"No," said Sophy, smiling faintly. "Science thinks in mult.i.tudes--and I"m thinking of the individual to-night. Even Lady Meg never made much of science, you know."
"Do you remember the day when I heard you your Catechism in the avenue at Morpingham?"
"Yes, I remember. Does the Catechism hold good in Kravonia, though?"
"It continues, anyhow, a valuable doc.u.ment in its bearing on this life.
You remember the mistake you made, I dare say?"
"I"ve never forgotten it. It"s had something to do with it all," said Sophy. "That"s how you, as well as Lord Dunstanbury, come in at the beginning as you do at the end."
"Has it nothing to do with the question now--putting it in any particular phraseology you like?" In his turn he pointed at the smoky lantern. "That"s not life," he said, growing more earnest, yet smiling.
"That"s now--just here and now--and, yes, it"s very smoky." He waved his hand over the darkness. "That"s life. Dark? Yes, but the night will lift, the darkness pa.s.s away; valley and sparkling lake will be there, and the summit of the heaven-kissing hills. Life cries to you with a sweet voice."
"Yes," she murmured, "with a sweet voice. And perhaps some day there would be light on the hills. But, ah, I"m torn in sunder this night. I wish I had died there at Miklevni while my blood was hot." She paused a long while in thought. Then she went on: "If I go, I must go while it"s still dark, and while these good people sleep. Go and tell Lord Dunstanbury to be ready to start an hour before dawn; and do you and he come then to the door of the church. If I"m not waiting for you there, come inside and find me."
He started towards her with an eager gesture of protest. She raised her hand and checked him.
"No, I"ve decided nothing. I can"t tell yet," she said. She turned and left him; he heard her steps descending the old winding stair which led from the top of the wall down into the street. He did not know whether he would see her alive again--and with her message of such ambiguous meaning he went to Dunstanbury. Yet curiously, though he had pleaded so urgently with her, though to him her death would mean the loss of one of the beautiful things from out the earth, he was in no distress for her and did not dream of attempting any constraint. She knew her strength--she would choose right. If life were tolerable, she would take up the burden. If not, she would let it lie unlifted at her quiet feet.
His mood could not be Dunstanbury"s, who had come to count her presence as the light of the life that was his. Yet Dunstanbury heard the message quietly, and quietly made every preparation in obedience to her bidding.
That done, he sat in the little room of the inn and smoked his pipe with Basil. Henry Brown waited his word to take the horses to the door of the church. Basil Williamson had divined his friend"s feeling for Sophy, and wondered at his calmness.
"If I felt the doubt that you do, I shouldn"t be calm," said Dunstanbury. "But I know her. She will be true to her love."
He could not be speaking of that love of hers which was finished, whose end she was now mourning in the little church. It must be of another love that he spoke--of one bred in her nature, the outcome of her temperament and of her being the woman that she was. The spirit which had brought her to Slavna had made her play her part there, had welcomed and caught at every change and chance of fortune, had never laid down the sword till the blow was struck--that spirit would preserve her and give her back to life now--and some day give life back to her.
He was right. When they came to the door of the church, she was there.
For the first time since Monseigneur had died, her eyes were red with weeping; but her face was calm. She gave her hand to Dunstanbury.
"Come, let us mount," she said. "I have said "Good-bye.""
Lukovitch knew Dunstanbury"s plans. He was waiting for them at the gate, his arm in a sling, and with him were the Zerkovitches. These last they would see again; it was probably farewell forever to gallant Lukovitch.
He kissed the silver ring on Sophy"s finger.
"I brought nothing into Kravonia," she said, "and I carry nothing out, except this ring which Monseigneur put on my finger--the ring of the Bailiffs of Volseni."
"Keep it," said Lukovitch. "I think there will be no more Bailiffs of Volseni--or some Prince, not of our choosing, will take the t.i.tle by his own will. He will not be our Bailiff, as Monseigneur was. You will be our Bailiff, though our eyes never see you, and you never see our old gray walls again. Madame, have a kindly place in your heart for Volseni.
We sha"n"t forget you nor the blow we struck under your leadership. The fight at Miklevni may well be the last that we shall fight as free men."
"Volseni is written on my heart," she answered. "I shall not forget."
She bade her friends farewell, and then ordered Lukovitch to throw open the gate. She and the three Englishmen rode through, Henry Brown leading the pack-horse by the bridle. The mountains were growing gray with the first approaches of dawn.
As she rode through, Sophy paused a moment, leaned sideways in her saddle, and kissed the ancient lintel of the door.
"Peace be on this place," she said, "and peace to the tomb where Monseigneur lies buried!"
"Peace be on thy head and fortune with thee!" answered Lukovitch in the traditional words of farewell. He kissed her hand again, and they departed.
It was high morning when they rode up the ascent to St. Peter"s Pa.s.s and came to the spot where their cross-track joined the main road over the pa.s.s from Dobrava and the capital. In silence they mounted to the summit. The road under their horses" feet was trampled with the march of the thousands of men who had pa.s.sed over it in an irresistible advance on Slavna.
At the summit of the pa.s.s they stopped, and Sophy turned to look back.
She sat there for a long while in silence.
"I have loved this land," at last she said. "It has given me much, and very much it has taken away. Now the face of it is to be changed. But in my heart the memory of it will not change." She looked across the valley, across the sparkling face of Lake Talti, to the gray walls of Volseni, and kissed her hand. "Farewell, Monseigneur!" she whispered, very low.
The day of Kravonia was done. The head of the great snake had reached Slavna. Countess Ellenburg and young Alexis were in flight. Stenovics took orders where he had looked to rule. The death of Monseigneur was indeed avenged. But there was no place for Sophy, the Queen of a tempestuous hour.
They set their horses" heads towards the frontier. They began the descent on the other side. The lake was gone, the familiar hills vanished; only in the eye of memory stood old Volseni still set in its gray mountains. Sophy rode forth from Kravonia in her sheepskins and her silver ring--the last Queen of Kravonia, the last Bailiff of Volseni, the last chosen leader of the mountain men. But the memory of the Red Star lived after her--how she loved Monseigneur and avenged him, how her face was fairer than the face of other women, and more pale--and how the Red Star glowed in sorrow and in joy, in love and in clash of arms, promising to some glory and to others death. In the street of Volseni and in the cabins among the hills you may hear the tale of the Red Star yet.
As she pa.s.sed the border of the land which was so great in her life, by a freak of memory Sophy recalled a picture till now forgotten--a woman, unknown, untraced, unreckoned, who had pa.s.sed down the Street of the Fountain, weeping bitterly--an obscure symbol of great woes, of the tribute life pays to its unresting enemies.
Yet to the unconquerable heart life stands unconquered. What danger had not shaken not even sorrow could overthrow. She rode into the future with Dunstanbury on her right hand--patience in his mind, and in his heart hope. Some day the sun would shine on the summit of heaven-kissing hills.
THE END