CHAPTER I.

Through Irma's sudden flight, Baum's occupation was gone. He returned to where she was to have waited for him, and found that she had disappeared. He gazed into the distance, but saw nothing. A dog following its master's track was better off than he, for while instinct would help it, man could only guess.

Had she flown? and if so, whither? Why had she done so? and what, under such circ.u.mstances, was the duty of a subordinate? Ought he to pursue her who had sent him back? She had honestly and frankly sent the dog home; but the servant was only human and must therefore be imposed upon.

"For shame, Countess! Thus to fool a poor servant who dare not disobey!" said Baum, speaking to himself. He felt that now, for the first time, he was put to the great test, and that this was the time to prove himself a reasoning servant. Perhaps the letters he had brought contained an appointment for this evening. They are at the hunt and, as if by chance, meet in the woods; for it would not do to visit Wildenort openly, as it was but a short time since they had gone into mourning there. And so they mean to keep even the servant in ignorance of their plans. But why should they? He could have been depended upon.

But perhaps the countess had escaped after all.

But why? and whither?

They had shown so much confidence in him. The head chamberlain had told him before leaving: "You're always to remain near the countess, always--do you understand? And you are to conduct her back to court."

Could they have dreamt that she meant to escape? and if so, why should they only half trust him?

"I am innocent!" exclaimed Baum; but what avails innocence? It was more important to be clever and sensible.

Baum's master, Baroness Steigeneck's chief chamberlain, had imparted some valuable precepts to him. "There are two things," said he, "that a good servant should always have with him--a sharp knife and a good watch. When anything happens that disconcerts you, take out your watch, count off ten seconds, and then make up your mind what is best to be done."

One disadvantage possessed by this precept, in common with many other good ones, is the great danger of your forgetting it when excited.

Baum rode back to the castle. Perhaps the countess had returned by some other road; perhaps her maid could tell him where she had intended to ride to. He asked the maid: "Is your mistress here?"

"No; she rode out with you."

"Don't you know where she intended going?"

"Has she left you? Oh, G.o.d! now she'll do it, for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"I've already told the count, that I believed she'd take her life. I believe she has either poison or a dagger with her; she'll kill herself."

"If she meant to take her life that way, she might have done so in her room," replied Baum.

"Yes, yes! It was only last night that she cried out in her sleep, 'Deep in the lake!' Oh gracious heavens! my dear, lovely countess is dead! Oh, what an unhappy creature I am! what will become of me!"

Baum endeavored to pacify her, and inquired whether the countess had left any papers anywhere.

The writing-desk was open and papers were strewn about on it. They found a letter directed to the queen. Baum wanted to take it, but the maid would not give it up. She would not suffer a stranger to pry into her mistress's secrets.

In the midst of the dispute, Baum suddenly took out his watch. The chamberlain's advice had occurred to him. He looked fixedly at the dial, and when he had finished counting ten, he nodded with a self-satisfied air, for he had regained his presence of mind.

Very well, the maid might deliver the letter herself; that would neither help nor hinder matters. But he would now show himself worthy of the greatest confidence. His task was to inst.i.tute inquiries; perhaps he might yet save the countess.

While the maid, who was hastily putting the letter into her pocket, had turned her back upon him, he saw another letter addressed "To my friend." He quickly perceived that this was of far greater value than the other, and put it into his own pocket. He well knew that there was only one person for whom it could be intended and he knew who that person was. The maid had heard the rustling of the paper, and now asked him to give it to her. Baum ran out of the room and summoned the servants. The maid followed him, and he now quickly changed the att.i.tude of defense for one of attack, and demanded the letter to the queen, in order that he might open it and thus obtain some clue as to the countess's whereabouts. He said that he would hold the maid responsible for the consequences. She ran away, and he made no further attempt to carry out his plan, for he did not know whether he had a right to open the letter. At any rate, he had undisputed possession of the more important epistle to the king. He ordered the groom to saddle another horse and accompany him.

The rosy sunset was already gilding the windows of the castle when the two hors.e.m.e.n rode forth. But whither?

They questioned a laborer working on the road, but he had seen nothing of the countess. They saw a shepherd driving his flock homeward, and, riding up to him, they inquired whether he had seen her. He nodded affirmatively, but the loud bleating of the sheep prevented them from hearing what he said. Baum alighted, and learned from him that the countess had been seen riding full tilt along the road that led to the Chamois hill.

"She sits her horse firmly, and rides very well," said the shepherd, praising her.

This was a clue, at all events. They rode off, at full gallop, in the direction indicated. When they reached the drained marsh, they heard the neighing of a horse. They rode up to it, and found that it was Irma's saddle-horse, quietly grazing, but bridle and girth were covered with thick foam. "The countess has been thrown. Who knows where she may be lying, weak and faint?" said Baum. He meant to be discreet, and was in no hurry to tell all to the groom.

They searched for her everywhere, and called out her name again and again. They found nothing, nor did they receive any answer. Baum discovered the horse's tracks, but was somewhat confused by them, as it had taken the same path going and returning. They took the horse with them, but did not mount, for it was necessary to find out where the track led to. Baum's keen eye enabled him to distinguish the hoof-prints in the twilight.

"If we only had the dog with us; he knows her. Why didn't you bring the dog with you?" he asked angrily.

"You didn't say anything about it."

"Ride back and bring him. No, stay; I can't be here alone."

They reached the Chamois hill. "Let's turn aside, into the wood," cried Baum.

He now found use for his good knife. He gathered some of the brushwood, bound it together into a torch, kindled it, and its light enabled him to find the track. It was here that the horse had turned. There were also prints of a woman's foot going in the opposite direction. He followed them for a few paces and then lost the track.

"She must be here," said Baum. "It was from here that she went down into the wood; I know every spot about here. Keep to the left with the two horses, but always near enough to hear my voice. I'll keep to the right with one."

They searched and shouted, but found nothing. At last they met again. A stag rushed by. Could it have spoken, it might have told them where Irma had startled it from its resting-place--a full hour's walk from where they then were.

"If you find her, you'll be handsomely rewarded," said Baum to the groom. He addressed him in the way he thought his royal master would have done.

They spent the greater part of the night wandering in the forest. At last they were obliged to lie down and wait for the daylight, for there was no longer a path by which to lead the horses.

The day was far advanced when Baum and the groom awoke. They could see the sparkling lake from afar, and could hear the sounds of distant music, while the rock near which they stood echoed the reports of cannon.

Baum took the pistols from the saddle-pouch and fired them off in rapid succession. Then he listened with bated breath, thinking that if Irma were anywhere in the neighborhood, she would hear the shots and give some sign of her whereabouts; but not a sound was heard.

They now found a forest-path leading down toward the lake. They reached the water's edge. At their feet lay the lake, smooth as a mirror and stretching away for miles. Who knew what lay concealed within its depths? In the distance, there was a boat with people and beasts aboard, and now the boat reached the sh.o.r.e. Baum's companion turned to the other side, where there were a few scattered farmhouses and fishermen's huts. Man and beast were worn out and needed rest. Baum asked every one he met whether they had seen a lady in a blue riding-habit and wearing a hat with a feather; but he could find no trace of her anywhere.

"Stop!" at last said a little old man who was cutting willows by the lake: "I've seen her."

"Where? When?"

"Over there in the tavern. It's almost a year ago; she lived there a good many weeks."

Baum cursed the peasant folk for a stupid set.

Fortunately, he met a gend'arme and told him who he was and whom he was looking for. He then sent the groom back to Wildenort with the lady's saddle. Placing his own saddle on Pluto, he rode along the edge of the lake with the gend'arme. On a rock near the sh.o.r.e, they soon saw a figure holding out a hat with a feather on it. They made for the spot, at full speed, Baum recognized his brother Thomas, and was so startled that he lost his stirrup.

If it were he who had robbed and murdered the countess!

The gend'arme knew the wild fellow. Thomas stared and grinned at them both. His hair was wet and his clothes were dripping.