“I’ll punish you by turning you over to old Count Marlanx, the commander of the army in Graustark,” said Lorry, laughingly. “He’s a terrible ogre, worse than any lion.”
“Heaven pity you, Beverly, if you fall into his clutches,” cried Yetive. “He has had five wives and survives to look for a sixth. You see how terrible it would be.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” boasted Beverly, but there came a time when she thought of those words with a shudder.
“By the way, Yetive, I have had word from Harry Anguish. He and the countess will leave Paris this week, if the baby’s willing, and will be in Edelweiss soon. You don’t know how it relieves me to know that Harry will be with us at this time.”
Yetive’s eyes answered his enthusiasm. Both had a warm and grateful memory of the loyal service which the young American had rendered his friend when they had first come to Graustark in quest of the princess; and both had a great regard for his wife, the Countess Dagmar, who, as Yetive’s lady in waiting, had been through all the perils of those exciting days with them.
As they drew near the gates of Edelweiss, a large body of horsemen rode forth to meet them. The afternoon was well on the way to night, and the air of the valley was cool and refreshing, despite the rays of the June sun.
“Edelweiss at last,” murmured Beverly, her face aglow. “The heart of Graustark. Do you know that I have been brushing up on my grammar? I have learned the meaning of the word ‘Graustark,’ and it seems so appropriate. Grau is gray, hoary, old; stark is strong. Old and strong—isn’t it, dear?”
“And here rides the oldest and strongest man in all Graustark—the Iron Count of Marlanx,” said Yetive, looking down the road. “See—the strange gray man in front there is our greatest general, our craftiest fighter, our most heartless warrior. Does he not look like the eagle or the hawk?”
A moment later the parties met, and the newcomers swung into line with the escort. Two men rode up to the carriage and saluted. One was Count Marlanx, the other Colonel Quinnox, of the Royal Guard. The count, lean and gray as a wolf, revealed rows of huge white teeth in his perfunctory smile of welcome, while young Quinnox’s face fairly beamed with honest joy. In the post that he held, he was but following in the footsteps of his forefathers. Since history began in Graustark, a Quinnox had been in charge of the castle guard.
The “Iron Count,” as he sometimes was called, was past his sixtieth year. For twenty years he had been in command of the army. One had but to look at his strong, sardonic face to know that he was a fearless leader, a savage fighter. His eyes were black, piercing and never quiet; his hair and close-cropped beard were almost snow-white; his voice was heavy and without a vestige of warmth. Since her babyhood Yetive had stood in awe of this grim old warrior. It was no uncommon thing for mothers to subdue disobedient children with the threat to give them over to the “Iron Count.” “Old Marlanx will get you if you’re not good,” was a household phrase in Edelweiss. He had been married five times and as many times had he been left a widower. If he were disconsolate in any instance, no one had been able to discover the fact. Enormously rich, as riches go in Graustark, he had found young women for his wives who thought only of his gold and his lands in the trade they made with Cupid. It was said that without exception they died happy. Death was a joy. The fortress overlooking the valley to the south was no more rugged and unyielding than the man who made his home within its walls. He lived there from choice and it was with his own money that he fitted up the commandant’s quarters in truly regal style. Power was more to him than wealth, though he enjoyed both.
Colonel Quinnox brought news from the castle. Yetive’s uncle and aunt, the Count and Countess Halfont, were eagerly expecting her return, and the city was preparing to manifest its joy in the most exuberant fashion. As they drew up to the gates the shouts of the people came to the ears of the travelers. Then the boom of cannon and the blare of bands broke upon the air, thrilling Beverly to the heart. She wondered how Yetive could be so calm and unmoved in the face of all this homage.
Past the great Hotel Regengetz and the Tower moved the gay procession, into the broad stretch of boulevard that led to the gates of the palace grounds. The gates stood wide open and inviting. Inside was Jacob Fraasch, the chief steward of the grounds, with his men drawn up in line; upon the walls the sentries came to parade rest; on the plaza the Royal band was playing as though by inspiration. Then the gates closed behind the coach and escort, and Beverly Calhoun was safe inside the castle walls. The “Iron Count” handed her from the carriage at the portals of the palace, and she stood as one in a dream.
CHAPTER XI
THE ROYAL COACH OF GRAUSTARK
The two weeks following Beverly Calhoun’s advent into the royal household were filled with joy and wonder for her. Daily she sent glowing letters to her father, mother and brothers in Washington, elaborating vastly upon the paradise into which she had fallen. To her highly emotional mind, the praises of Graustark had been but poorly sung. The huge old castle, relic of the feudal days, with its turrets and bastions and portcullises, Impressed her with a never-ending sense of wonder. Its great halls and stairways, its chapel, the throne-room, and the armor-closet; its underground passages and dungeons all united to fill her imaginative soul with the richest, rarest joys of finance. Simple American girl that she was, unused to the rigorous etiquette of royalty, she found embarrassment in the first confusion of events, but she was not long in recovering her poise.
Her apartments were near those of the Princess Yetive. In the private intercourse enjoyed by these women, all manner of restraint was abandoned by the visitor and every vestige of royalty slipped from the princess. Count Halfont and his adorable wife, the Countess Yvonne, both of whom had grown old in the court, found the girl and her strange servant a source of wonder and delight.
Some days after Beverly’s arrival there came to the castle Harry Anguish and his wife, the vivacious Dagmar. With them came the year-old cooing babe who was to overthrow the heart and head of every being in the household, from princess down. The tiny Dagmar became queen at once, and no one disputed her rule.
Anguish, the painter, became Anguish, the strategist and soldier. He planned with Lorry and the ministry, advancing some of the most hair-brained projects that ever encouraged discussion in a solemn conclave. The staid, cautious ministers looked upon him with wonder, but so plausible did he made his proposals appear that they were forced to consider them seriously. The old Count of Marlanx held him in great disdain, and did not hesitate to expose his contempt. This did not disturb Anguish in the least, for he was as optimistic as the sunshine. His plan for the recapture of Gabriel was ridiculously improbable, but it was afterwards seen that had it been attempted much distress and delay might actually have been avoided.
Yetive and Beverly, with Dagmar and the baby, made merry while the men were in council. Their mornings were spent in the shady park surrounding the castle, their afternoons in driving, riding and walking. Oftentimes the princess was barred from these simple pleasures by the exigencies of her position. She was obliged to grant audiences, observe certain customs of state, attend to the charities that came directly under her supervision, and confer with the nobles on affairs of weight and importance. Beverly delighted in the throne-room and the underground passages; they signified more to her than all the rest. She was shown the room in which Lorry had foiled the Viennese who once tried to abduct Yetive. The dungeon where Gabriel spent his first days of confinement, the Tower in which Lorry had been held a prisoner, and the monastery in the clouds were all places of unusual interest to her.
Soon the people of the city began to recognize the fair American girl who was a guest in the castle, and a certain amount of homage was paid to her. When she rode or drove in the streets, with her attendant soldiers, the people bowed as deeply and as respectfully as they did to the princess herself, and Beverly was just as grand and gracious as if she had