ON THE RUSSIAN FRONTIER

The afternoon was drawing to a close as Paul Woodville and Noel Trevisa made their way to the frontiers of Czernova.

From Slavowitz they had driven in a troika or three-horse car, adopting by preconcerted arrangement a route different from that taken by Bora and his second.

Having put up their vehicle at a roadside hostelry, Trevisa conducted his friend to the place of a.s.signation, the path lying through a series of charming woodland glades, collectively known as the Red Forest.

"Grand pines!" remarked Paul, admiring the erect and stately columns presented by these trees.

"The haunt of wolves in winter," observed Trevisa. "They sometimes devour the Russian sentinels. Who henceforth shall say that a wolf has not its uses?"

Following the beaten track, they came to an extensive clearing.

"The frontier line runs somewhere through this glade. Yes; there is the boundary mark."

Trevisa directed Paul's attention to an upright rectangular block of stone, the sides of which fronted the four cardinal points. On the northern face, deeply cut, were the letters R-U-S-S-I-A, and on the southern face C-Z-E-R-N-O-V-A.

"We are now breathing the air of despotism," remarked Trevisa, as they left the stone in their rear, "and unless we keep a lookout we may experience the effects of it in a shot fired at us by some hidden sentinel."

"What? Is it the fashion of Russian sentries to take pot-shots at pa.s.sing strangers?"

"Occasionally; at least, on this frontier. It is purposely done to provoke hostilities from Czernova. Ah! there's a sentry. I thought we shouldn't advance far without meeting one."

There under the shadow of the trees, about a hundred yards distant, sitting on horseback with lance erect, was a wild-looking Cossack, with Hessian boots, red breeches, and a small red turban-shaped cap.

He was chanting the Russian anthem, and his voice, mellowed by the distance, had a strange plaintive effect.

The sight of this equestrian was well calculated to stir reflection in Paul's mind.

Far, far away on the icy sh.o.r.es of Kamchatka other Russian sentinels were keeping watch. The distance between the two frontiers was over six thousand miles as the crow flies.

And this empire, so colossal in extent, the very incarnation of military force, was threatening little Czernova, Barbara's own princ.i.p.ality! There was no hope of her emerging victorious from the contest. The very idea was insanity. She would be but as an infant struggling in the hands of a giant. And the nations of Europe would look on unmoved, as they have often looked on and condoned the conquest of the Weak by the Strong. There was none to pity or help her. And as Paul thought of all this his heart grew hot within him. He began to feel something of the spirit that animated the Polish patriots of Czernova.

Suddenly the Cossack sentinel, catching sight of strangers, turned his horse's head in their direction, and lowering his lance, he came on at full speed.

On nearing the two friends he reined in his s.h.a.ggy steed with such quickness as to throw the animal almost on its haunches.

"Your pa.s.sport, little fathers?"

"Here is the universal pa.s.sport, in Russia as elsewhere--cash,"

replied Trevisa, displaying some rouble-notes. "We come no farther, and are here simply to fight a duel."

"A duel! That's against the law of Russia. The guard-house is but half-a-mile distant among those trees yonder," said the Cossack, indicating the direction with his lance. "The captain is a terrible fellow. If he should come this way he'll order your arrest and mine too."

"Not he. He'll be only too pleased to witness a good fight. Besides, we have rouble-notes for him also. He has his price, I dare be sworn, otherwise he would be a novelty among Muscovites."

The Cossack reflected. A duel was a pleasant thing; a _douceur_ still more pleasant. Why, then, seek to prevent the fight? He would take his chance of discovery at the hands of his captain. So having first looked cautiously round, he stuffed the rouble-notes into his left boot and made no more opposition.

"Let the Czernovese slay each other," he muttered. "The fewer for our Czar to fight when the talked-of war takes place."

"We are first on the field, it seems," remarked Trevisa, referring to his watch. "Hum! five minutes yet to the appointed time."

Paul having presented the Cossack with a cigar, lighted one himself, and paced leisurely to and fro, seemingly far more at ease than his second.

"This duel is a very serious matter," muttered Trevisa.

"One can die but once."

"Just so. If one could die half-a-dozen times the first death would not matter much. I, however, am not antic.i.p.ating your death, Paul, but the duke's. You may be doing grave hurt to the princess by killing him."

"How so? Have you not said that it would be a good thing if the princess could be released from him?"

"True; but your way of releasing her has its disadvantages. Forget not that the duke is a near kinsman of the Czar, and that at the present time the Czar hath no great love for Czernova. If Bora should fall Nicholas may accuse the Czernovese cabinet of being privy to the death of his kinsman, and with some show of justice, inasmuch as Radzivil, the premier, though cognizant of the coming duel, has taken no steps to prevent it. You perceive my meaning. The Czar might demand an indemnity such as he foreknows that Czernova could not, and would not pay. The result--annexation of the princ.i.p.ality."

Paul reflected a moment.

"The duel was to have been _a la mort_, and I came intending to kill or be killed, but your remark has set the matter in a different light.

I cannot retire nor apologize without loss of honor, yet it is equally clear that I must do nothing to the hurt of the princess. There's but one way out of the difficulty: I'll so wound him that he shall not be able to use sword-arm for a month."

"If you can do that--well," replied Trevisa, very much doubting, however, Paul's ability to make good his word, for was not John the Strong the most expert swordsman in Czernova?

It was quite thirty minutes after the appointed time when the Duke of Bora made his appearance attended by his second, Baron Ostrova. They brought no surgeon with them, for Ostrova, in arrogant vein, had declared that his princ.i.p.al had never yet required one; and Trevisa, not to be outdone in bravado, had made the same avowal respecting Paul.

While the duke remained at a little distance his second advanced, gracefully raising his hat to Trevisa.

"You are late, baron."

"Accept our sincere regret. Our vehicle broke down on the way." Then, adopting a somewhat submissive air, and addressing Paul and Trevisa in common, he said,--

"Can we not terminate this little matter amicably? His grace is willing to apologize for his hasty action of this morning."

To do the duke justice, it was not Paul's sword that he feared, but loss of the princess. During the course of the day he had begun to realize the force of Radzivil's words,--that if the affair should come to the knowledge of the princess it might seriously affect the projected marriage.

He would, therefore, swallow his pride, and for the first time in his career as duellist cry off from the combat by making an apology.

"All's well that ends well!" murmured the delighted Trevisa. "You'll accept the _amende honorable_, Paul?"

But Paul seemed bent on chastising the duke.

"It is pleasant to learn," he said, speaking sufficiently loud for Bora to hear, "that his grace realizes that he has acted like a ruffian. 'Liar' and 'coward' were the epithets he applied to me; his action, a cane-stroke across my cheek. And now does he deem that simply to express regret will be a sufficient satisfaction for an affront offered to the uniform of the Twenty-fourth? Well, I will accept the apology on this condition," continued Paul, breaking a slender sapling from a tree overhead and leisurely stripping off the foliage, "that the duke's cheek shall receive from this wand a stroke similar to that bestowed upon mine. It will be a convincing token of his repentance."

Ostrova, to whom had been committed the charge of bringing the weapons, smiled satirically, and presented two sheathed sabres to Trevisa.

"Take your choice."

Trevisa first measured the blades, and finding them of equal length next proceeded to test their temper; and then, having made his selection, handed the same to Paul, who in the meantime had doffed his coat and vest and now stood ready for the fray.

The victor in thirty duels, humiliated beyond measure at the rejection of his conciliatory address, did not wait for further preliminaries but s.n.a.t.c.hed the remaining sabre from the hand of Ostrova, and with the fury of a lion darting upon his victim, he flew upon Paul as if purposing to lay him _hors de combat_ at the first brunt.