The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope Page A

observed Sapt grimly, “if you’re not the late Rudolf Rassendyll. By Heaven! I feel my head wobbling on my shoulders every minute you’re in the city. Do you know, friend, that Michael has had news from Zenda? He went into a room alone to read it—and he came out looking like a man dazed.”
    â€œI’m ready,” said I, this news making me none the more eager to linger.
    Sapt sat down.
    â€œI must write us an order to leave the city. Michael’s Governor, you know, and we must be prepared for hindrances. You must sign the order.”
    â€œMy dear colonel, I’ve not been bred a forger!”
    Out of his pocket Sapt produced a piece of paper.
    â€œThere’s the King’s signature,” he said, “and here,” he went on, after another search in his pocket, “is some tracing paper. If you can’t manage a ‘Rudolf’ in ten minutes, why—I can.”
    â€œYour education has been more comprehensive than mine,” said I. “You write it.”
    And a very tolerable forgery did this versatile hero produce.
    â€œNow, Fritz,” said he, “the King goes to bed. He is upset. No one is to see him till nine o’clock tomorrow. You understand —no one?”
    â€œI understand,” answered Fritz.
    â€œMichael may come, and claim immediate audience. You’ll answer that only princes of the blood are entitled to it.”
    â€œThat’ll annoy Michael,” laughed Fritz.
    â€œYou quite understand?” asked Sapt again. “If the door of this room is opened while we’re away, you’re not to be alive to tell us about it.”
    â€œI need no schooling, colonel,” said Fritz, a trifle haughtily.
    â€œHere, wrap yourself in this big cloak,” Sapt continued to me, “and put on this flat cap. My orderly rides with me to the hunting-lodge tonight.”
    â€œThere’s an obstacle,” I observed. “The horse doesn’t live that can carry me forty miles.”
    â€œOh, yes, he does—two of him: one here—one at the lodge. Now, are you ready?”
    â€œI’m ready,” said I.
    Fritz held out his hand.
    â€œIn case,” said he; and we shook hands heartily.
    â€œDamn your sentiment!” growled Sapt. “Come along.”
    He went, not to the door, but to a panel in the wall.
    â€œIn the old King’s time,” said he, “I knew this way well.”
    I followed him, and we walked, as I should estimate, near two hundred yards along a narrow passage. Then we came to a stout oak door. Sapt unlocked it. We passed through, and found ourselves in a quiet street that ran along the back of the Palace gardens. A man was waiting for us with two horses. One was a magnificent bay, up to any weight; the other a sturdy brown. Sapt signed to me to mount the bay. Without a word to the man, we mounted and rode away. The town was full of noise and merriment, but we took secluded ways. My cloak was wrapped over half my face; the capacious flat cap hid every lock of my tell-tale hair. By Sapt’s directions, I crouched on my saddle, and rode with such a round back as I hope never to exhibit on a horse again. Down a long narrow lane we went, meeting some wanderers and some roisterers; and, as we rode, we heard the Cathedral bells still clanging out their welcome to the King. It was half-past six, and still light. At last we came to the city wall and to a gate.
    â€œHave your weapon ready,” whispered Sapt. “We must stop his mouth, if he talks.”
    I put my hand on my revolver. Sapt hailed the doorkeeper. The stars fought for us! A little girl of fourteen tripped out.
    â€œPlease, sir, father’s gone to see the King.”
    â€œHe’d better have stayed here,” said Sapt to me, grinning .
    â€œBut he said I wasn’t to open the gate, sir.”
    â€œDid he, my dear?” said Sapt, dismounting. “Then give me the key.”
    The key was