In its place among the mountains on
both sides of the gray-green river it was full of romance to him,
romance colored all the more deeply by memory. Off there among those
peaks the _Arrow_ had first come for him and Lannes, while here the
great Mozart had been born and lay buried. In remoter days Huns had
swept through these passes, coming from Asian deserts to the pillage of
Europe.
John sat down on a bench in the little square before the cathedral and
looked up at the mountains. He knew the exact location in which lay
Zillenstein, the ancient seat of the Auersperg race, and he calculated
that in two days he could reach it on foot, the lone youth in peasant's
garb, pursuing the powerful prince and general, surrounded by retainers
and hussars and in the land of his ancestors.
John wondered what had become of his comrades. Was Lannes well, and had
he got his message? Were Carstairs and Wharton still alive, and where
was Weber? They were questions the solution of which must wait upon the
success of his quest, and therefore the answer might never come. But he
fiercely put away such a thought. He would succeed! He must succeed!
He was not walking in the dark. He had learned that Auersperg and his
people had arrived at Salzburg two days before, and had left after a few
hours for Zillenstein. The prince was in excellent health and would not
remain at his castle more than a week.
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