The Lighted Match Part 29

"I surrender," he said, "because you violate the rules of war. Your confetti is not deadly and your tactics are mediocre, but your eyes use lyddite."

Inside Cara went to her room to wrestle with the tiny chips of multi-colored paper that covered her and filled her hair. In the hall, Harcourt came again to Benton.

"By Jove, she is a wonder," he said. Then he slipped his arm through Benton's and led him aside. The American followed supinely.

"Benton, do you remember the talk we had about Romance?"

Benton looked quickly up to forestall any possible personality to which he might object, but Harcourt continued.

"Do you know that chap, Martin--he doesn't call himself Browne now--has turned up again? He's been here. Not ragged this time, but well groomed and in high feather. To-day he left to go back to Galavia."

"Back to Galavia?" Benton repeated the words in astonishment. "What do you mean?"

Harcourt laughed. "The scales have turned and his Grand Duke is to be King after all."

Benton seized the boy by the elbow and steered him into one of the empty writing-rooms.

"Now, for G.o.d's sake, what do you mean?" he demanded.

"That's all," replied the young tourist. "They've switched Kings. Oh, it was so quietly done that the people of the city of Puntal don't know yet it's happened. The King died suddenly and Louis will ascend his throne."

"The King died suddenly!" Benton echoed the words blankly. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I. But Martin said the King was taken prisoner and tried to escape. He was shot."

"How did Martin know?" asked Benton slowly, trying to realize the full import of the boy's chatter.

"The news hasn't reached here, generally speaking. He said that the King's death has not even been made public there, but the Countess Astaride has been stopping here. Martin himself was in her party and he helped her to decipher the news from the Duke's code-telegram." He paused. "However," he added, "that may not interest you. The story probably bored you at first, but having told you the original tale, I had to add the sequel. What I really wanted to ask you, is to present me to the wonderful American girl. You will, won't you?"

Benton's back was turned to the window. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and stared at nothing.

"You will, won't you?" repeated the boy.

"Oh, yes, of course," Benton replied mechanically. "I shall ask permission to do so."

Outside on the terraced veranda, where one sips tea and overlooks one of the most varied human tides that flows through any street of the world, Benton and Cara sat at a table near the edge--the man wondering how he could tell her. Fakirs with spangled shawls from a.s.souit, bead necklaces, ebony walking-sticks, scarabs and souvenir postcards jostled on the sidewalk to pa.s.s their wares over the railing. Fat Arab guides with red fezes and the noisy jargon of half-mastered French and English discussed to-morrow's journeys with industrious globe-trotters.

On the tiles squatted a juggler from India. Under his white turban his glittering, beady eyes appraised the generosity of his audience as he arranged his flat baskets, his live rabbits and his hooded cobras for an exhibition of mercenary magic.

Along the street, heralded with tom-toms, came a procession of lurching camels, jogging donkeys, rattling carriages, acrobats leading dog-faced apes and trailing Arabs in fezes--the pomp and pageantry of a pilgrim returning from Mecca. Motors, victorias, detachments of cavalry swept by in unbroken and spectacular show.

Benton sat stiffly with his jaw muscles tightly drawn and his eyes dazed, looking at the girl across the table.

She turned from the street, eyes still sparkling with the reflected variety of the picture that hodge-podged Occident and Orient, telescoping the dead ages with to-day.

"Oh, I love things so," she laughed. "I'm as foolish as a child about things that are new."

With another glance at the s.h.i.+fting tide, she added seriously: "And every silly Oriental of them all is free to go where he pleases--to do what he pleases. I would give everything for freedom, and they have it--and don't value it!"

Then she saw the hard strain of his face. Slowly her own eyes lost the glow of pleasurable interest and saddened with the realization of being barred back from life.

The man bent forward. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table with a clutch which drove the blood back under his nails. It was a hard fight to retain his self-control. His question broke from him in a low, almost savage voice.

"Cara!" he demanded. "Cara, is there any price too high to pay for happiness?"

"What do you mean?" The intensity of his eyes held hers, and for a moment she feared for his reason. Her own question was low and steadying, but he answered in an unnatural voice.

"I hardly know--perhaps I have less right to speak now than ever--perhaps more. I don't know, I only know that I love you--and that the world seems reeling."

Something caught in his throat.

"I'm a cur to talk of it now. I want to think of--of--something else. I ought to think only what a splendid sort he was--but I can realize only one thing--I love you."

"Only one thing," she repeated softly. Then as she looked again into the feverishly bright eyes under his scowl, the meaning which lay back of his words broke suddenly upon her.

"_Was_!" she echoed in startled comprehension. "_Was_!--did you say was?"

The man remained silent.

"You mean that--?" she said the three words very slowly and stopped, unable to go on.

"You mean--that--he--?" With a strong effort she added the one word, then gave up the effort to shape the question. Her hand closed convulsively.

Benton slowly nodded his head. The girl leaned forward toward him. Her lips parted, her eyes widened.

The next instant they were misty with tears. Not hypocritical tears for an unloved husband, but sincere tears for a generous friend.

"Delgado escaped," he explained simply. "Karyl was captured." Again he spoke in few words. It seemed that he could not manage long sentences.

"Then he tried to escape," he added.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, and leaned forward, speaking rapidly in a half-whisper that sometimes broke.

"Oh, it's not fair! It's not fair! I want to think only how splendid he was--how unselfish--how brave! I want to think of him always as he deserves, lovingly, fondly--and I've got to remember forever how little I could give him in return!"

"Yes, I guess he was the whitest man--" Benton stopped, then blurted out like a boy. "Oh, what's the use of my sitting here eulogizing him. I guess he doesn't need my praises. I guess he can stand on his own record."

"It's monstrous!" she said, and then she, too, fell back on silence.

Suddenly she rose to her feet, carried one hand to her heart and swayed uncertainly for a moment, steadying herself with one hand on the table.

The man turned, following her half-hypnotic gaze, in time to see Colonel Von Ritz bending over her hand. With recognition, Benton started up, then his jaw dropped and, doubting his own sanity, he fell back into his chair and sat gazing with blank eyes.

At Von Ritz's elbow stood Pagratide.

Slowly Benton came to his feet, his ears ringing. Then as Karyl turned from the girl and held out his hand to him, the American heard, as one listening through the roaring of a fever, some question about affairs in Galavia.

He heard Karyl answer, and though the words seemed to come from somewhere beyond Port Said, he recognized that the former King tried to speak in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I have no Kingdom. Louis took it."