Edgar Burroughs - The Rider - with the original illustrations (Edgar Rice Burroughs) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

"Quite right," exclaimed Boris. "I am glad to hear you say that – it goes to prove that you are a loyal fellow. I saw that you were new in the service and I wished to test you – you did well to refuse."

He turned to re-enter the room, but as he was about to close the door after him he paused and cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the sentry.

"You have never before stood guard before my apartment?" he asked.

"Never, your highness," replied the soldier.

"And your sergeant told you nothing about my nightmares?" continued the prince.

"Nothing, your highness."

"He should have," commented Boris. "He should have instructed you that I am subject to nightmares, and that when you hear me moaning or crying out in my sleep you should come in at once and awaken me."

"But your highness's valet sleeps in the adjoining apartment," suggested the soldier; " – he will awaken you."

"He sleeps like a dead man," replied Boris. "Nothing awakens him. If you hear me, come in at once and awaken me – do you understand?"

"Yes, your highness," and the soldier saluted again.

"Good-night," said the prince, "and lose no time when you hear me – I usually have them early in the night, when I first fall asleep."

"Good-night, your highness," replied the sentry. "I will come if I hear you."

For a few minutes Prince Boris moved about his apartment, talking in low tones to his valet; but he did not remove his clothes. Presently he dismissed the man, turned out his lights and clambered into bed with all his clothes on. A broad smile illumined his countenance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a chuckle.

Beyond the door the sentry stood in statuesque rigidity in the corridor. The great clock at the far end of the passageway ticked out the seconds. Slowly the minutes passed. Silence reigned in this part of the palace, though it was still early in the evening.

Presently the sentry cocked an attentive ear – instantly alert. An unmistakable moan had issued from the apartment of the crown prince. It was immediately followed by a smothered wail. The sentry wheeled, turned the knob and entered the apartment. As he crossed quickly toward the bed where Prince Boris lay his back was toward the doorway leading into the adjoining apartment where the prince's valet was supposed to be sleeping like a dead man, and so the sentry did not see the dark robed figure which glided into the bed chamber of the prince and followed him to the royal bedside.

Another moan came from the tossing figure upon the bed. The sentry leaned over and shook the sleeper by the shoulder; and as he did so the bed clothes rose suddenly and enveloped his head, a pair of strong arms encircled his neck about the bed clothes and another pair of arms seized him from behind.

A moment later he lay bound and gagged upon the bed recently occupied by Prince Boris of Karlova. A dark robed figure glided silently from the apartment, and the crown prince touched a button which flooded the room with light. The sentry looked up into the smiling face of his captor.

"Awfully sorry, my man," said Prince Boris, "but I have a very important engagement for this evening – see you later. Hope you find my bed comfortable; and whatever you do don't have a nightmare, for my man is a very heavy sleeper – just like a dead man, you know," and Boris of Karlova slipped a light cloak over his shoulders and passed out into the corridor before his apartments.

Ten minutes later a solitary horseman rode slowly through the darker streets of the capitol and out of the city by the long unguarded west gate. Once in the country he put spurs to his mount and rode at a sharp trot along the wide, grey pike.

Karlova is a mountainous little kingdom. Sovgrad, its capitol city, lies in a fertile little hollow surrounded by many hills through which the old Roman road winds in an easterly direction toward the frontier and Margoth. Just beyond the shoulder of the first of the low foot hills a dirt road diverges northward from the main highway, and passing beneath overhanging trees wriggles to and fro through a grim and forbidding forest. Five or six miles above the Roman road it skirts a royal hunting preserve, the favorite abode of Prince Boris. Scarce a quarter of a mile within the wood and a hundred yards back from the dirt road lies an old inn – a place of none too savory reputation, where questionable characters from the city of Sovgrad were reputed to meet and concoct their deviltries against the majesty of the law.

Here too were wont to forgather a little coterie of another class – a half dozen young sprigs of the ancient nobility of Karlova, lured by the spirit of romance and adventure to this haunt of the lower world, and enticed by the cookery of the inn keeper's wife and the vintages of the black cellars to numerous repetitions of their original excursion, until now they had become regular patrons of the establishment.

Tonight three of them sat at a round table in a tiny alcove, sipping their wine and venturing various explanations of the lateness of one whose empty chair broke the circle at the little board.

There was Alexander Palensk, whose father is prime minister of Karlova, and Nicholas Gregovitch, the son of General Demitrius Gregovitch, minister of war. The third, Ivan Kantchi, is the oldest son of the Karlovian ambassador to Margoth, and all three are officers in The Black Guard – the crack regiment of the Karlovian army.

The fourth member of the party – he whose chair still remained vacant – was riding at a rapid trot along the Roman road as Ivan Kantchi asked, for the fortieth time: "What could have delayed him? Why the devil doesn't he come?"

"Calm thyself, Little One," admonished Alexander Palensk, with an affectionate smile at the giant Ivan, whose six-foot-six had won him the loving diminutive; "our brother is doubtless afraid to ride after dark. The wood is gloomy, and, as is well known, infested by goblins. Chances are that he turned back before quitting the Roman road and has fled home to his nurses's arms.

"Screaming in terror," added Nicholas Gregovitch, whereupon all three fell to laughing; but beneath his levity, Ivan Kantchi was still worried.

"You know," he said, after a moment's silence, "that The Rider is reputed to have been seen in this neighborhood quite recently. There have been no less than three highway robberies on the Roman road within the month, and all perpetrated by a lone horseman who answers the description of the fellow who has worked the southern provinces for the past three or four years. I think I shall ride toward the city and have a look for our friend."

"Oh, sit down, Little One," cried Alexander, "and let us finish this bottle in peace. If he has not come by then we will all ride forth and rescue him from the clutches of The Rider or the goblins, whichever has abducted our tender little playmate."

Ivan dropped back into his chair. "It is unfortunate," he said, "that Prime Ministers couldn't bequeath a little more brain power to their offspring."

"Gesundheit!" cried Alexander, raising his glass and grinning good-naturedly at his friend.

Where the dirt road leaves the Roman road just within the foothills a horseman reined his mount to the left and entered the dark and gloomy precincts of the wood. He rode slowly, letting his beast pick its own way, since he could scarce see his own hand before his face. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, but yet a walk was the only gait possible along the black and winding road.

He had covered perhaps half the distance between the Roman road and the inn when a figure loomed suddenly ahead of him – a tall man upon a large horse – blocking the way. Even in the dark the rider could see the glint of reflected light upon the barrel of a long revolver which was levelled straight at his breast.