The long silence that followed was broken by the hurried entrance of Miguel with an opened telegram. He walked straight up to the President and handed it to him without speaking; but Lucile could see that he was trembling with haste, excitement, or terror.
Molara opened the folded paper leisurely, smoothed it on the table and then jumped out of his chair as he read it. “Good God! when did this come?”
“This moment.”
“The fleet,” he cried, “the fleet, Miguel—not an instant must be lost! Recall the Admiral! They must return at once. I will write the telegram myself.” Crumpling the message in his hand he hurried out of the room, Miguel at his heels. At the door he found a waiting servant. “Send for Colonel Sorrento—to come here immediately. Go! be off! Run!” he cried as the man departed with ceremonious slowness.
Lucile heard them bustle down the corridor and the slam of a distant door; then all was silent again. She knew what that telegram contained. The tragedy had burst upon them all, that tragedy whose climax must strike her so nearly; but she felt glad she had meant to tell her husband—and yet more glad that she had not told him. A cynic might have observed that Savrola’s confidence, in the safety of his secret, was well founded.
She returned to her sitting-room. The uncertainty of the immediate future terrified her. If the revolt succeeded, she and her husband would have to fly for their lives; if it were suppressed the consequences seemed more appalling. One thing was clear: the President would send her out of the capital at once to some place of safety. Whither? Amid all these doubts and conflicting emotions one desire predominated—to see Savrola again, to bid him goodbye, to tell him she had not betrayed him. It was impossible. A prey to many apprehensions she walked aimlessly about the room, awaiting the developements she feared.
Meanwhile the President and his secretary had reached the private office. Miguel shut the door. Both looked at each other.
“It has come,” said Molara with a long breath.
“In an evil hour,” replied the Secretary.
“I shall win, Miguel. Trust to my star, my luck—I will see this thing through. We shall crush them; but much is to be done. Now write this telegram to our agent at Port Said; send it in cipher and clear the line: ‘Charter at once fast despatch-boat and go personally to meet Admiral de Mello, who with fleet left Laurania midnight 8th instant for Port Said. Stop. Order him in my name return here urgent. Stop. Spare no expense.’ Now send that off. With good luck the ships should be here tomorrow night.”
Miguel sat down and began to put the message into code. The President paced the room excitedly; then he rang the bell; a servant entered.
“Has Colonel Sorrento come yet?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Send and tell him to come at once.”
“He has been sent for, Your Excellency.”
“Send again.”
The man disappeared.
Molara rang the bell once more. He met the servant in the doorway.
“Is there a mounted orderly?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Finished, Miguel?”
“Here,” said the Secretary, getting up and handing the message to the startled attendant—“at speed.”
“Go on,” shouted the President, striking the table with his open hand, and the man fled from the room. The sound of the galloping horse somewhat allayed Molara’s impatience.
“He crossed the frontier last night at nine o’clock, Miguel; he should have been at Turga at daybreak. We have a garrison there, a small one, but enough to delay the advance. Why is there no news? This telegram comes from Paris, from the Foreign Minister. We should have heard from—who is it commands the post?”
“I don’t know, Your Excellency. The Colonel will be here directly; but the silence is ugly.”
The President set his teeth. “I cannot trust the army; they are all disaffected. It is a terrible game; but I shall win, I shall win!” He repeated the sentence to himself several times with more energy than conviction, as if to fortify his heart.
The door opened. “Colonel Sorrento,” announced the usher.
“Look here, old man,” said Molara familiarly—he felt he wanted a friend rather than a subordinate—“Strelitz has invaded us. He crossed the frontier last night with two thousand men and several Maxim guns, marching here by Turga and Lorenzo. We have no news from the Commandant at Turga; who is he?”
Sorrento was one of those soldiers, not an uncommon type, who fear little but independent responsibility. He had served under the President for many years in the field and in the Government. Had he been alone when the news arrived, he would have been thunderstruck; now that he had a leader he followed and obeyed with military precision. Without any appearance of surprise he thought for a moment and then replied: “Major de Roc. He has four companies—a good officer—you can trust him, Sir.”
“But the troops?”
“That’s another matter altogether. The whole army, as I have several times informed you, Sir, is disturbed. Only the Guard can be relied on, and, of course, the officers.”
“Well, we shall see,” said the President stoutly. “Miguel, get the map. You know the country, Sorrento. Between Turga and Lorenzo, the Black Gorge must be held. Here,” he pointed on the map, which the Secretary unrolled, “here they must be stopped or at any rate delayed, till the fleet comes back. What is there at Lorenzo?”
“A battalion and two machine-guns,” replied the War-Minister.
The President took a turn up and down the room. He was used to deciding quickly. “A brigade would do it for certain,” he said. He took another turn. “Rail two battalions of the Guard at once to Lorenzo.” Sorrento, who had produced his notebook, began to write. “Two field-batteries,” said the President. “Which two are fit, Colonel?”
“The first and second will do,” answered Sorrento.
“And the Lancers of the Guard.”
“All?”
“Yes, all, except details for orderly-work.”
“That leaves you only one trustworthy battalion.”
“I know,” said the President. “It is a bold
