Chapter 5: Intrigue

“Am I in time, Hope?”

“Yes, but the festival is to-night. In an hour or two now. Oh Derek, if the king holds this festival, the toilers will revolt. They won’t stand it--”

“To-night! It mustn’t be held to-night! It doesn’t give me time, time to plan.”

I stood listening to their vehement, half-whispered words. For a moment or two, absorbed, they ignored me.

“The king will make his choice to-night, Derek. He has announced it. Blanca or Sensua for his queen. And if he chooses the Crimson Sensua--” She stammered, then she went on:

“If he does--there will be bloodshed. The toilers are waiting, just to learn his choice.”

Derek exclaimed, “But to-night is too soon! I’ve got to plan. Hope, where does Rohbar stand in this?”

Strange intrigue! I pieced it together now, from their words, and from what presently they briefly told me. A festival was about to be held, an orgy of feasting and merrymaking, of music and dancing. And during it, this young King Leonto was to choose his queen. There were two possibilities. The Crimson Sensua, a profligate, debauched woman who, as queen, would further oppress the workers. And Blanca, a white beauty, risen from the toilers to be a favorite at the Court. Hope was her handmaiden.

If Blanca were chosen, the toilers would be appeased. She was one of them. She would lead this king from his profligate ways, would win from him justice for the workers.

But Derek and Hope both knew that the pure and gentle Blanca would never be the king’s choice. And to-night the toilers would definitely know it, and the smoldering revolt would burst into flame.

And there was this Rohbar. Derek said, “He is the king’s henchman, Charlie.”

I stood here in the starlight, listening to them. This strange primitive realm. There were no modern weapons here. We had brought none. The current used in our transition would have exploded the cartridges of a revolver. I had a dirk which Hope now gave me, and that was all.

Primitive intrigue. I envisaged this chaotic nation, with its toilers ignorant as the oppressed Mexican peons at their worst. Striving to better themselves, yet, not knowing how. Ready to shout for any leader who might with vainglorious words set himself up as a patriot.

This Rohbar, perhaps, was planning to do just that.

And so was Derek! He said, “Hope, if you could persuade the king to postpone the festival--if Blanca would help persuade him--just until to-morrow night...”

“I can try, Derek. But the festival is planned for an hour or two from now.”

“Where is the king?”

“In his palace, near the festival gardens.”

She gestured to the south. My mind went back to New York City. This hillock, where we were standing in the starlight beside a tree, was in my world about Fifth Avenue and Sixteenth Street. The king’s palace--the festival gardens--stood down at the Battery, where the rivers met in the broad water of the harbor.

Derek was saying, “We haven’t much time: can you get us to the palace?”

“Yes. I have a cart down there on the road.”

“And the cloaks for Charlie and me?”

“Yes.”

“Good!” said Derek. “We’ll go with you. It’s a long chance; he probably won’t postpone it. If he does not, we’ll be among the audience. And when he chooses the Red Sensua--”

She shuddered, “Oh, Derek--” And I thought I heard her whisper, “Oh, Alexandre--” and I saw his finger go to his lips.

His arm went around her. She huddled, small as a child against his tall, muscular body.

He said gently, “Don’t be afraid, little Hope.”

His face was grim, his eyes were gleaming. I saw him suddenly as an instinctive military adventurer. An anachronism in our modern New York City. Born in a wrong age. But here in this primitive realm he was at home.

I plucked at him. “How can you--how can we dare plunge into this thing? Hidden with cloaks, yes. But you talk of leading these toilers.”

He cast Hope away and confronted me. “I can do it! You’ll see, Charlie.” He was very strangely smiling. “You’ll see. But I don’t want to come into the open right away. Not to-night. But if we can only postpone this accursed festival.”

We had been talking perhaps five minutes. We were ready now to start away. Derek said:

“Whatever comes, Charlie, I want you to take care of Hope. Guard her for me, will you?”

I said, “Yes, I will try to.”

Hope smiled as she held out her hand to me. “I will not be afraid, with Derek’s friend.”

Her English was of different intonation from our own, but it was her native language, I could not doubt.

I took her cold, slightly trembling hand. “Thank you, Hope.”

Her eyes were misty with starlight. Tender eyes, but the tenderness was not for me.

“Yes,” I repeated. “You can depend upon me, Derek.”

We left the hillock. A food-laden cart came along the road. The driver, a boy vivid in jacket and wide trousers of red and blue, bravely worn but tattered, ran alongside guiding the oxen. When they had passed we followed, and presently we came to the cloaks Hope had hidden. Derek and I donned them. They were long crimson cloaks with hoods.