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Princess Galva, The

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<h3> CHAPTER XXIII </h3> <h4> THE PASSING GUN </h4> The particular genius who designed the grounds of the Palace at Corbo was a nephew of the Estratos—a youth of an artistic but somewhat weak intellect and bizarre tastes. This was in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a period when a wave of decadence had swept over the Court, a time of powder and patches and red-heeled shoes—of mincing courtiers and doubtful gallantries. Large, level lawns, and flower-bordered walks lay immediately beneath the terrace which ran the length of the building at the back, and beyond and at the sides, the royal horticulturist, with an eye, doubtless, to the doings of the times, had devised cunning shrubberies and fascinating little arbours, the narrow paths twisting here and winding there, a very maze of foliage, paths which had doubtless hampered the movements of many an outraged husband. Here and there a weather-beaten, moss-patched statue or terminal peeped above the greenery, a nymph with broken features, or a faun, the leer still lingering on his discoloured face. One could imagine him again pricking his goat ears to catch an echo of the sounds he had listened to in those quiet retreats in the days that were gone—the whispered vows, the crunch of high-heeled shoes on the gravel—the oaths and the clash of rapiers. But Edward's party had more important affairs to hold their attention than the imagining of long-dead romances. They had found without difficulty the entrance into the grounds, and now were making a cautious way over the weed-grown paths. They had not drawn nearer to the Palace, but had threaded their way through the outer portions of the shrubberies, keeping near to the boundary wall, and coming, after some ten minutes' walk, upon the cottage of the friendly gardener. The duke stopped as the patch of yellow light from its windows came into view, then quietly led his companions to a stone bench that lay almost hidden in rhododendrons. Here, after seeing the two ladies made comfortable, he left them. The moon had risen and the tangled foliage of the garden was all grey-green and shadow, through which the broken statuary rose, here and there, like pale ghosts of an evil past, looking down on the intruders within their domain of memories. Armand was away some time, and when he returned he had with him a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing the livery of the keepers of the royal gardens. He stood awkwardly before them, changing from one foot to the other and twisting his green cap nervously in his huge fingers. The duke laid a hand affectionately on the big shoulder. "These ladies, Pia, and this gentleman, are those of whom we have been speaking." Then turning to Edward, he went on, "I have told this good fellow everything, and although he seems dazed at the whole affair, he is with us heart and soul, as I knew he would be. He has no love for Dasso—and he knows of others who will help us." At the mention of Dasso's name, the man had looked up, a mask of malignant hate, and the duke, noting it, had given a little smile of satisfaction. The cottage to which the party was conducted was a roomy building, but of a single storey. Pia's wife at once took charge of Anna and Galva, who were both now showing some signs of weariness. The good woman, noticing this, parted a curtain at the further end of the room, and taking a lamp from a bracket, led the ladies to her bedchamber. The men, left alone, were not slow to take the opportunity of discussing ways and means. Their plan of action was a simple one. They were to lie hidden where they were until the king was in extremis. Pia, whose daughter was employed as a still-room maid at the Palace, would give them information as to the progress of the royal patient. In the mean time Pia would see that the little staircase which Anna Paluda had used to such good purpose fifteen years before, was free of access, and that the door which gave on to the grounds, and which had fallen into disuse, was cleared of the tangled creepers which he said now all but covered it. At the first alarm that Enrico's death was imminent, they would make all speed to this door, and hurry up to the room at the top of the stair, the little chamber behind the corridor wall, where ten or twelve people could wait in moderate comfort. Here they would be perfectly secure, and even in the event of the report of the king's condition proving false, they could but retire. At the sound of the first gun announcing the death they would proceed to the king's ante-chamber, there to wait the advent of Dasso. At the least they would be twenty minutes before him. The ladies did not re-appear but sent their "good-nights" to the men by the old dame, and the duke and Edward were conducted by their host to a barn which lay some ten yards to the rear of the cottage. Here Pia left them with a stable lantern, telling them that there was no need for them to keep watch. One or other of his sons would be about all night on guard, and nothing could happen without them being made aware of it. Nothing loath, after their long walk, the two men took off their outer garments, and rolling themselves in the horse blankets provided by Pia, threw themselves upon the pile of yellow straw which littered one end of the barn, and in a few moments they had fallen asleep. It was bright day when they awoke to find that Pia had entered the barn, bringing with him a jug of steaming coffee and some toasted rolls, to which comforting fare the men devoted themselves whilst they were making their toilet. This completed as well as the lack of razors and other necessaries permitted, they followed their host across the cobbled yard to the great kitchen and living-room of the cottage. This was a cheerful apartment, whose lime-washed walls, pierced here and there by little red-curtained windows, reflected the glow of the blazing pine logs in the open fire-place. The ceiling was high and pointed, being the entire height of the house, and from the black rafters hung bulky hams and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs. At one end a flight of rough oak steps led up to a little railed gallery that projected out over the fire-place, making a cosy settle, which on winter evenings would accommodate the whole family. In this little gallery were two or three rush-seated chairs, and in a niche in the wall a rather crudely coloured figure of the Virgin. The morning sunlight shone through the tiny leaded panes of the windows, and glinted on the glass and earthenware laid out on the bare table, spotless as any tablecloth, and made play among the pewter and brass on the great dresser. The cleanliness and order of Dame Pia's room made one imagine oneself in the kitchen of some strict housewife on the Zuyder Zee. Anna and Galva, refreshed by their night's rest, were in the highest of spirits, which Edward's suggestion that they should not go outside the house hardly lessened. It was so cosy in this sweet-smelling kitchen, and for the moment memories of Cornwall came back to them. They occupied their time well, insisting on giving a helping hand at the housework, much to the embarrassment of the good mistress of the house; and Galva could hardly repress a smile at the expression and the low bow of reverence with which the old woman handed each utensil she had washed to her to wipe. But the work of one cottage in the hands of three capable women is soon done, and time began to hang heavily on Galva's hands, until, noticing Dame Pia preparing a stew, nothing would satisfy her but that she should try her hand, with what materials were available, at a Cornish pasty. With sleeves rolled up above her dimpled elbows the princess set about her task, the housewife standing dutifully by, her apron twisted between nervous fingers. It was a good pasty, and no doubt the disinclination of the Pia family to eat heartily of it is explained by a little glass case on the dresser which to this day is shown to all visitors, and which shelters the remains of the queen's culinary effort. Pia went about his work as usual, and Edward mooned rather unhappily about the big room. To the duke this enforced imprisonment was no hardship, and he would sit in the little window-seat watching Galva as she flitted gracefully here and there in the performance of her tasks. No news came to them from the Palace, and as it grew dusk and the lights of Corbo shone in the sky, Edward could stand the inactivity no longer, but disguising his appearance as well as might be, made his way through the Sebastin Park down to the town, choosing the streets that lay near the cathedral in his search for information. There was, however, nothing to be learnt from the loungers who were taking their coffee and cognac at the little tables of the caf�s, and Edward was soon anxious to get back to the cosy comfort of the gardener's cottage. As the chimes in the belfry above him told the hour of nine he rose from the corner of the obscure brasserie where he had been taking his refreshment, and went out into the Cathedral Square. The air was chilly, and buttoning his coat closely round him he strode out briskly in the direction of the park. He had left the town and entered the Sebastin Gates when he was aware of something unusual in the air. From the direction of the boulevards came the subdued murmur of voices, that intense mumble that speaks of popular excitement. Above the confused sound Edward could make out the shouts of boys crying their papers, and he remembered that it was at nine o'clock that the Imparcial made its appearance. For a moment he stood in indecision. To return to the town meant the loss of half an hour—and surely that rustle of excitement denoted that King Enrico was dead or dying. What a fool he had been to leave the cottage. He might have thought that the absence of news during the day was but the lull before the end, and now here he was out of the game, the success of which he had been playing so hard for. Pressing his hat firmly on his head, he set off running across the park. After all, he might have been mistaken in imagining that the death had occurred. Surely he would have heard the gun. He knew that the custom was to— Boom—m—m—— The sound echoed and reverberated over the woods and the open spaces round him. Edward slackened his pace, and swore softly to himself. He had come through the secret entrance to the grounds, and now paused a moment and took his bearings. Then, mending his pace, he ran on, avoiding the cottage, and making direct for the door at the foot of the staircase. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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