The Traitors. E. Phillips Oppenheim

you to London, Nicholas, my friend?” Erlito asked. “Is it pleasure, or you have perhaps a mission to the English Government?”

      It was the great moment. Reist, too restless to sit down, stood upon the hearthrug, the angry fire lingering in his eyes, a spot of dull colour burning still in his cheeks. He had not yet got over the shock of finding one of the men he most hated and despised in life a guest in this house of all others.

      “Pleasure,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “People would call me a fanatic, yet nevertheless, Ughtred, this is the truth. There is no pleasure for me outside my country. The life of the European capitals chokes me. There is a tawdriness about them all, something artificial and unreal. I do not know how to describe it, but it is there—in Petersburg, in Paris, in London and Vienna. It is like a gigantic depression. I seem to become in them a puppet, a shadow walking across a great stage. Always I am longing to be back in Theos—in Theos where the winds blow down from the hills, and the faces of the men and women in the streets are clean with health. Ah, my friend, I know what you would say. The great cities, too, with their factories and huge buildings which shut out the sky, they are part of God’s earth. The smoke which stains the heavens comes from the making of useful and beautiful things. Yet I watch my peasants tilling their little farms, tending their hillside vineyards, without luxuries, without knowledge of luxuries, ever light-hearted, contented, strong and healthy as children of the earth should be. The love of that little strip of land of theirs is the keynote of their patriotism. It is a passion, a joy to them. Oh, do you wonder that I think these things are best!”

      Erlito’s eyes were full of sympathy. His head sank upon his folded arms. His thoughts travelled backwards. It was so many years ago, yet he could remember.

      “Listen, Nicholas,” he said. “I have travelled much more than you. I have been in many strange countries and seen life under many strange conditions. But all the while there has been a pain in my heart. I have found no home. I, too, love Theos! There will come a day when no sentence of banishment will keep me away.”

      Reist looked up. The moment had come.

      “That day,” he said, “may be nearer than you think. Ughtred, I have left Theos on no slight business. I am here with a mission, and my mission is to you!”

      Erlito’s eyes were full of questioning wonder.

      “The accursed Republic,” Reist continued, “has fallen like a pack of cards. There is panic in the city and throughout the country. Theos knows now that she has been deceived and misguided, that she has been brought to the very verge of ruin. The Powers no longer continue to assure her of their protection. A sovereign and a Tyrnaus had ever a claim upon them, not so this bastard and bungling Republic. The city is full of Russian spies, the Austrians watch us night and day, the Turks are creeping up even to the Balkans. Rumours of partition have reached us from the great Cabinets. Ughtred of Tyrnaus, there is only one man to-day who can save the country, and that man is you.”

      Erlito dropped his pipe, and leaned forward in his chair.

      “Are you mocking me, Reist?” he asked.

      “May God forbid,” Reist answered, fervently, “that I should speak idle words upon such a subject. The people of Theos are still brave and true, and their freedom is as dear to them as life itself. They came to me, who for long have lived apart, and I have shown them what I truthfully believe to be their only chance of salvation. You are that chance, Ughtred. The throne of your fathers is yours if you will have it. A brave man can seize it, and a brave man can hold it in the teeth of all Europe, and by your God and for the sake of the blood which is in your veins, Ughtred of Tyrnaus, I summon you to return with me to Theos.”

      Erlito rose slowly up. His cheeks were flushed with excitement. Reist’s appeal had moved him deeply.

      “You mean this?” he said. “You mean that you bring me this message from the people of Theos?”

      Reist raised his hand solemnly.

      “I mean that on their behalf I, Nicholas of Reist, than whom none has a better right to speak for their country, offer you the crown of Theos.”

      Erlito walked restlessly up and down the little study into which he had brought his visitor.

      “We of Tyrnaus,” he said, “are under sentence of perpetual exile.”

      “It was the illegal sentence of an illegal assembly,” Reist answered. “The voice of the people has revoked it. They bid you forget all else save that your native land looks to you in her hour of trouble. Listen. It is no rose-strewn way along which you will pass to your inheritance. There will be no popular reception, no grand ceremony. We must travel day and night to Theos, secretly, perhaps even in disguise. You must be crowned King in the Palace the moment we arrive there. Secretly I have already called together the army, for the moment the news is known there will be a storm. There are Russians and Austrian secret agents in Theos, each working for their own ends. They believe that I have gone to Vienna and Petersburg to beg for the intercession of the Powers. Meanwhile the Turkish dogs are creeping up the Balkans. They are gathered around our country, Ughtred, like wreckers waiting for the ship to break up. It is for you to steer that ship into safe waters.”

      There was a long silence. Erlito was standing with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking into the fire. In his heart were many emotions, in his face a strange light. A new world had been opened up before him. He saw great things moving across the vista of the future. No longer then need he brood over an empty life, or bewail the idle sword of a gentleman of fortune. Here was stuff enough to make a dozen careers, a future, successful or unsuccessful, more brilliant than anything else which he could have conceived. But Reist, who failed to read his companion’s thoughts, was troubled. This prolonged silence was inexplicable to him.

      “You do not hesitate?” he asked at last.

      Erlito laughed and drew himself up.

      “You must not think so ill of me as that, Nicholas,” he answered. “Nay, there was no thought of hesitation in my mind. I accept—gladly, thankfully. Only you must know this. Of soldiering I have learnt a little, and nothing would make me happier than to lead the men of Theos into battle. But of statesmanship I know little, and of kingcraft nothing at all. You must find me faithful advisers. You yourself must stand at my right hand.”

      Then Nicholas of Reist drew a long breath, and the cloud passed away from his face.

      “There are still many faithful citizens,” he said, “whom we can rally around us, and I myself—I live only for Theos. Let me tell you this, for it will give you confidence. It is a soldier for whom the people are pining. They want no more merchants in high places. They shall see you, Ughtred of Tyrnaus, in the uniform of their Guards. They shall hear you give the word of command, they will shout you King—ay, they will take you into their hearts, this people.”

      So the hands of the two met in a long, fervent clasp. Erlito embraced his destiny, and Reist set the seal upon his renunciation.

      A King! As Ughtred fastened his white tie before the tiny mirror upon his dressing-case those lines at the corner of his mouth gave way. He suddenly burst out laughing. A King! The incongruity of the thing tickled his sense of humour—he laughed long and heartily. He looked around him. His bedchamber was tiny, and he had only been able to afford furniture of the cheapest description. He looked at the plain rush carpet, the swords and foils which were almost his sole decoration upon the walls, the humble appointments of his dressing-table. Everything was scrupulously neat and clean, stern and soldier-like in simplicity. What a change was before him. From here to the royal palace of Theos, where a chamberlain would wait upon him with bended knee, and the small etiquette of a Court would hamper his every movement. The last few years passed in swift review before him. He had lived always like a gentleman, but always with a certain amount of rigid self-denial necessitated by his small income. He had few acquaintances and fewer friends. The luxury of a West-End club had been denied to him—fencing and long walks were almost his sole relaxation. All that he had had to hope for was the breaking out of some small war in any corner of the world, when his sword