surrounded by trees and haughtily succumbing to decay, an ancient mansion, colonial in style, stands half-way between the shore of long island sound and the old post-road to boston, not many miles from harlem bridge. on the most brilliant day it is a gloomy, ghostly-looking structure, and the weed-choked grounds surrounding the house add to the unattractiveness of a spot that was once pleasing to the eye and noted for the elegance of the hospitality dispensed by those who made the old brick homestead a cheery place to visit. the house is built on a generous plan. a wide piazza, supporting white corinthian columns, faces the lawn. at the back of the house, jutting out from the second story, is a large balcony commanding a magnificent view of the sound. inside the structure wide halls, enormous drawing-rooms, a stately dining-apartment, and, upstairs, a labyrinth of airy sleeping-rooms, prove that their former occupants were fond of luxury. the furniture has fallen to pieces, the hangings are worn and dusty, and the partially dismantled house seems to breathe a protest in every nook and corner against the negligence that has allowed its former glories to lose their lustre beneath the iconoclastic hand of time.

it was an especially dreary place at the[36] moment at which it demands our attention. surrounded by a high wall, nothing can be seen of the house from the main road but its sloping roof and the gable windows beneath it. at the side of the large gateway that makes an entrance for the carriage-path leading up to the mansion is a small cottage that serves as a modest lodging for the rexanian, rudolph smolenski, in whose charge the strongs’ homestead had been placed some years previous to the opening of this story.

it is one o’clock in the morning. the day has made a tempestuous entrance. lightning flashes across the waters of the sound, and deep peals of thunder make the ground tremble with their force. the rain, after long delay, has come at last, and beats down upon the mansion and the lodge as though it would wash them clean of all relics of the past. it leaks through cracks that time has made, and adds to the moist discomfort of rooms that are never wholly dry. but there are unwonted signs of cheer in the mansion and at the lodge. there are gleams of moving lights that meet the storm as it beats against the shuttered windows of the old house, and a steady ray defeats the darkness in front of the decaying lodge.

let us enter the smaller structure first. two men are seated at a table in the front room on the ground floor. an oil lamp dimly illuminates the barely furnished apartment and casts weird shadows across the uncarpeted floor. one of these men we have met before. it is the impetuous little ludovics, whose patriotism is as indiscreet as it is enthusiastic. his bright beady eyes gleam in[37] the half light: his thin face is flushed, partially from excitement, but in a larger degree from the brandy he has drunk.

his companion is rudolph, the lodge-keeper, a flabby-faced, thickset man, with heavy features and the look of one who enjoys soft places and hard liquor. they are bending forward, listening.

“it’s queer they don’t come,” rudolph remarked, musingly. “i hear no sound of wheels. here, man, have another drop to keep you awake.” he filled ludovics’ glass from the bottle, and then replenished his own. rudolph drank like one who needs renewed vigor, ludovics like a man trying to quench the fires of impatience.

“i hope,” said the latter, looking searchingly at rudolph, “that they haven’t got too much of this stuff up at the house.”

“only one bottle, this size,” answered rudolph, fingering the bottle lovingly. “one quart won’t do much harm among five men. and they’ll need it, i tell you. that old house takes water like a sponge on a night like this. i’ve done what i could to make it comfortable for you all, but i wasn’t prepared for a flood like this.”

“hark,” cried ludovics nervously, turning an ear to the window: “i thought i heard wheels.”

“they’re in your head, ludovics,” remarked rudolph, jocosely. he had picked up a good deal of slang from the westchester urchins who haunted the lodge gate. “come, light a cigar. in a storm like this it’s a hard drive after they leave the bridge. i don’t expect them for an hour yet.”

they puffed in silence for a time. finally[38] ludovics said, with suppressed excitement in his voice:

“rudolph, you’re a man of sense, and you love the cause. do you realize the full significance of this night’s work?”

the lodge-keeper turned his puffy, pallid face full toward his guest and eyed him keenly.

“no, ludovics; and nobody does. it’ll probably cost me my job.”

ludovics waved his hand impatiently.

“i don’t mean that. if we are cautious, i don’t see how you can get into trouble. what i mean is this: we are to have the whole political future of our fatherland, the fate of dear old rexania, right here in our grasp. no power on earth can despoil us of our absolute grip upon a nation’s destiny so long as the crown prince is within our control. it is an awful responsibility that comes to us to-night, rudolph.”

the speaker glanced searchingly at his companion. he would have given a great deal to know how much of an impression he was making on the phlegmatic rexanian, who continued to drink brandy without growing one whit more demonstrative. finally rudolph said, as a tremendous crash of thunder died away in bounding echoes across the sound:

“what are you driving at, ludovics? can’t you leave the brunt of the business to posadowski?”

the excitable little rexanian controlled his agitation with an effort. “he’s so damned conservative, rudolph!” he cried. “i believe he thinks he can persuade prince carlo to abdicate, even if the king does not die while[39] his heir-apparent is cooped up here.” then he jumped from his chair and strode nervously up and down the room. “it’s all nonsense! trying to compromise with a monarchy is like giving your wife your purse: you get the leather back and she keeps the money. rudolph,”—and here the little man stood still and glanced piercingly at his companion—“no monarchy in europe can be turned into a republic unless somebody, somewhere, uses heroic measures.”

the lodge-keeper smiled cautiously.

“don’t you call kidnapping a traveller in this part of the world using heroic measures?”

ludovics flushed angrily. “only fools,” he cried, “use heroic measures that are not quite heroic enough. don’t be stupid, rudolph. you understand me. pish! how i hate half-baked patriots! we’d have won our fight ten years ago, if we hadn’t had among us men who didn’t dare take advantage of the power they had grasped. the rexanian republic must never be lost again because we revolutionists aren’t equal to the crisis that confronts us. do you think,” he cried, again standing in front of rudolph and gesticulating wildly, “do you think i care for my liberty or my life if i can do something that will give my country freedom? i hate all kings, rudolph. who dare say to me that a king deserves mercy at my hands? did not a king kill my father and banish me from the land of my birth? did not a king seize my patrimony and leave me a pauper, an outcast, a man without a country and without a hope? mercy? i would sooner give meat to a dog that bit my shins than[40] grant life to a king whose breast was at my dagger’s end. do you know me now, rudolph? do you read my heart? i tell you, man, the night outside is not blacker than my soul when i think of kings. kings! kings! they say god made them! then, by god, the devil shall destroy them. give me more brandy, rudolph. the storm is working in my blood! ha, but that was a glorious flash! the sky’s own fireworks light the coming of our prince to our little dove-cot.”

a wild crash of thunder seemed to applaud the madman’s words.

“keep quiet,” cried rudolph, jumping up and placing his fat, yellowish hand on ludovics’ arm. “i hear the sound of wheels. yes, yes, man, i am right. they are here.”

a carriage stopped outside, and a blow that echoed through the cottage fell on the iron gate that blocked the roadway.