Knights, with long retinue of their squires, In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires; One laced the helm, another held the lance, A third a shining buckler did advance. The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet, And snorting, foam'd and champ'd the golden bit. The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride, Files in their hands and hammers at their side; And nails for loosen'd spears and thongs for shields provide. The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands; The clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands. —Palawan and Arcite.
Nischon was in holiday attire. Hundreds of blue and gold flags were suspended across the streets and every house was draped with bunting. The largest of the flags was fifty feet wide at the top; they were triangular in shape and came to a point so close to the ground that they brushed our faces as we passed swiftly under them.
Every shop was closed; the peasantry, not only of Nischon but also from the surrounding towns and villages, were upon the street dressed in their best gay colours, waiting for the grand parade, hungering for a sight of the Prince and the nobles. The parade was all the populace would see of the ceremonies, for only the nobles of the land, the personal representatives of the kings and queens of Europe, and the foreign attachés of the court of Bharbazonia were to be permitted within the Cathedral.
On the façades of several houses I saw the same emblem of sinister meaning—a red fez with a dagger run through it, draped in black—and beneath, the motto which Nick translated from the dialect, "Down with the Osmanli;" the national hatred for the Turk must protrude itself even when Bharbazonia tried to be happy.
The two ancient fortresses on the opposite hills fired blank charges from their heaviest guns and from every noisy street came the sputtering reply of small arms in the hands of the peasantry. For only the lower classes were permitted to carry firearms that day. They took keen delight in displaying these weapons before the nobles, who found equal pleasure in carrying swords, a privilege denied to peasants.
Although the General took us toward the Palace by the quieter streets, he was greeted with cheers from all sides. The wave of sound followed our flight like a wall of water, ready to topple over, but never quite able to overtake us.
The roadways were full of richly attired nobles on horseback, riding rapidly toward the Palace where the pageant was to start. There were hundreds of victorias and open carriages coming and going. Within were seated beautifully gowned women, some attired in modern Paris gowns and others in Bharbazonian gaudy finery. Our conveyance played sad havoc with the equilibrium of these noble dames when horse after horse caught sight of us and tried to break away from the attending grooms.
The courtly General, forgetful of the use he had made of the machine during the past three weeks, cursed Teju Okio every time such an accident was threatened, but the boy, ever smiling, replied:
"Very dam fine."
Although the General made several attempts to get out, his martial dignity forbade him going on foot and he subsided. Matters were adjusted to his satisfaction when he caught sight of a gay young colonel of his regiment and ordered him to bring two horses as quickly as possible. When they came, the General and Nicholas rode away to the Palace, ordering Teju Okio to take me to the Cathedral where I might procure a position near the great door before the crowd of vehicles blocked the way.
The green grass under the minarets and shining domes of the high church were black with people. They gathered around the car when we took our position before the entrance, feeling the hard tires and caressing the shining paint of the tonneau, making me feel as if I were part of the parade placed there for their amusement.
Hour after hour crept slowly by and I began to regret that I had not accepted the General's offer to ride with him, although I should have felt out of place in the procession and lost the position for the automobile, which, as it afterward transpired, was of value to me and made easy that which might have been otherwise impossible.
I amused myself by idly smoking endless cigarettes and buying cakes and sweets from the street venders. About two o'clock the blare of a powerful band somewhere near the Palace told me that the procession was moving at last. In order to give the common people their full share of the festivities, the pageant wended its way through all the principal streets of the city, beginning with that part which lay on the opposite side of the river.
From our elevated position, half-way up the hill on the Cathedral side, we were able to follow the line of march until it reached the bridge and began the circuit on our side. Shouting, confetti-throwing and detonating fireworks marked the progress of the entourage. The forts high overhead seemed to go mad with joy. It was four o'clock when the head of the procession turned into the street which led to the Cathedral grounds.
First came an army of mounted troops—five thousand in number—with General Palmora riding proudly at their head. This was only the vanguard intended to clear the way around the entrance. As it came on it formed into two solid lines of horsemen from the massive doorway of the Greek Church extending back along the avenue as far as the eye could reach. The soldiers wheeled their horses, the two lines facing each other, and backed their animals into the crowd behind, leaving a wide pathway vacant for the procession. Everything had to move back before them, but the General saw to it personally that the automobile was permitted within the enclosure.
I thus had an unobstructed view of the proceedings. The regimental band again scattered the crowd and took up its position on the plaza before the Cathedral and the King's Own Guard in scarlet uniforms, which distinguished them from the General's fighting men in their green cloth, followed. These red soldiers were about two thousand strong. They lined up in front of the cavalrymen, thus making a double barricade of horses around the entrance and lending their brilliant colour to the entrancing military picture.
Close behind his Guard, riding a quiet black charger covered from head to foot with a black riding cloth emblazoned with gold so that only his pointed ears and flashing eyes were exposed, peeping from small apertures in the head-dress, came old King Gregory. At sight of him the populace shouted with joy and the legion of mounted men flashed their thousand swords in the air held at salute.
For all his eighty-two years and flowing white beard, the King was magnificent. One could readily believe him capable of winning his encounter thirty years before in front of the Turk's Head Inn. He sat his horse firmly and carried his head erect, looking neither to the right nor left. His face was gravely serious. Only when he came opposite the General did he show that he saw or heard. He acknowledged Palmora's military salute, dismounted and walked with great dignity up the Cathedral steps.
Behind him were his Prime Minister and cabinet, followed by the Grand Dukes of the realm and the nobles. Nicholas in his scarlet uniform was among them, but he did not notice me. Beside him rode Marbosa. There was a scowl upon the Duke's face and I knew he had learned that the Prince had not disappointed the people. He looked none the worse for his hard ride. Around him I recognized many of the young nobles who had been with him in the lodge. They were sober now, but the look of determination on their faces brooded ill for the Prince. Oh, if I only knew what they intended to do in the Cathedral!
The foreign attachés and representatives of the European potentates came next. They were headed by a band of long-skirted Cossacks. Riding before them was a stern gentleman in a brilliant Russian uniform whom I took to be Grand Duke Alexoff, the personal representative of the Tzar of all the Russias. Among the crowd of attachés I had no difficulty in picking out the blond head and red uniform of the Englishman, the court dress of the Frenchman and the modest dress suit of the American consul.
As each detachment dismounted before the Cathedral, under the admirable system of the General, their horses were taken to the rear by the soldiers, so that there was no congestion about the entrance.
The women of the court, and the wives and daughters of the nobles and foreign dignitaries, followed in their open carriages, and it was upon these that the populace showered confetti and flowers. At any other time this fine display of magnificent gowns might have interested me, but I was anxious to see Solonika. I chafed under the delay occasioned by the long line of carriages from which the women leisurely disembarked and ascended the steps with many glances behind at their long trains.
As it happened, Solonika brought up the rear of the procession. Surrounded by her father's retainers in such number that even Marbosa's men might hesitate to attack them, she came, mounted on a snow-white, prancing horse, whose pink muzzle and dainty pricked ears pronounced him an Arab. Her waving red hair reflected the departing kiss of the setting sun and her eyes were bright with excitement at the murmur of admiration which the peasantry could not suppress.
Like the King's horse, her magnificent animal was covered with a similar riding cloth. Except for the absence of the red cross and shield, she might have been a Crusader about to set out for the Holy Land, or Sir Lancelot of King Arthur's time. Nothing but the eyes and ears of her steed was visible; and the white cloth was stiff with heavy golden embroidery worked, I thought, by her own hands, during the long years of waiting. Over her shoulders, fastened with a golden buckle under her chin, hung a long flowing white cloak similarly embossed; it melted into the riding cloth and gave the impression that horse and rider had been carved out of one piece of white marble. White satin knee breeches and white buckled shoes and silk stockings completed the most magnificent picture of Solonika my memory treasures.
The Red Fox, in the crimson uniform of a Grand Duke, rode nearest her; but I knew that the smile of satisfaction on his face concealed his apprehension of the outcome of the day and the strain under which he was labouring. For the present there was nothing to fear from Marbosa. The Red Fox's strong retinue was followed by the entire garrison of Castle Novgorod of the province of the North, the other half of the army of Bharbazonia. Governor Hassan led them, and they were fully ten thousand strong, filling up the entire avenue with horses. General Palmora, I know, controlled them and, until he joined with Marbosa, the nobles would be powerless.
The Red Fox had good cause to be uneasy, not so much because of his secret, but because of the sullen attitude of the peasantry. For, while they had greeted King Gregory with rapturous applause and cheered the General and every dignitary in the long line, they were ominously silent as Solonika passed. Some it is true did attempt a greeting, but they were promptly put down by rival cries of "Down with the Osmanli." Duke Marbosa's sympathizers seemed to be everywhere in the crowd. The years he had spent in educating the people to believe in the Red Fox's Turkish tendencies were bearing fruit. It was only too plain that, had not the Prince appeared to-day at the Cathedral, the wily Duke of Marbosa would have easily had his way in proclaiming his favourite, Prince Novgorod.
I did not envy Solonika her reign in Bharbazonia.
As she came in sight of the automobile standing in front of the steps ahead of the line of horsemen, she looked straight at me as I leaned forward in the seat and removed my hat. Although she made no sign, I knew that she saw me and was glad that I was there. Poor little Solonika, you were going to the life you abhorred with a smile on your face. How sweet you looked upon your splendid palfrey, and how I longed to pick you up in these strong arms and bear you far, far away, out of all this meaningless pomp and ceremony! How great a sacrifice you were making I alone of all that crowd knew.
She passed without a further glance in my direction and entered the Cathedral. Was she thus to go out of my life for ever? As she ascended the steps, and lingered for a moment under the gloomy arch of the portal, the sun went down behind the western hill and the dark promise of approaching night fell upon the thousand upturned faces below. I shivered as if I saw an evil omen in the trivial incident. Set, you golden sun over yonder hill, for what cared I? Without the woman I loved, without the companionship of that glorious creature who was to sit upon a throne as far above me as the stars, the world would be for ever dark.
Within the sombre entrance of the Cathedral I saw her again. She was buckling her sword to her side and waiting for her father to come up. Again she looked me full in the face, and I fancied her lips moved and a voice whispered "Good-bye, Dale." But I could not be sure she had spoken and I dared not address her in the midst of her retainers. She would need her undivided attention and all her fine courage to carry her through the coming ordeal.
"Any news of Marbosa?" the Red Fox whispered in my ear.
"None," I answered, "except that he and his men are in the Cathedral. They mean business. Keep your retainers close at hand."
The Cathedral was crowded, and, since the entrance of King Gregory, the entire assemblage was standing. The only vacant space was the wide aisle which led from the single door to the altar. The best positions for sight-seeing were the places lining this aisle. Without exception these were filled with women. The nobles were against the side walls, and the Grand Dukes and foreigners were standing on the right and left of the open spaces before the altar. I was glad to note this disposition of the audience for it left the aisle free to any one who wished to leave the church. The men would have to thrust the women aside before they could reach the door.
A gorgeously attired attendant, with one glance at my plain dress suit, led me to a place among the foreigners and I found myself between the American consul and the French diplomat. After the trying ordeal of walking up the aisle with the eyes of the court ladies upon me came to an end, I was well pleased with my position for I would be within ten feet of Solonika when she was crowned.
I looked around the Cathedral. The interior was entirely of stone; it echoed and re-echoed with the slightest movement of the crowd. There were no nave or side aisles. Overhead, arching domes rested on pillars and sprang anew from them to other pillars in an almost endless succession. The result was row upon row of heavy stone pillars extending both lengthwise and crosswise through the body of the church dividing it up into a giant checker-board. But, up near the altar where I stood, the pillars ceased and the high roof reared itself into a single massive dome. I judged that I was under the tallest of the domes which from the outside I had seen at the rear of the edifice.
Under this dome every sound was intensely magnified and the voices of an invisible male choir thundered and reverberated above my head in the solemn movement of an endless Greek chant; the replies were sung by a surpliced boy choir within the sacred altar. The Cathedral was ablaze with lights which came from groups of long candles along the walls and clustered about the heads of the pillars. The altar was one brilliant flame of fire glistening against solid walls of serried candles placed one against the other, outlining the arches, niches and the high altar itself, until to my mind it looked like a miniature exposition building at night. The air was heavy with the smoke of burning candles and the choking odour of Oriental incense.
Moving about through the body of the church, swinging the incense burners of beaten brass and lending their voices to the chant, were scores of lectors, hypo-deacons, deacons and arch-priests. They were dressed in white and from their raiment had received the name of the "white clergy;" these were the priests who were permitted to marry. Gathered around the altar were the priests, bishops, archbishops and metropolitans. They were attired in black and were called the "black clergy;" they were not permitted to marry. The monks from whom they were chosen were not in evidence, but I supposed it was their voices that were raised in the chant.
High above all, dignified, solemn, majestic, his sable robes wrapped closely about him, his tall mitred hat set firmly upon his gray head, stood the Patriarch, the "pope" of the Bharbazonian church. As I soon had cause to learn, he was equal if not greater in power than the King himself, having not only a spiritual but also a temporal jurisdiction over the people, who paid him an annual tribute in proportion to their incomes. He stood motionless, like a man of stone, within that sacred space known as the "Holy of Holies" where, thanks to our pagan ancestry of phallic worship, no woman may come and live.
"They couldn't do better at the Hippodrome," drawled the unimpressed American consul in my ear, but I pretended not to hear him.
My thoughts were upon this Patriarch with his hard, superstitious face. The Greek Church is not, like the Catholic Church, under one single pope. It has a patriarch in every one of its countries and the moral tone of each division of the church depends upon the education and enlightenment of this leader. What the Greek church was in Russia, Turkey, or the other Balkan states was of no interest to me. This was Bharbazonia. And one of this Patriarch's priests had burned a woman at the stake, unrebuked. I prayed that Solonika might not be discovered, for I felt sure she would suffer the same terrible punishment as befell the witch of Utrepect.
A murmur of women's voices and the sound of rustling skirts, such as one hears in a fashionable church when the bride appears at the foot of the aisle, told me that the Prince was coming. The priests and choir boys, regardless of the ancient chant, broke into a spirited litany, and the Prince, with head erect and eyes fixed upon the High Patriarch, walked slowly up the aisle.
He had thrown aside his cloak and looked slender and weak in contrast with all the strength and power of the kingdom assembled to see him made ruler. How pale his face under the red hair brushed neatly back from his forehead. How like a sacrifice his white garments made him appear. The women hung over the ropes that guarded the aisle, with admiration for the beautiful boy written upon their countenances. The young girls were entranced. To them he no doubt was a little prince out of a story book.
On, on he came until he stood in front of the stone railing facing King Gregory, who had taken up the position of honour at the feet of the Patriarch. The Duke of Dhalmatia followed his son at a respectful distance, and halted behind him when he reached the altar. The King fixed his glance upon his brother, but the Red Fox did not notice him. Dhalmatia was watching the Duke of Marbosa on the right among the crowd of scarlet Grand Dukes. Nicholas was beside Marbosa and, when the Red Fox saw him, I knew by his sudden start that he recognized the Grand Duke of Framkor's son. But whether his knowledge went further and told him where to expect Marbosa's blow, I could not say. The Red Fox cast a look over his shoulder as if to measure the distance to the door where he had left his own men.
Every sound in the vast Cathedral was hushed. The stolid Patriarch had raised his hand for silence. The choir boys were dumb and the invisible monks ceased their dismal chant. The audience stood breathless. Two black-robed metropolitans ascended to a position just below the pope. They faced each other and bent low over the feet of the Patriarch, who stood with one hand raised toward heaven. The black clergy began a chant in Greek and went through a mysterious service during which the candles were put out and lighted again. The Patriarch faced the north, south, east and west. Then the bent metropolitans arose and descended to the side of the Prince. They unbuckled his sword belt and gave the weapon into the keeping of the Red Fox, and solemnly led the Prince past the King, up the steps to kneel at the feet of the Patriarch.
The Prince was within the Holy of Holies! The sacrilege was complete! Up to this time, perhaps, the masquerade had been an amusing play. Now, discovery meant death!
The Patriarch then took an active part in the ceremony. In a strident voice he intoned the leads in the service, the black clergy and the choirs replying; the babel of sounds became deafening; it was apparent that the festival was approaching its climax. With his own hands the "pope" baptized the kneeling Prince with oil and vinegar, and blessed his future reign by touching his head and shoulders with the sacred wand of Moses, taken from its resting-place within the arch in the Holy of Holies. He laid his own black robe upon the shoulders of the kneeling figure in token that the Prince now shared the leadership of the Church with the Patriarch, and lifted a golden crown from the altar to place it upon the Prince's brow, the insignia of his kingship.
All sounds were hushed; the chanting again ceased; the audience stood spell-bound, awaiting the final act which would make Prince Raoul, son of the Grand Duke of Dhalmatia, King of Bharbazonia.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, came the interruption. From somewhere in the Cathedral, I knew not where, a voice, not the voice of any priest, cried:
"Stop!"
I dropped my hand to my side pocket, and felt my fingers close over the handle of my revolver, and looked toward Grand Duke Marbosa. He was standing among the scarlet uniforms, his hand upon his sword hilt, looking with startled attention at the Patriarch. He did not move, and I knew that the interruption had not come from him. The Red Fox, his eyes starting from their sockets, his thin lips moving as if in prayer, his bloodless hands grasping his son's sword, was staring at King Gregory.
Then I realized that it was the old King who had spoken. He was facing the multitude with upraised hand, his red face growing redder under the stress of excitement.
"Teskla, my daughter, come hither," he said.
The strain was too great for the Red Fox's shattered nerves. He unconsciously released his hold upon the Prince's sword, and it fell with a loud clatter to the floor. An audible sigh of broken suspense went wavering through the entire length of the huge Cathedral at this second interruption. The High Priest paused, holding the crown suspended above the Prince's bowed head. The two might have been turned to stone.
"Holy Patriarch," began the King, addressing the altar, "I crave your pardon most humbly for this intrusion. But, before you place the crown upon the Prince Raoul's head, before I cease to be King in Bharbazonia, there is one last act which I wish to perform. I will not long detain you."
While he spoke, Princess Teskla, surprise and dread written upon every lineament of her handsome face, walked haltingly toward the King. He placed one arm affectionately over her shoulder and faced the nobles.
"You men of Bharbazonia, Grand Dukes and nobles assembled," he said, "have not forgotten the ancient law of the Virgin. You are aware that he who salutes one such publicly upon the lips, under the reading of that law defiles her. For such an act there is but one reparation."
"We know," thundered the nobles in chorus.
"Holy Father," continued the King, facing the Patriarch, "will you tell us what that reparation is."
"The offending man must wed the maid if he be a fit mate for her. If not he may choose between exile or death," pronounced the "pope" in chanting tones.
"Such defilement has been thrust upon my daughter," shouted the King so loudly that his voice reached every ear within the vast Cathedral.
The Prince within the altar turned his head slightly, as if to catch the eye of his father. The Duke had been watching, and returned the look as if to say, "Fear not, my child, this has naught to do with us."
"There must be witnesses," droned the Patriarch.
"Speak, Nokolovitch," commanded the King of his Prime Minister.
"I am witness," said the Prime Minister.
"There must be another," said the Church.
"Speak, Palmora," cried the King.
"I am witness," said the General as if the words were being dragged from him. He cast a despairing look at his beloved Nicholas, who stood with bowed head. The scene in the Garden of the Palace came vividly back to us all. How serious are jests when viewed through sober eyes. What a scurvy trick the King was playing upon Nicholas and his daughter in thus publicly disgracing them. The law which he had invoked must have been one of the old forgotten "blue laws" of the country which even the General had not remembered when he searched for some explanation for the King's show of delight in the Garden. But it still seemed in force if the King chose to wield it.
"Another! There must be a third," said the Patriarch.
"I am witness," the King promptly replied.
"Enough! The law is fulfilled," intoned the Church. "Name thou the man!"
"Name thou the man, Teskla," adjured the King.
But the Princess was crying bitterly and wringing her hands. She fell upon her knees at her father's feet.
"I cannot! Oh, my father, I cannot! I cannot!" she wept.
The King shook her roughly by the arm and reiterated his command. Seeing no way out of her dilemma, the Princess brushed away her tears and stood upon her feet. She looked imploringly at Nicholas, who bit his lip and frowned. He could not, or would not, help her and, when she realized that she stood alone, her look of fear returned. Then she turned toward the kneeling Prince behind the altar and seemed to make up her mind. She lacked the courage to tell her father the truth. She determined to travel along the line of least resistance, trusting to the future to come to her aid. Her little white "lie" had assumed Brobdingnagian proportions.
"Speak, I command thee!" called the Patriarch, wearying of the delay.
"Teskla!" warned her father in a voice that made her tremble.
She straightened herself with an effort to her full handsome height and, pointing an accusing finger at the Prince, cried:
"Thou art the man!"