Royal Flash

with picnic parties— for although some snow still lay, it was pleasantly warm for the season—and shooting in the woods, and riding (on horses) in the afternoon, and in the evening we had musical entertainment from the ladies, or played billiards, and the food and drink were of the best. I began to feel like royalty again, with people waiting on me hand and foot, and jumping to my slightest wish, and it is mighty pleasant to have a beautiful young duchess hanging on your arm, adoring you, even if she does keep you from getting much sleep at nights. It was the life, all right—lazing, feasting, shooting, tickling the pills in the billiard room and sweating it out in bed with Irma—all the trivial amusements that are simply nuts to chaps like me.

Rudi and de Gautet were the only flies in the ointment, for their very presence was a constant jog to my memory of the business in hand. But strangely enough, I became a little closer to de Gautet, for I discovered that he shared one of my chief interests, which is horseflesh. He was an authority, of the true kind who never pretends more than he knows, and in the saddle he was nearly as good as I was myself, which is to say he would have been topnotch among any horsemen in the world—even the Cheyennes of the American plains, who are the best I know. We rode together a good deal, but I made sure we always had one of the Strackenzians or a couple of grooms along—I'm nervous about going into the woods alone with fellows whom I've cut open with a schlager, and who I'm pretty sure haven't forgotten it.

De Gautet, at any rate, was a silent, unassertive fellow, which was more than could be said of the bold Rudi. Now that he was confident I could play my role in perfect safety, he was treating me exactly as he would have used the real Prince Carl, which is to say with his customary impertinence. Of course, he cared for no one, and even let his bright eye play over Irma, while he would address her with that half-mocking deference which he seemed to reserve for his social superiors. She was woman enough to be taken by his good looks and easy charm, but she sensed, I think, that here was a real wrong 'un, and confessed to me on one occasion that she was sure he was not a gentleman. I promised to replace him with a new aide when we returned to the city—and took some malicious pleasure in telling him about it later, so that he should realise that one woman, at least, had read him correctly. But he was only amused.

'I knew the chit had no taste,' says he. 'Why, she's taken to you. But don't imagine you can get rid of me so easily, your highness—I'm your loyal, obedient, and ever-present servant until the time comes to end our little comedy.' He blew a smoke-ring and eyed me, tongue in cheek. 'I think you'll be sorry when it's over, won't you? Princely life suits you, or I'm mistaken.'

In fact, he was mistaken. Oh, it was very idyllic there in Strelhow, and I was idler than even royalty usually are, but already I had a notion that the future that faced Carl Gustaf wasn't going to be all roses and wine. It may seem rare to be a crowned head, and no doubt if you're an absolute monarch with unlimited power, it's right enough—but a prince consort, which is more or less what I was, isn't quite the same thing. He can't trim the heads off those he don't like, or order up any good-looking skirt who takes his fancy. He's always one step behind his adoring spouse, and even if she dotes on him—and who knows how long that will last?—he still has to get his own way, if he wants it, through her good leave. Even in those blissful early days with Irma, I could see how it would be, and I didn't much like it. God knows how our late lamented Albert stuck it out, poor devil. If I'd been him, six months would have seen me on the boat back to Saxe-Coburg or wherever it was. But perhaps he didn't mind playing second fiddle—he wasn't English.

However, I consoled myself that I was having the best of both worlds—my luxurious enslavement was both enjoyable and temporary. Now and then I fretted a little over what the outcome of the comedy would be, but there was nothing to be done about it. Either Bismarck would keep his bargain or he wouldn't—and I forced myself to put the latter possibility out of my mind. This is the real coward's way, of course—I wanted to believe he would play fair, and so I did, even though common sense should have warned me that he wouldn't. And as so often happens, I almost fell a prey to my own comfortable, lily-livered hopes.

We had been about ten days at Strelhow, I suppose, when one evening we were in the billiard room, and •e talk turned to horses. Someone—Rudi, I think—mentioned the fine stable kept by a gentleman over beyond the Jotun Gipfel; I expressed interest, and it was suggested that next day we should ride over and call on him. It was all very easy and casual, like any of the other expeditions and picnics we had enjoyed, and I gave it no thought at all.

So next morning de Gautet and one of the Strackenzian aides and I set off. The quickest way was through the Jotun Gipfel on horseback, and Irma came with us by carriage as far as the road allowed. Thereafter we turned off towards the crags, she fluttering her handkerchief lovingly after her departing lord, and presently we were climbing into the hills by one of the bridle-paths that are the only tracks through that wild and picturesque little region.

It was a splendid day for such a jaunt, clear and sunny, and the scenery was pleasant—any of our Victorian artists would have sketched it in a moment, with its nice little crags and trees and occasional waterfalls, and would have thrown in a couple of romantic shepherds with whiskers and fat calves for good measure. But we saw no one as we moved up towards the summit, and I was enjoying the ride and musing on last night's sporting with Irma, when the Strackenzian aide's horse went lame.

I've often wondered how they arranged that, for the horse was certainly lame, and I doubt if the aide—his name was Steubel, just a boy—had anything to do with it. I cursed a bit, and de Gautet suggested we turn and go back. The boy wouldn't hear of it; he would walk his horse slowly down to Strelhow, he said, and we should go on. De Gautet looked doubtful—he was a clever actor, that one—but I was fool enough to agree. I can't think, now, how I was so green, but there it was. I never thought of foul play—I, who normally throw myself behind cover if someone breaks wind unexpectedly, was completely off guard. I had my pistols, to be sure, and even my knife, for I'd got into the wise habit of going armed whenever I left the lodge; but de Gautet's manner must have disarmed me completely.

We went on together, and about twenty minutes after parting from Steubel we, had reached the summit, a pleasant little tree-fringed plateau, split by a deep gorge through which a river rushed, throwing up clouds of mist against the rocky sides. The whole table-top hemmed in by trees, but there was a clear patch of turf near the edge of the gorge, and here we dismounted to have a look down into the bottom, a hundred feet below. I don't care for heights, but the scene was so pleasant and peaceful that I never felt a moment's unease, until de Gautet spoke.

'The Jotunschlucht,' says he, meaning the gorge, and something in his voice sounded the alarm in my brain. It may have been the flatness of his tone, or the fact that he was closer behind me than I felt he should have been, but with the instinct of pure panic I threw myself sideways on the turf, turning as I fell to try to face him.

If his pistol hadn't misfired he would have got me; I heard the click even as I moved, and realised that he had been aiming pointblank at my back. As I tried to scramble up he dropped it with an oath, drew its mate from beneath his tunic, and levelled it at me. I screamed, 'No! No!' as he thumbed back the lock, and he hesitated a split second, to see if I should leap again, and to make sure of his aim.

In a novel, of course, or a play, murders are not committed so; the villain leers and gloats, and the victim pleads. In my practical experience, however, killing gentlemen like de Gautet are far too practised for such nonsense; they shoot suddenly and cleanly, and the job's done. I knew I had perhaps a heart-beat between me and damnation, and in sheer terror I snatched the seaman's knife from the top of my boot and hurled it at him with all my force, sprawling down again as I did so.

If I've had more than my share of bad luck in my life, I've had some good to make up for it. I had some now; the knife only hit him butt first, on the leg, but it caused him to take a quick step back, his heel caught on a stone or tuft, he overbalanced, the pistol cracked, the ball went somewhere above my head, and then I was on top of him, smashing blindly with my fists, knees, and anything else, trying to beat him into the ground.

He was tall and active, but nothing like my weight, and Flashy in the grip of mortal fear, with nowhere to run to and no choice but to fight, is probably a dreadful opponent. I was roaring at the top of my voice and clawing at him for dear life; he managed to shove me off once, but he made the error of lunging for the fallen knife, and I was able to get one solid, full-blown boot against the side of his head. He groaned and fell back, his eyes rolling up in his head, and collapsed limply on the turf.

For a moment I thought I'd killed him, but I didn't wait about to see. The training of years asserted itself, and I turned and bolted headlong down the path, with no thought but to put as much distance as I could between me and the scene of possible danger. Before I'd gone far I had to stop to be sick—no doubt from the shock of my narrow escape—and during the pause I had time to consider what I was doing. Where could I run to? Not back to Strelhow, for certain; the Bismarck gang had shown their hand now, and my life wouldn't be worth a china orange if I went anywhere they could come at me. And why had they tried to kill me now? What purpose was there in having