The roads at the crossing were wide and smooth, with cool woods on either side, but beyond them to the left rose the high, jagged, yellow-and-black mass of the mountains, bare on their upper reaches, and wooded in the shelter of the valleys, a splintered peak or two farthest inland showing snowcapped even in August. They dominated the narrow strip of fertile, hilly land between them and the sea, abrupt, savage, Central European. One of the roads led up through a cloven valley and was engulfed in it, the other ran more levelly along the sea coast. John stopped while we stared. It was not the first time that we had stopped in the last few days just to look at a landscape. The whole journey through these lands of astounding languages and suddenly varying costumes had been painted in opalescent sunlight and vivid shadows, but since morning we had been nearing the mountains. Now we found ourselves under them, but not yet in them, and two roads, equally wide and enticing, led forward to unmarked destinations.
2“It’s the road to the left,” I said, looking at the map. “It seems to branch off about here, but it might be a little farther on. It’s hard to tell with no markers.”
“Anyway, let’s not take it,” John objected. “Why pass up another day or so of driving? You never know what you may find if you don’t know where you’re going.”
I agreed.
“Helena doesn’t expect us any particular day, so that’s all right,” I said. “Let’s take the wrong road.”
It was a very long and beautiful wrong road. The mountains changed their angles, but did not move from their commanding position to our left. The sea became bluer, the sun climbed higher, and then presently, we were turning inland. We passed only small villages, or isolated farms, their buildings connected, in true Central-European fashion, by a series of little walled courts, where pigs and chickens, cows, human beings, dogs, donkeys, and even mules and horses mingled but did not stop. With firm faith in the brakes of passing cars they overflowed into the highway. John dodged them all expertly, having had almost a week of practise at it, and presently we came suddenly to a customs house with a barrier across the road.
3“This must be the Alarian frontier,” John said. “There’s always something at the end of a road. Shall we go through?”
“Why not?” I said. “We’re here, and we can get back to Helena’s across the mountains. There’s a rather famous Pass. Handsome scenery.”
“There are no shortcuts to beauty,” he proclaimed, grinning. “The farther we go the better it gets. Where’s your passport?”
4The inspector peered into the tonneau of our car, and seemed pained by the number of tightly strapped pieces he saw there. He gratefully accepted a pair of cigars from me, and then dutifully read our names with a thick accent, so that John became Yohn Coltaire, and I Marr-s-hall Carrr-veen. Our likenesses puzzled him a little. He stared from them to us several times before he decided that they were, after all, passable. He then waved us through the barrier, and we came, a hundred yards or so farther on, to a second barrier, where the performance was repeated, in the same order, as though rehearsed, like a comic opera chorus. The only difference was the uniform of the examiners. We were then given gracious permission to enter the realm of King Bela of Alaria.
“Chap I know,” John said, “went all through here last year and wrote a book about it. He said the roads were fine and the food and wines even better, if you like garlic and mutton. And he’s never tired of raving about the people. Maybe we’d better stop and do some painting.”
“You don’t have to go to Waldek,” I said. “If you’re seeking refuge in working I can go there by train alone.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Of course I want to go to Waldek. Those mountains make me feel as though they ought to be set down on canvas.”
“Work’s pretty fascinating,” I agreed, “if you’re not doing any.”
5“That’s not true,” John objected. “I’m not doing any, and don’t want to, but once I start I like it. You’ll see when we get to Waldek.”
“The mountains are there, too,” I promised him.
“I know,” he answered. “And I’ve never visited a Countess in a medi?val castle. I’m expecting a couple of ghosts and a bookful of legends, to say nothing of all the neighbors in for Kaffee Klatsch, and the feudal retainers in costume.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I feel a bit doubtful myself. I’ve never been to Waldek, and it’s eight years since I’ve seen Helena.”
“The grand finale to a perfect trip,” he enthused politely. “Reunion with a lost cousin and her beautiful daughter, the Countess Marie.”
“Only don’t blame me,” I warned, “if she isn’t. I haven’t seen the kid since she was about twelve or so. She was thin and pig-tailed then, and over fond of sticky French pastry and marrons glacés.”
“She’s probably grown fat on them in eight years, and had a permanent wave. Still, I always hope for the best, and sometimes I’m surprised by getting something like it. Look at that, for instance.”
6We had topped the crest of a long, rolling hilltop, to the sudden edge of a low cliff, and looked almost directly upon the historic and fantastic city of Herrovosca, capital of Alaria. It was the first time either of us had ever seen an Oriental city. Geographically, of course, Herrovosca is not Oriental, but the Turks occupied it too long for it ever to look like a European city again. The houses below were whitewashed, or color washed, the shrubbery was thick and of an unbelievably luscious and vivid green, as I imagine the green of an oasis to be, with flecks of bright flowers to accent it and slender poplars pointed heavenward like minarets of silver. From the hilltop we looked almost directly down on the new part of the town. Pleasant villas were set back in their gardens behind high white walls, awninged roofs showed bright among the trees, the bright face of a small lake flashed, and through the center of the city flowed a river, crossed by a dozen bridges. Everything on our side of the river was new and bright, with ample space for trees. On the opposite bank there was little greenery except for a park that covered a small rocky hill. In the park was a huge old building, a massive grey stone structure with long wings of lighter stone that had been added later. Obviously it was the Royal Palace, the abode of the only Christian bachelor King in the world. Around the whole district was a double line of fortifications in perfect preservation. The outer wall crossed two of the bridges and was continued on our side of the river. In medi?val days the Herrovoscans did not dare to leave their defense to chance and the perfection of the walls suggested that the medi?val period was a very recent fact.
7At the foot of the little hill on which the Royal Palace stood, was a large square, flanked by a Cathedral on one side, and by two large, official-looking buildings on the other two, with the park of the Palace forming the fourth. It was all very quiet and peaceful. Not a sound came up to us from the city, though we were very close to it. We passed a few cars, some market and trucking wagons drawn by mules, horses and oxen in mixed pairs, a scattering of foot passengers, laden donkeys, and riders, each making its own special sound; but from the city there was only silence. It seemed unnaturally still, like a dead town.
8“It’s the wind,” John said, practically. “It’s carrying the sound away from us. Odd effect, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s the most scene-painterish city I ever saw in real life,” I said. It was hard to believe that it was real, but as we rolled down the hill sounds of activity gradually rose to meet us. As we crossed the river over one of the wide stone bridges, the first impression of unnatural quiet was erased. Herrovosca was like all cities, noisy, busy, self-centered, and its color faded a little as we approached. John turned away from the wide thoroughfare leading from the bridge, and followed several short narrow streets. They were quaint and full of atmosphere, both ocular and olfactory, but so short that in a few moments we found ourselves on another wide avenue, lined with trees and flowers, their wide walks dotted with nurse maids in gay caps with colored streamers, men and women of less than the highest class making quite a business of their promenade, staring at the fine, open carriages and cars in which the great ladies drove, and the handsome horses being ridden by young officers of the army. We were so much amused by the people that we almost drove past a gendarme who motioned us to one side so that two lancers might ride down the center of the street, tiny blue pennons waving from the tip of their long lances. A victoria followed, drawn by a handsome pair of black stallions. Behind that were two more lancers with four soldiers following on motor cycles. In the victoria were two ladies. One of them was bowing from right to left, graciously acknowledging the salutes of her subjects. The Queen Mother, of course. She was as handsome as her pictures, and of a conscious presence, like a great actress. She stared slightly as she bowed to us. Evidently tourists were not plentiful in Alaria.
9John fell in behind the cortege, driving slowly of necessity. We had a Baedeker, but did not bother to open it. It was so much pleasanter to wander on haphazard. When we came to a side street that looked interesting, we turned into it again. It smelt strongly of cheese and other native food products. White walls, grated windows, cobblestones, were everywhere, and nearly all of the lower classes wore their bright native costumes. There were so many of them, and so many uniforms, that civilian clothes became conspicuous. Practically no one lowly enough to walk wore them except the promenaders on the avenue.
10“That’s the way people ought to dress,” John approved. “Bright colors. Makes you feel cheerful.”
After we had been driving about for some minutes we came suddenly out of the twisting maze of streets, and found ourselves in the large square we had seen from the hill above the city. John stopped the car to look around us. If he had not we should have been run into by a large dark car travelling very fast. It turned into the open gates of the Palace park. The sentries jumped out of the way and managed to salute almost at the same time as it charged up the steep short hill with a roar of its open motor. We caught just a glimpse of a young girl alone in the tonneau. She was leaning forward in an eager and excited pose. I probably should not have noticed her otherwise. Almost before that car had disappeared another followed it, with another lone passenger, this time a thin man, and two liveried servants. Though his car was travelling at the same frantic rate as the first, the thin man was leaning back as though time meant nothing to him.
11“Something’s going on,” John said. “That’s what always happens sooner or later to spoil any trip.”
“Excitement?” I asked.
“Yes,” John said, disgustedly. “Something you can’t be in on because you’re a stranger.”
“Look how pleasant and peaceful this square is,” I protested.
It was quite a beautiful square, paved with huge blocks of red and black marble. The roadway ran around the four sides, but the two cars that passed us had driven across the center. Royal prerogative, probably. Facing us rose the great bulk of the Cathedral, built of some dark stone, so weathered that it seemed almost black. Its twin spires had once been gilded, but were now a rusty red. To our right and left were the two large grey buildings of obviously official character, and further to the right rose the Royal Palace on its rocky, park-like hill. A stone wall ran around it, and, toward the square, where a tower jutted down, it almost touched the wall, just beyond two colossal wrought-iron gates. Farther back, a light and fanciful covered bridge had been added, reaching from the wall to the Cathedral, and offering the members of the Royal Household a private entrance to the church. Its architecture was Renaissance, and it might have been a part of Versailles, so graceful and completely French was its style. It was a noticeable contrast to the Cathedral and the Palace. Through its rows of glazed windows I could see the blue sky beyond.
12“Let’s stay here a few days,” I suggested. “We can amuse ourselves, though the place looks so quiet and tranquil I don’t suppose anything will ever happen here again.”
“That’s a fine reason for staying in a place.” John snorted.
“You could paint,” I offered.
“Let’s find a hotel,” he said. “I’m hungry, and I’d like to get a bath before dinner. You probably have to announce your intention to bathe well ahead here.”
13Artists and actors, I have noticed, are always thinking of food. In John’s case it is not poverty but appetite. If he had less money he might be a better artist. Not that he can’t paint, but that his money buys him so many more vivid amusements that he doesn’t. He stepped on the starter, but before he got the motor running a great bell began to toll. At first we thought it came from the Cathedral in front of us, but in a moment we realised that it was in the great tower of the fortress-Palace. It was twenty minutes past three, too early for an Angelus, and no clock rings at twenty minutes past an hour. It boomed solemnly, funereally.
“Sounds like a death knell,” John said. “But if any member of the Royal Family were dead the Queen wouldn’t have been driving around the city as she was half an hour ago, bowing to the populace. She’s supposed to be hard boiled, but she’d have to be pretty icy to manage that.”
The bell tolled on, and as it rang, people began running into the square. They were excited, gesticulating, talking rapidly. Obviously the bell had some serious significance. I called in German to several people before one would stop. And, as he answered, the Cathedral bell began ringing, and others all over the city followed it.
“Der K?nig ist tod!”
14The King was dead. It must have been very sudden, then. Assassinated, probably. To Balkan rulers assassination is almost a natural form of death.
And still the people came. More and more thickly they packed the square.
“We’d better get out of this,” John said, and started the motor, “if we don’t we’ll be hemmed in by the crowd, and won’t be able to.” But we were already hemmed in. We moved ahead not more than a few feet, the crowds were coming too fast to let us through. A man in a blue blouse climbed on the running board. He had a full red beard and shining brown eyes.
“How did the King die?” I asked.
“They are all saying different things,” the man replied, “but all I know is that the King is dead, and there will be trouble in Herrovosca.”
“Revolution?” I asked.
“Who knows? Perhaps. The Soviet—a republic—perhaps the Prince Conrad may be clever enough and strong enough to hold the throne—who knows? And the Queen will not be idle.”
“But the King died suddenly?”
15“Oh, very suddenly. I saw him myself only this morning. He was driving out with some friends. Two cars full. Going up to the mountains to hunt, I heard, and not an hour ago the Queen was driving through the streets as she does every day when the weather is fine.”
“Not such a comfortable moment to time our visit,” I said. “There’ll probably be just enough trouble here to be a bother.”
“I suppose so,” John said, “and we don’t understand the language enough to be in the fun. Let’s go on tomorrow to your Cousin Helena’s place and leave the Alarians to settle their difficulties without us.”
“Yes,” I agreed. I was afraid that he would want to stay. “She’ll be glad enough to see someone from home, at least she ought to be. She hasn’t for a long enough time. We can’t very well go on today. It’ll be too late by the time we’ve had dinner.”
16The whole city seemed to be alive with the sound of the bells. And, then, quite suddenly, they stopped. Not quite all at once. The Palace bell stopped first, and then the Cathedral bell, and then all the others, one after another. In the odd silence that followed we looked at each other in something like alarm, for the populace was silent, too, and a silent populace may so easily be a dangerous one. In a moment, though, they all began shouting, in cumulative waves of noise, louder and more frantically. Little groups formed around leaders. Speakers began haranguing all who would listen, and if the silence had been ominous the din was enormously more so.
“Do not be alarmed,” our bearded giant counselled. “The knell has been tolled for King Bela. Now you will hear, they will ring again for the new King. Prince Conrad has become King Conrad the Fourth.”
As he spoke a carillon sounded from the Cathedral, playing a fine marching hymn. Voices took up the melody, the whole square swayed and sang, the men’s heads were uncovered, many people dropped to their knees, others shouted above the singing.
17The King was dead. The city was singing a greeting to t............