United States or Macao ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Rhodo inclined his head. "When the doctors have testified, we will take him with us. Say your farewells," he added, with gesture of command. A cry of protest rose from Fleda's soul, and yet she knew it was what the Ry would have wished, that he should be buried by his own people where they would. Slowly she drew near to the dead man, and leaned over and kissed his shaggy head.
A few moments later he said to her: "It's fifteen years since you kissed me last. I thought you were ashamed of old Rhodo." She did not answer, but looked at him with eyes streaming, drawing back from him.
It was her father's secret agent, Rhodo, the Roumelian, now grizzled and gaunt, but with the same vitality which had been his in the days when she was a little child. Here and there in the world went Rhodo, the voice of the Ry of Rys to do his bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever more dreaded or loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many.
To her he had been more than father; he had been a patriarch, a leader, a viking, capable of the fury of a Scythian lord, but with the tenderness of a peasant father to his first child. "My Ry! My father! Oh, my Ry of Rys!" she kept murmuring to herself. On either side of her, but a few feet behind, stood Rhodo and Ingolby. Presently in a low, firm voice Rhodo spoke.
"The Ry of Rys is dead, but his daughter must stand upon her feet, and in his place speak for him. Is it not well with him? He sleeps. Sleep is better than pain. Let his daughter speak." Slowly Fleda arose. Not so much what Rhodo had said as the meaning in his voice, aroused her to a situation which she must face. Rhodo had said that she must speak for her father. What did it mean?
Rhodo inclined his head. "When the doctors have testified, we will take him with us. Say your farewells," he added, with gesture of command. A cry of protest rose from Fleda's soul, and yet she knew it was what the Ry would have wished, that he should be buried by his own people where they would. Slowly she drew near to the dead man, and leaned over and kissed his shaggy head.
With an exclamation of gratitude she nestled into his arms. Before the thrill of his embrace had passed from their pulses, they heard the breaking of twigs under a quick footstep, and Rhodo stood before them. "Come," he said to Fleda. His voice was as solemn and strange as his manner. "Come!" he repeated peremptorily. Fleda sprang to his side. "Is it my father? What has happened?" she cried.
Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as a child Rhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepened as the years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout the world for the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and some tragic underthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singular loneliness of figure and manner.
"What news?" Madame Bulteel's face lighted. "Good news," she exclaimed eagerly. "He will see he will see again?" Fleda asked in great agitation. "The Montreal doctor said that the chances were even," answered Madame Bulteel. "This man from the States says it is a sure thing." With a murmur Fleda sank into a chair, and a faintness came over her. "That's not like a Romany," remarked old Rhodo.
Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as a child Rhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepened as the years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout the world for the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and some tragic underthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singular loneliness of figure and manner.
Word Of The Day