Yet Michael, having
struck for the crown, had paid for the blow with his life: should
there not then be an end? Michael was dead, the Princess her
cousin's wife, the story in safe keeping, and Mr. Rassendyll's
face seen no more in Ruritania. Should there not then be an end?
So said I to my friend the Constable of Zenda, as we talked by
the bedside of Marshal Strakencz. The old man, already nearing
the death that soon after robbed us of his aid and counsel, bowed
his head in assent: in the aged and ailing the love of peace
breeds hope of it. But Colonel Sapt tugged at his gray moustache,
and twisted his black cigar in his mouth, saying, "You're very
sanguine, friend Fritz. But is Rupert of Hentzau dead? I had not
heard it."
Well said, and like old Sapt! Yet the man is little without the
opportunity, and Rupert by himself could hardly have troubled our
repose. Hampered by his own guilt, he dared not set his foot in
the kingdom from which by rare good luck he had escaped, but
wandered to and fro over Europe, making a living by his wits,
and, as some said, adding to his resources by gallantries for
which he did not refuse substantial recompense. But he kept
himself constantly before our eyes, and never ceased to contrive
how he might gain permission to return and enjoy the estates to
which his uncle's death had entitled him.
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