Leutnant?’
‘But Colonel, that’s only a New Testament.’
‘Only a New Testament? Subversive literature, Leutnant. This prisoner is highly dangerous.’
‘Do you really think—’
‘Of course I do—unlike you, I see. I will take charge of him myself. Put him in the car, Schneller. If he makes a move to run, blast him.’
‘Javoh!’ replied the other officer (which is German for right ho!) and, unlocking the cell door, he marched Cecil out.
‘Have one of your men carry those things out to the car,’ said the colonel, motioning towards Cecil’s belongings. ‘They may be useful as evidence.’
He returned the lieutenant’s salute and turning sharply on his heel, strode through the door.
For several miles Cecil rode in silence in the back seat of the staff car, wedged between the two officers with the adjutant’s pistol pressed to his ear. At length the driver looked over his shoulder and spoke to them.
‘Twenty miles to the capitol,’ he said.
‘All right; you can speed up a bit George,’ said the colonel. ‘Put away the pistol, Fred.’
‘It isn’t loaded,’ said the adjutant.
‘Don’t be alarmed, your highness, if I happen to know who you are,’ said the colonel. ‘We’re all friends here. In fact, we’re members of the British SIS, but it’s best if we don’t tell you too much about ourselves. We got tipped off that you’d been picked up by that patrol and we decided to pop over and help you out of the jug. You’re going to the capitol, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecil, whose head was spinning from the rapid and unexpected information and from the shock from being called ‘your highness.’
‘Well, we’ll get you into the city and drop you off at the British consulate.’
‘The British consulate? Why there?’ asked Cecil. ‘He can’t give me—what do you call it—sanctuary, can he?’
‘No, he wouldn’t be able to keep the Javotskis from getting hold of you, but he’s one of the most useful friends you have here. He’ll hide you and give you any messages Headquarters sends along. By the way, here are your weapons back: you’ll be wanting them badly enough before you’re through.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cecil. ‘How did you find out I got captured?’
‘That’s rather a long story: Headquarters has been following your movements ever since you left England and they’ve kept us informed. The uniforms and car were easy to manage. The whole business in fact has been remarkably easy. Too easy, I should say. We’ve still got to reckon with the secret police, and I’m certain they’ve an inkling of what’s happened. If we can make it to the capitol, we’re safe enough; I’d like to see them try to find us in the city. But if they catch us up before we reach the gates, it’s curtains for us.’
‘Are the entrances guarded?’ asked Cecil.
‘Every single road is guarded and you have to have a pass to go in or out. Government’s way of keeping tabs on everybody. We’ve good passes, but they won’t answer to a secret police agent—that sort’s far more thorough. How many miles yet, George?’
‘Thirteen,’ replied the driver.
‘Thirteen’s unlucky. Can’t you make it twelve and a half?’
‘Sorry. There’s no short cut that I know of and I can’t go any faster on these curves.’
The colonel rolled down his window and put his head out.
‘No one after us yet,’ he said. ‘Unless they’re mad enough to drive without headlights.’
‘In that case we’ve a better chance of escaping them,’ said the adjutant, who’d been called Fred.
Cecil heard only the first part of this sentence. The last bit got muddled up in a dream about the lieutenant, the patrol, staff cars, and the Superior, for Cecil was so sleepy he couldn’t keep himself from dropping off. He sank into the soundest sleep he’d had for several days and was only awakened a while later by the car slowing down.
‘Just about there,’ said the driver, breaking the silence. ‘Here comes the gate.’
‘All right, get the passes ready,’ said the colonel. ‘Get your gun out for effect, Fred. Let me do the talking.’
Cecil, now thoroughly awake, sat up and strained to see out the window. They had pulled up to a booth with its traffic guard lowered. A soldier demanded their passes and they tendered them.
‘Be quick, about it blockhead,’ said the colonel. ‘We’re in a hurry.’
‘All right, all right; but who’s the fourth party?’
‘A prisoner we’re taking in for questioning. He’s high security so keep your ruddy mouth shut, or you’ll be good and sorry.’
The guard handed back the passes without a word although he looked as if colonels were not his favourite ranking officer at the moment.
‘There’s an SO car behind us,’ said the adjutant in a low voice.
The colonel turned to look out the back window, then waved to the guard to lift the gate.
‘Hold there a minute,’ the guard called. ‘I’ve got to see what’s up.’
They saw him turn and stride towards the secret police car that had pulled silently up, the driver signalling from the window.
‘There’s no help for it;’ said the colonel. ‘Step on it, George; never mind the barricade.’
George complied with a screech of tyres and smashing of timber. A vague shout was heard from the guard but it was drowned out by the sound of the accelerating engine. They sped down the streets of the city, narrowly missing lampposts and taking corners at an impossible speed.
‘They’re onto us,’ said the adjutant.
‘Hold on, your highness,’ said the colonel, bracing himself against the seat and the side of the car. ‘We’ve got to shake ‘em somehow, George.’
‘Shall I try the old Pumpstreet dodge?’ asked the driver.
‘Do you think it will work?’
‘Ought to. It’s a simple one,’ he explained for Cecil’s benefit. ‘You only have to—’
‘Watch your driving, man!’ cried the colonel.
‘I’m all right, don’t worry. As I was saying, you drive into a one-lane alley and slam on the brakes. They swerve so as not to hit you, and—’
From the corner of his eye, Cecil saw a dark alleyway open up on their right and an automobile emerge from the depths, hurtling towards them.
‘Look out!’ he shouted.
The next minute was a confused one. At first Cecil could not understand what had happened and when he had collected his wits he could not tell whether he was upside down or right ways up. The car rocked and quivered and lay still.
‘Alive, your highness?’ came the colonel’s voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let me get the door open. It’s jammed.’
Cecil heard the thud of a heavy boot against the wood and something suddenly gave way and fresh air came blowing in.
‘There. Get out quick and run for it. We’ll draw them off. Hurry!’
Cecil clambered through the opening and found himself on top of the car which lay on its side, smashed against the wall of a building with the front end of the other car buried in its belly. It was a wonder they were all alive, but staff cars were made well and this one had been made in Italy.
For a split second Cecil had opportunity to survey the scene. The street was lit with lamps and practically deserted but windows in surrounding buildings were flying up and people were putting their heads out and shouting. The driver of the assaulting car was shaking his head as he came to and from the car that had followed them emerged several black-clad figures of the secret police.One of them raised his arm and Cecil saw a flash and heard a bullet pass somewhere nearby him. He scrambled to the ground and struck off at a run over the pavement, never stopping to look back as he heard gunshots and knew the SIS men were covering his escape. He hoped they’d get away, but knew that they were experts in this sort of warfare. As for himself, he had shaken off his hunger and tiredness and felt a surge of excitement pass through him. He was home in his own country and in his own capitol city and nothing was going to stop him now.

Prince Cecil: I

Chapter I.

The Saviour of His Country

Afterwards the boys at Mapleton remembered it as the night that Montellescue had a row with the Head.
His name was not really Montellescue, of course—that was only his surname. His first name was Cecil and though you may not think that much better, it was certainly better than some of his others (he had six altogether), such as Xavier or Fernando. Besides, Cecil is not such a bad name in its way: I rather like it.
Anyhow, to begin with, Cecil got in trouble with his house-master and was called into the Head’s office.
‘So you’ve been fighting again, have you, Montellescue?’ said the Head as Cecil sat before him in a chair in front of the Head’s desk. ‘You’re sent in here quite a lot, it seems. Last time it was for tampering with the electric bell system—and the time before that it was for correcting your professors. You really shouldn’t—everyone gets his facts muddled occasionally and you should overlook it.’
‘I know, sir,’ said Cecil.
‘You really do quite well in your studies and I’m pleased to see how well you’re progressing in German and French,’ the Head went on. ‘I only wish you would stay out of trouble. This fighting with the other pupils has got to stop. Who was it this time?’
‘Maxwell Primus, sir.’
‘Maxwell Primus, eh? Wasn’t that who it was the last time?’
‘He made a beastly remark about my father,’ said Cecil.
‘Did he? What did he say?’
‘I’d rather not repeat it, sir,’ said Cecil, flushing.
‘Well, whatever it was, it certainly can’t have been worth fighting over. You didn’t fight him for insulting your father last time, did you?’
‘No, sir; that time he was bullying Skimps.’
‘That’s not your affair. I will never understand why boys always resort to violence to solve their problems. It’s so low and primitive.’
Cecil made no reply to this and after meditating on the regrettable state of English boyhood for a moment or two, the Head took another look at the house-master’s note.
‘Oh, there’s something else too. Rivers says that you were caught receiving wave-lengths on a personal wireless set without authorisation, after lights-out, and in the attic, which is off-limits. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cecil.
‘Well, what’s your excuse?’
‘I couldn’t get a signal anywhere else, sir.’
The Head laughed.
He was a good headmaster, so the school-board thought, and as Mapleton Boys’ College was a fine school and had an excellent and progessively-minded board, they were good authorities. There were some persons who disapproved of the Head—they said he had subversive ideas and pushed them on the pupils—but these were generally narrow-minded people like Tories and country squires who of course weren’t worth listening to.
‘I thought they might make an exception,’ went on Cecil, breaking into the Head’s laughter.
‘Who?’
‘The chaps in charge. I was in the attic, but I wasn’t hurting anything.’
‘Why were you trying to get signals with a wireless set anyway? And where did you get the wireless set, if it comes to that?’
‘It was a present from my godparents,’ said Cecil.
‘Was it?’ asked the Head with an amused smile.
It was well-known at the school that Cecil’s godparents were the King and Queen of England. Even the Head was sufficiently impressed by this fact, although he was a socialist.
‘It was a birth-day present,’ explained Cecil.
‘Oh, I see. You did have a birth-day recently, didn’t you? How old are you now?’
‘Twelve, sir.’
‘So it was a birth-day present?’
The Head took a closer examination of the mechanism on his desk. Cecil watched him anxiously.
‘I would have asked permission,’ he said, ‘but my house-master was out until late.’
‘Well, why couldn’t you wait until another night?’
‘Well, you see…there was a particular message I wanted to pick up.’
‘What message was that?’
Cecil had hoped that he wouldn’t ask that. It was a secret message and the Head of all people must not know about it. Besides, he would never have believed Cecil if he had told him the truth. When the other boys at the school asked too many questions Cecil had an answer that usually shut them up and he tried it on the Head on a venture.
‘It’s rather complicated,’ he said.
The Head leaned back in his chair with a bored expression.
‘I can’t understand your strange obsession with electrical appliances,’ he said. ‘It’s good of course to have a sense of progress and modernism, but you’re so old-fashioned otherwise. I mean, you tinker about with batteries and motors and electricity and heaven knows what else, and then you study things like heraldry and fencing. I can’t understand it. After all, what good will fencing ever do you? Do you mean to make a charge at Balaklava?’
‘His majesty wanted me to learn fencing,’ explained Cecil.
‘Did he really?’ asked the Head and to Cecil it looked as though he sneered as he said it.
‘Do you know,’ said the Head; ‘I’ve always wondered why your godparents didn’t send you to Eton or Harrow, being as you’re a prince and such a favourite with them.’
‘My mother wanted me to go to Mapleton.’
‘Why? It’s such a small school, and it’s frightfully backward.’
‘It’s a fine school,’ protested Cecil who had strong loyalties to Mapleton.
‘It’s old-fashioned,’ insisted the Head. ‘After all, why do they insist on teaching dead languages like Latin or ancient Greek? I never could understand it and I hated it when I was a boy.’
‘I like it,’ said Cecil.
‘But there’s no use in it. You will never have to speak those languages, so what’s the use in learning them?’
‘They’re capital languages,’ said Cecil.
‘Well, there’s no use discussing it with you. You’re too set in your own ways. And to get back to the point, I’m afraid you really were caught breaking college rules and I’ll have to confiscate your wireless set.’
‘Oh, sir!’ cried Cecil, growing pale. ‘Please don’t do that, sir. It’s terribly important—’
‘Why?’
‘Because I—’
‘Well?’
‘Oh, bother!’
‘I’m sure it can’t be as important as all that,’ said the Head, closing his fingers over Cecil’s dearest possession as it stood on his desk; ‘—even if it was a present from your godparents.’
The sneer was quite unmistakeable this time. Cecil fell back in his chair biting his lip. How he wished he could explain how important that wireless set was! But it was no good trying to explain anything to the Head.
The Head for his part, felt that he had come off rather well in the last argument and felt inclined to continue the previous thread of conversation.
‘Mapleton is a good example of the late-Victorian sort of schools,’ he went on. ‘The literature taught, especially from the last war, seems to me to have a sad lack of reality, and the pupils read far too much Kipling and Ballantyne, in my opinion. You’re reading Westward Ho! right now, aren’t you? Well, there you have it: just a lot of British imperialism.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Cecil.
‘It’s not so much that it’s wrong as that it could be better. After all, wrong is only a comparative term. Boys should be taught tolerant and broad views of the world. They should not be taught that something as insignificant as a flag is worth fighting for.’
‘But it is.’
‘Well, when you grow up you’ll be just the sort of patriotic John Bull Englishmen this sort of school turns out—always voting at your party’s call; proud of the old school tie; roaring God Save the King and Boys of the Bulldog Breed; and never taking the trouble of thinking for yourself.’
‘Is there anything wrong with God Save the King?’ asked Cecil stiffly.
‘I should have known you’d ask that,’ said the Head. ‘All right, maybe your father was a king; maybe your godfather is the King of England. What difference does it make? After all, why should a man, simply because he is a king, be any better than any other man? Why, because he was born a king, is he any more qualified to rule a country than a common person?’
‘My father was,’ said Cecil.
‘Your father was the product of a deteriorating dynasty. His position was hopeless because he resisted all reforms.’
‘Good for him!’ said Cecil.
‘Well, he paid for it with his life. I can understand your point of view, because growing up the way you did has almost certainly influenced you, but your father’s not a king any more and you’re not a prince and you need to face the real world.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ said Cecil. ‘Not if it’s like you say it is.’
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘I shall,’ said Cecil sulkily.
Among other backward things, the Head disapproved of corporal punishment. But unfortunately Cecil was the sort of boy who weakened one’s principles on occasion. The Head looked long and witheringly at the refractory prince but kept his temper admirably.
‘You’re a good specimen of the monarchical system,’ he said. ‘You’re spoilt and hopelessly traditional.’
‘Take back what you said about my father.’
‘Why should I? I meant every word. It’s a very good thing that your father was deposed, although you may not see the benefit of it. The country is prospering, I hear, under the new government.’
‘It’s a rotten government,’ said Cecil.
‘Why?’
‘It is,’ insisted Cecil. ‘The dictator is the only one who gets any good out of it. The ordinary people hate it.’
‘Then why did “the ordinary people,” as you call them, depose your father?’
‘They didn’t. It was a lot of beastly insurgents.’
‘The rest of the country puts up with it now.’
‘They can’t help it.’
‘Are you so sure?’
‘Of course! They’re not like the Germans or Italians; they didn’t vote old Waki in.’
‘Old who? I suggest you be more respectful of your superiors. For the matter of that, you might speak of the Germans and Italians with less asperity. I don’t particularly agree with all their reforms, but they’re not as bad as the press makes them out.’
‘Not as bad!’ said Cecil, sitting up in astonishment.
‘Well, what have you got against them? I don’t like their silly nationalism—simply a propaganda manoeuvre to get the people united—but they’ve some good ideas between them.’
‘They’re going to declare war on us.’
‘You’ve been listening to the conservatives. They don’t mean to have a war. What possible good would it do them to have a war when they can get what they want without it?’
‘Well, we mean to have a war with them, then.’
‘Don’t be silly. We’ve progressed too far for that sort of barbarity, and Mr. Chamberlain has everything under control. There are some prophets of doom who like to cause a sensation, but Great Britain will never fight. I’m as certain of that as I am—well, as I am that you will never return to Pyromania.’
And here the Head leaned back in his chair with a smile.
‘Now go to your room and study your decimals. If you behave yourself for the next fortnight, I might let you have your precious wireless set back.’
The telephone rang just then and the Head motioned Cecil out as he picked it up. Cecil got up slowly and dragged his feet to the door. He paused just outside the office to tie his shoelace and as he bent over a yellowed scrap of newspaper fell out of his shirt pocket. It was an old article that Cecil’s godparents had given him. They’d cut it out of the paper when Cecil’s father was deposed from his country. It read across the top in large letters:

COUP D’ETAT IN PYROMANIA!

And then underneath in smaller letters:

WAKJAVOTSKI TAKES POWER IN CAPITOL CITY. KING ASSASINATED. QUEEN AND CROWN PRINCE FLEE COUNTRY.

Then there was an article about it and a picture of Cecil’s father. It was the only picture of him Cecil had besides one that had been the frontispiece of a Pyromanian history book (published prior to the new regime and found in an old book stall in London by Cecil’s mother) and which Cecil had cut out and hung in a frame above his bed.
Cecil smoothed out the paper and forgot about his shoelace. It was true that Cecil was not actually a prince anymore, but he never forgot that he had been born one and that by rights he ought to be one. He was of the old school of thought that if once one is a prince he is always a prince.
Now you may be wondering how Cecil got to be the godson of the King and Queen of Great Britain. It was really not so strange as you might think, for Queen Victoria was Cecil’s great-great grandmother and since she was King George’s great grandmother that made them relations. Besides, King George and Queen Elisabeth had not been King and Queen when they became Cecil’s godparents. King George’s father was King then and his elder brother was the Prince of Wales, so of course Cecil’s parents, when they asked them to be his godparents, could not have possibly known that King George (who was Prince Albert then) would ever become King himself. How he did is a long story and I shan’t write it here.
At any rate, being the godson of the King and Queen was, as you probably expected, rather useful. They practically adopted him after his mother died and looked after him and paid for him to go to a good school. And then, it is always nice to be invited to Balmoral Castle for the holidays. There were drawbacks to it, of course, and that was when the other boys called him Royal Pet and other nasty things, but that was because the King and Queen tended to spoil him a bit, not having any little boys of their own: only girls.
The wireless set they had given him had not been entirely an extravagance. It was a very necessary means of communication between Cecil and the British Secret Intelligence Service, whom the King had instructed to keep Cecil informed on all particulars relating to his old country. That evening before Cecil’s house-master had caught him at it, they had forwarded him a message they had intercepted passing between Germany and Pyromania.
‘For the Ambassador: Tell Ribbentrop that His Excellency will be pleased to meet with him in Munich to discuss the alliance. –Krassok’
Cecil understood this confusing message because he happened to know that Ribbentrop was the German minister of foreign affairs and that Krassok was the personal secretary to Royston Wakjavotsky, dictator of Pyromania. It was Wakjavotsky who had deposed and assassinated Cecil’s father eleven years before and who had since subjugated all the people in the country of Pyromania. And it was he who now was going to sign an alliance with Germany.
Cecil was brought back from his daydream by the sound of an excited voice coming from the room behind him. It was the Head’s voice, talking to someone over the telephone.
‘I don’t believe it!…Are you quite sure?…Yes, right away!…Goodbye!’
*click*
The door opened suddenly and the Head dashed out looking flurried, which was something that Cecil had never seen him look before in the four years he had been Headmaster at Mapleton.
‘Oh, I say! Something up?’ asked Cecil.
The Head made no reply, only dashed down the hall calling for Rübenstein, who was the German professor at the college.
‘I wonder what’s bitten him?’ said Cecil, staring after him.
‘What ho! Heard the news yet?’ asked Sanford, coming in just then. He had been to town on his bicycle and had just gotten back.
‘What’s up?’
‘I say! We’ve declared war on Germany. The Prime Minister’s just announced it over the air. Isn’t it capital?’
‘War? Really!’ said Cecil in astonishment.
‘Splendid!’ cried another boy, putting his head out from the study hall. ‘I say, won’t it be bully, though!’
Prickett, the English master came down the hall with a grave air and broke up the group of boys that had begun to cluster around Sanford.
‘Ring bell for assembly, Rawley,’ he said. ‘All of you off.—Not you, Montellescue. The Head says for you to go to your dormitory.’
‘Why?’ asked Cecil.
‘Don’t ask why, do as you’re told. Off you go, then.’
Off Cecil went. He heard a good deal of noise and commotion below as he went up the stairs to his dormitory which soon dissipated as the boys hurried out to go to assembly. He didn’t bother to turn on the light in his room but sat on his bed in the half-darkness, looking at the picture of his father on the wall. He had a great deal to think about now, but one thing was uppermost in his mind. Pyromania was going to be allied to Germany. That meant that his people must fight against Great Britain and France in a dreadful war that had just been declared between the greatest military powers in the world.
He thought of his homeland that he had never seen since he had left it so many years ago. His father had died for Pyromania and what it stood for. Of all the royal family, he alone, Prince Cecil, remained alive to carry on the flame of loyalty that had burned so brightly in his father. He must get back to his country and prevent the alliance with Germany. He must. Nothing else mattered just then.
With an air of finality he got to his feet and took his sword (a present from his godparents) and his automatic pistol (a present from the British SIS) from his box at the foot of his bed. His knapsack was soon packed with the few things he would need and he climbed out the window and slid down the drainpipe onto the school grounds.
Daylight was nearly gone and a very heavy twilight lay over everything. From the assembly hall a low murmur could be heard as the Head announced the declaration of war to the student body. Cecil looked at its glowing windows for a moment, then turned his back on his old school. He crossed the cricket field which was haunted by a few late fireflies, squeezed through a hole in the hedge that bounded it, and was on the grassy bank that sloped down to the high road.
Far down the road a pair of pale headlights approached. Cecil scrambled down onto the pavement and put out his thumb. The automobile pulled up and stopped and the driver rolled down the window.
‘Hi! Look sharp! Shouldn’t be out on the road after dark, you’re liable to get run down. Which way are you going?’
‘Dover,’ said Cecil.
‘Going over to the continent, eh? Unhealthy place just now. Just as you please, though. I’m going to London, but I’ll set you on your way as far as Chatham.’
His wife leaned over and looked closely at Cecil.
‘You’re from the school over there, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Cecil.
‘Well, have you permission to be out on your own? It isn’t safe, you know.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Cecil, getting into the car to preclude further conversation. ‘I’m on important business—about the war.’
‘Just as you please,’ said the man. ‘It’s all right, Mabel, I’m sure,’ he said to his wife who was whispering to him.
They drove for several miles and got into the busier suburbs of London before setting Cecil down again to find another ride. He found a bus headed for Dover and got on, content to pay a rather exorbitant price as long as he got where he wanted without having to answer questions. The night shut down in good earnest and the lights of the city twinkled like a titanic galaxy. Soon they were to be extinguished by the impending war, but to-night every house was ablaze with light and everyone seemed to be discussing the momentous news.

Mr. Haldar was returning to the Ministry of Defence headquarters, his mind full of the many things to be done now that war had been declared. He got out of his car almost before it had stopped and hurried to his private office on the second floor of the building. He had sat down at the desk before he noticed the man who waited in a chair in the corner.
‘Oh, hello, Waterford,’ said Haldar.
He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and began to run over them, making markings with a pen.
‘Hello,’ said Waterford.
‘Let’s see; have you stopped all forwards on suspect letters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had everyone on the marked person’s list arrested?’
‘Yes, that’s done too.’
‘Good.’
The telephone rang.
‘You’ll excuse me,’ said Haldar, picking it up. ‘Yes?…No; on no account whatsoever. Tell him so….Goodbye.’
He went back to shuffling papers.
‘What about that agent in Denmark?’
‘I’ve seen to him.’
‘You seem to be quite on top of things. Wish I could say the same for myself. I’ve a mountain of work here. By the way, I suppose you came to tell me something?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t tell you over the telephone, besides not being sure I’d be able to reach you that way. He’s off.’
‘Who is?’
‘Dolphin. He’s started for Pyromania.’
The minister ceased his survey of the papers and began to search through his desk.
‘Dolphin? Dolphin? I can’t remember what that is just now. I thought I had a codeword manual here somewhere.’
‘The prince,’ said the other man succinctly.
‘What prince?’
‘The prince of Pyromania. What other prince would I be speaking of?’
‘I thought you meant one of our princes at first. One never knows. So he’s left, you say? Did you tell him to?’
‘Not exactly. I’ve been keeping him posted on Pyromanian affairs like you told me to, and to-night he took off on his own. He’ll be across the channel in another hour.’
‘Where’d you get this from?’
‘Our agent in the Sudbury area.’
‘Did he go by himself?—Dolphin, I mean.’
‘Yes, and I can’t communicate with him because that Turk of a headmaster pinched his wireless.’ ‘So what do we do?’
‘Nothing. It’s just as well. We’ve got to stop that alliance somehow and this is probably the only way.’
‘Do you really think he’ll make any difference on his own?’
‘He won’t be entirely on his own. There’s an active underground in Pyromania and he’s better than any number of agents for the morale he’ll provide to the resistance.’
‘But he’s only a boy—can he even make it into the country?’
‘He has a forged passport.’
‘He has?’
‘From one of our departments. It will get him in…after that, he’s on his own.’
‘And you think he stands a chance?’
‘Depends on how you define chance. He’s not your average product of a public school. He was trained for the throne. Taught history, government, the arts, language, deportment—’
‘Excuse me,’ said Haldar as the telephone rang again. ‘Yes?… Yes… Tell him to hurry… All right. –As you were saying, Waterford?’ he asked as he hung up the receiver.
‘He’s been taught all that besides having been trained in Morse code and signals, deft hand at shooting and fencing; he even knows a few rudimentary sabotage techniques. Our department saw to that.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything.’
‘Anything his majesty overlooked, that’s all. He wanted the boy trained to command armies some day as well as lead a government. We simply supplied the training necessary to bring him to that position. We’ve invested quite a lot into the kid. He’s young, but he’s essential for all that.’
‘It seems rather hard to send him all the same. A mere boy...’
‘He’ll be looked after. We’ve a few agents in Pyromania. Of course it would make things difficult if we were to lose him but now’s the time to strike and there’s no help for it. It’s the only way to stop the alliance.’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course, but I thought we were going to try other approaches first.’
‘We had intended to, but he’s left and it’s too late now. It’s just as well, as I say. C’est le moment. If we wait, we will no longer have the chance. We have to do it now.’
‘That’s all very well for us, but what about him?’
Waterford shrugged his shoulders.
‘He was born for this hour,’ he said.

Cecil stood at the rail of the ferry, watching the channel slide past and wishing he were allowed to go inside the wheel house. He hoped they had not discovered his defection at the school yet. As a matter of fact, they had, but they had not got so far as to learn whether he had gone south towards London or if he had gone north towards Cambridge. Lost person notices were put up the next day until someone sent an order to take them down. No explanations were offered: to all practical purposes Montellescue had dropped off the map.

Afterwards, when the students talked about the night war was declared, they remembered that it was also the night that Montellescue had had a row with the Head and had afterwards run off to save his country.

Knight Rupert: VII

Chapter VII.

Is this that haughty gallant, gay Lothario?
-Rowe

SO SUDDENLY did the door give way that Sophia was obliged to run forward through the opening to keep from falling upon her face. The person who had opened it ran in, too; then turning, he placed his shoulder against the stones and heaved it shut again. He seemed to say something, but Sophia could not hear what it was above the thunder of the rain on the roof of the tower.
The next instant she was nearly buried by a travelling cloak which the person had thrown over her head and shoulders. He strode past her to the door leading into the garden, jerked it open, and turning back again, caught Sophia’s hand in his.
‘Come on!’ he said and led her at a rapid pace through the wet garden, out into the courtyard, and through the oaken door into the keep.
They entered the hall dripping. Sophia caught her breath with a gasp and blinked her eyes in the gloom.
‘I say, it’s wet, isn’t it?’ the voice declared, as its owner shut the great oaken door with a bang. ‘Somebody’s let the fire go out, too. Jacob! Gertruda! Hullo, Jacob! Odd’s fish, there’s nobody about.’
He set to building up the fire himself and had it burning brightly in a trice. Then he turned towards her.
It was the first opportunity Sophia had had of properly observing him. He was not the man she had seen in the forest. He carried a pistol and sabre as the other man had, but his face was much younger and he had a different sort of air about him. He wore a military uniform and a helmet with a point on the top, such as one often sees in pictures of the Kaiser of Germany. His eyes were a light brown colour in the firelight, a narrow moustache ran over his lip, and his brown hair stuck in damp rings to his forehead.
He was handsome, yet it was not his appearance alone that was so striking. It was more a manner that he had: when he moved, it was always with certainty and set purpose; he never made an awkward motion, but carried himself with easy confidence; and even when at rest his limbs stood ready to snap to attention at the first notice. Yet at the same time he seemed so careless, as if it did not matter what happened—he was prepared for it.
This was the impression that Sophia got from her observation, although she could not have put it down in words as I have done. He observed her in turn and saw a little girl—as fair and slight as a fairy child—with great eyes like two grey moons and hair like beaten flax, coming unplaited on her shoulders. His cloak still hung about her neck and, being made for a tall man while she was a very small girl, lay about her feet in great black folds.
‘So this is the Princess Sophia,’ he said with an amused smile.
It did not seem a strange thing for him to say. Sophia did not know how he could know her name when she had never seen him before, and she was certainly not a princess, yet at the moment it seemed the thing he ought to say.
‘I daresay you’re surprised to see me.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophia truthfully, and then waited for him to explain.
‘So you found a secret door out of the castle, eh?’ he asked, putting his helmet under one arm and resting the other arm upon the mantelpiece. ‘I didn’t know there was one there. How did you find it?’
‘I was playing in the tower,’ explained Sophia. ‘I meant to keep it a secret. You won’t tell them, will you?—they’d be very cross with me.’
‘Who are “they”?’ he asked.
Before she could reply there came the sound of footsteps in the passage and Jacob entered.
‘Well, the castle isn’t entirely deserted, anyway,’ said the man by the fire. ‘Where is everybody, Jacob?’
‘Gertruda went into town, sir, and Borrit and Muncaster are out.’
‘Out where?’
‘They didn’t say, sir.’
‘So you’re the only one here, eh, Jacob?’
Not a nerve in Jacob’s face moved as he nodded in reply.
‘Go out and bring my horse in then; it’s outside the west wall.’
‘Outside the wall, sir?’
‘I should think you’d know by now not to question unaccountable circumstances, Jacob; isn’t that what my uncle hired you for?’
Without a word Jacob crossed the room and exited by the great door. The stranger watched him go until the door closed after him, then turned back to Sophia.
‘Not too wet, I hope?’ he said, helping her off with the cloak. ‘Stand by the fire and dry a bit while I fetch some supper.’
So saying, he went to the kitchen and returned in a few moments with a loaf of bread and a stone pitcher of milk. He poured himself a glass from a bottle of wine which stood half empty on the table, then stuck a candle into the bottle-neck and lit it.
‘Here we are,’ he said cheerfully, fetching a chair for Sophia. ‘Cosy, isn’t it? It’s only black bread,’ he went on, cutting the loaf with a knife Borrit had left stuck in the table. ‘I’m afraid they don’t keep a very well-stocked larder here—but I’m sure you’re aware of that by now.’
Sophia didn’t mind. She was fond of the heavy, sweet black bread and when it was spread with butter and eaten with quantities of milk it made a very nice supper.
The stranger himself ate only a little. He leaned back in his chair with his legs stretched out towards the fire and every now and then whistled snatches of a song.
Sophia watched him wonderingly. He was a very mysterious person and though he seemed to know a great deal about Sophia she herself didn’t know anything at all about him—not even so much as his name.
Yet she did not dare to ask him any questions. In the little time that she had lived in the mysterious castle she had learned not to ask questions because whenever she did, she had either been ignored or scolded. She did not feel that this person would either scold or ignore her, but he was so strange and unexpected that a spell seemed to hang about him and Sophia was half frightened that he would suddenly vanish. There was something about him that seemed quite different from other people and which gave her an odd, excited feeling, but she didn’t know what it was.
‘Well, how do you like it here?’ he asked to break the silence. He seemed to be the sort of person who had rather be talking or doing than sitting still.
‘I like it very much,’ said Sophia. ‘Only, I miss England sometimes. It’s very different here.’
‘Do you like it better, or not as much?’
‘I think,’ said Sophia slowly, remembering that afternoon’s excursion, ‘I like it better than England—only I’m not certain yet.’
Then she paused, for she wasn’t used to talking about important things to people who mightn’t understand.
‘It’s beginning to feel like home,’ she said. ‘I think it may feel more like home soon. I’ve never been anywhere that felt quite, all the way like Home.’
She watched him to see if he understood, or if he would laugh.
‘It feels like home, does it?’ he said in a mysterious way, as if he knew something she didn’t.

Her pigeon had stayed all day in the castle (perhaps it had known it was going to rain). It was hopping about under the table now, picking at the cracks in the stone floor. Sophia’s companion regarded it curiously as Sophia dropped crumbs for it.
‘Never seen an all-white pigeon before,’ he remarked. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘I brought her with me from England. Her name’s Constance.’
‘Extraordinary name for a bird, I must say.’
‘But she isn’t an ordinary bird,’ Sophia explained. ‘Mr. Morton found her last winter near St. Paul’s Cathedral. Have you ever seen St Paul’s Cathedral?’
‘In pictures.’
‘I saw it once on a walk with Father—that was before he was too ill to go out—there were lots of pigeons all around it. They built their nests up in the stone ledges. I suppose she must have fallen out of her nest because Mr. Morton found her near the steps one afternoon with a broken wing, and he brought her home to me to nurse. She wouldn’t leave me even after her wing grew well again, and that’s why I named her Constance.’
‘I see,’ he said, and began to whistle ‘The Fair-Haired Boy’.
His whistle had a light-hearted sound that was thoughtful at the same time. He stopped in the middle of a phrase and spoke to Sophia again.
‘And what do you think of this old castle? Gloomy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘But I love it, anyway.’
‘Love it?’
‘It seems to want me,’ said Sophia.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t make you gloomy as well. I never cared for it, myself.—They say it’s haunted.’
‘By ghosts?’
‘Of course. Every proper castle has ghosts, you know.’
His eyes looked straight into hers and he smiled, and Sophia knew that there was nothing really to be frightened of.
‘Is there a dungeon, too?’ she asked.
‘There’s the wine cellar. I suppose you’ve been down there?’
‘Yes—but only with Jacob.’
‘That’s a good idea. Jacob won’t let any spooks get to you. The wine cellar used to be the dungeon.’
‘And were there Captives Held in Thrall there, long ago?’ asked Sophia with bright eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said, entering into the game, ‘and an Evil Lord of the Castle who fed them on Bread and Water.’
‘But their friends came and saved them?’ asked Sophia confidently.
‘Oh yes, eventually.—Or ransomed them.’
‘Were there dragons back then, too?’
‘I daresay—that Pillaged the Countryside.’
‘And were there knights?’
‘In Shining Armour.’
Sophia often found it hard to talk to people and so she was not sure why she found it so easy to talk to this strange person. Perhaps it was because she had had no one to talk to for so long, or perhaps it was because he seemed interested in what she said and didn’t laugh at her, or perhaps it was because Sophia found herself liking him so much.—Perhaps it was all these reasons put together. She didn’t know, and wondered about it.
Jacob came back soon after this, shaking the rain from his clothes. He scarcely looked at them and went straight into the kitchen.
‘Jacob!’ called the stranger after him. ‘Did Borrit or Muncaster tell you when they would come back?’
‘No, sir,’ said Jacob coming in again. ‘They told me nothing at all.’
‘When did they leave?’
There was a sudden rattle of the great gate followed by a clatter of hooves in the courtyard.
‘That’ll be them, sir,’ said Jacob. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go out and see to the horses.’
He left and in a few minutes the two refractory ones entered, looking rather flushed and irritable. The discovery of the stranger’s presence did nothing to improve their mood. Borrit especially seemed displeased at sight of him.
‘Well, what are you doing here?’ he demanded.
The young man had tacitly ignored their entrance and sat calmly smoking. On being accosted by Borrit’s loud voice, he took his cigarette from his mouth and turned his attention to the two.
‘Bit late, aren’t you?’ he asked idly. ‘I rather expected you to be here when I arrived.—But then, I didn’t expect you to leave the castle in the first place.’
Muncaster hung up his cloak in the corner without a word and looked slightly ashamed, but Borrit only grew angrier.
‘Why shouldn’t we leave the castle?’ he asked. ‘You go where you please: why shouldn’t we?’
‘I’ve been carrying out my orders. Pity the same can’t be said for you. Raymond will be pleased to hear how you’ve been spending your time.’
‘I suppose you mean to tell him?’ asked Borrit pointedly.
‘Was Fritz’s beer as good as it usually is?’ asked the other irrelevantly.
‘You spy on Hergyll and you think you can spy on me as well! I won’t be spied on by anyone.’
‘That’s just as you please.’
There seemed nothing more to be said between them, but Borrit was still boiling with rage. His gaze fell upon Sophia who was watching the proceedings with wide eyes.
‘Go to your room!’ he said peremptorily.
She obeyed at once, catching up her pigeon and hurrying silently through the door into the long corridor that led to the wide staircase. She wished she might have stayed. She almost thought, if Borrit had not been so cross, that she would have asked him to let her stay longer and hear them talk. But as it was, she knew she must do as Borrit said.
The stranger watched the door close behind her.
‘Yet another for you to order about,’ he remarked to Borrit. ‘I wouldn’t be so cock-sure if I were you.’
‘But you are all the same, although you are not me,’ said Borrit.

Sophia groped her way up and up through the dark corridors with her bird clutched tightly in one arm. The darkness had fallen and she had no candle. Yet there was a light feeling in her heart, for she had found two good things that day. One was a way out of the castle which was not locked and barred. The other was—could he be a friend? He was so strange and mysterious, yet there was something about him that wasn’t strange at all. She rather thought he was a friend, and she smiled to herself when she remembered that he had not told.
But the next morning he was gone. Sophia, though she was not quite sure why, felt strangely disappointed.
‘He left late last evening,’ Jacob said when she asked him.
‘What did he come for?’
Jacob only lifted his shoulders and shook his head.
‘Well, when do you think he’ll be back?’
‘There’s no telling with him.’
‘But what was his name, Jacob?’
Jacob seemed surprised.
‘That was young Rupert,’ he said.

* * *