At noon precisely a cannon was fired from the tower of the Strafeburg. Simultaneously the royal procession started from the Neptunburg, where the Princess Gloria had taken up her official residence as Sovereign of Grimland! It was a brave sight, for the sky was cloudless and the snow-covered city sparkled into a myriad smiles under the kiss of the winter sun. Every roof wore its gleaming mantle, its shimmering festoons of stainless crystals; and the countless icicles which depended from a thousand eaves glistened like huge diamonds in the vivifying sunlight.
First marched the Guards, their band playing the "Rothlied," which had now become the national anthem. Then came the Red Hussars with their bright uniforms, bay chargers, and gaily-pennoned lances. Then the Guides on skis—a popular contingent, judging from the cheers they drew. Then the Queen's Bodyguard, with Von Hügelweiler at their head. Then the gilt, lumbering State carriage, with its solitary occupant, a pale little figure, bowing to right and left, smiling, nervous, pathetically isolated,—a pearl in a huge gold setting. Next came distinguished personages on horseback, amongst them Trafford on a great chestnut charger, and Father Bernhardt in dead black, seated on a big mare of the same funereal hue. Then Dragoons, then Police with Doctor Matti in dark uniform and cocked hat. More carriages and powdered coachmen; more Dragoons, more Guards, Guides, and Grenadiers, with a strong contingent of Horse Artillery to wind up with.
Nothing was lacking either in the splendour of the procession or the enthusiasm of the onlookers.
Within the cathedral the solemn ceremony of coronation was conducted by the Archbishop of Weidenbruck, who maintained the traditional enmity to Karl exhibited by his predecessor. And the vast Gothic building was crowded with nobles and dignitaries, and a great many others who were very far from being noble or dignified, but who had been admitted lest the many absentees should leave conspicuous gaps on the marble pavement. For there were many of the older families of Grimland to whom the events of the last few days were abhorrent, and who regarded the haste of the coronation as something shameless and indecent. Neither, of course, were there any foreign representatives present. Grimland was not a great power, but its callous condonence of a crime had shocked the moral sense of Christendom. But Bernhardt had insisted on rapidity of action, and for the moment his word was law.
After the ceremony came the State luncheon in the Muschelsaal, an interminable affair of many viands and divers vintages. Trafford,—seated between a Grafinn of aristocratic lineaments and a deputy's wife with plebeian features and a shrill scheme of attire,—ate little and thought much. His eyes were constantly on the white-faced girl who sat on the big gilded chair at the head of the centre table. He wondered if he had ever seen anything so pale and sad in his life. The girl who had faced outlawry and risked arrest with a light heart and laughing lips seemed crushed and smothered by the pomp and circumstance of her present dignity. She talked and smiled and tasted food and drink, but the Princessin Gloria was dead, and a poor substitute sat in her gorgeous coronation robes as Grimland's Queen.
In time the long repast came to its end, the guests departed, and those who were bidden repaired to the Council in the Throne-room.
At this the Queen, Father Bernhardt, Dr. Matti, Von Hügelweiler, and George Trafford were present. The captain of the Guides ignored the American with studied scorn. The latter responded with an almost imperceptible but intensely irritating smile. So far he had triumphed, for he had occupied a post of great honour in the procession, and Von Hügelweiler felt his enemy's insolence like a galling wound.
The men in turn proffered formal congratulations to the freshly-crowned Sovereign. Gloria thanked them with a determined effort at graciousness.
"Most women, my good friends, have one day in their lives," she concluded with the ghost of a smile. "This is mine. I have had my experience. I know what it feels like to drive through a mile and a half of cheering men and women, to sit in a gilded carriage with a myriad eyes focussed on my poor, pale face. I know the solemn moment when the sacred oil is poured on my hair and the golden rim of sovereignty set on my brow. I have dreamed of these things, and the dream was at least as real as the reality. It is a wonderful thing to be a Queen—but—but——"
"But what, madam?" asked Dr. Matti.
The big doctor looked rather more ridiculous as Chief of Police than as a drenched revolutionary in the Cathedral Square. He was the only one present who seemed out of place in the sumptuous Throne-room. Von Hügelweiler was an aristocrat, and a handsome one at that. Bernhardt, despite his wild, black eyes, was a man of breeding and palpable distinction. Trafford, with his bold features, fierce moustache, and picturesque green uniform, might have been a Polish count of bluest blood and innumerable quarterings. But Matti, with his big hands, heavy features, and ungainly figure, was plebeian from the soles of his enormous feet to the tips of his spatulate fingers. The romance of the situation had no appeal for him. He served the Queen, not because she was young and beautiful, but because he honestly believed Karl to have been a cruel and corrupt monarch, and he hoped for a regenerate and better ordered State under his successor. He represented the prose of the revolution, the grim sense of duty which often makes revolutionaries absolutely callous of individual suffering, so long as their concept of human happiness be furthered.
So now he had no sympathy with Gloria's mood of weakness.
"But what, madam?" he repeated.
She laughed a little hysterically.
"I am not sure it is not better fun to be an exile," she sighed.
The doctor winced visibly at her words.
"Life was not meant for fun," he said irritably.
"Mine was, I think," she retorted. "A certain gentleman, by name Herr Saunders, told me I should soon tire of the routine andrégimeof Queenhood. I laughed him to scorn, but I am beginning to think he knew me better than I knew myself."
"Your position has responsibilities as well as pleasures," pursued the doctor. "For instance, we shall have a stern fight to win the recognition of the foreign powers. The assassination of poor Karl,—a brilliant idea on Herr Trafford's part, and a proceeding of which I thoroughly approve,—will take a little swallowing by the Chanceries of Europe."
"Poor Karl!" Gloria murmured.
"Moreover," the doctor went on, ignoring the comment, "the mere fact of coronation,—important though it may be,—is not necessarily a guarantee of unopposed sovereignty. We have reports from the north-east of Grimland that there is considerable dissatisfaction with thecoup d'etatwhich has just proved fatal to your Majesty's predecessor. They say that the district of Weissheim is in something very like open revolt."
Gloria laughed mirthlessly.
"I am glad to hear of it," she said. "What is the worth to me of the royalty of men who change their allegiance as readily as they change their coats? Karl was a man. He had his faults, his crimes, if report speaks true; but men licked his hand when he was alive, and I honour them if they fight for his memory when he is dead."
"Bravo!" cried Trafford enthusiastically, and heedless of the black looks his interjection drew from Von Hügelweiler and Dr. Matti. "Bravo! That's the spirit I draw my sword for. I liked what I saw of Karl. He seemed to me a gentleman, and a good sportsman. Had I not heard of his cruelty to the late Archbishop, I don't know that I should have cared to take a hand against him."
"The story of his cruelty to the Archbishop was a lie," put in Father Bernhardt. "I ought to know," he went on, in answer to the astonished looks of his hearers, "for I invented it myself. Karl was a humane man and a moral man. Years ago I loved him. Afterwards I loved his wife,—and that made a difference."
Dr. Matti looked deep disgust. He was a family man with strong, not to say Puritan, views on morality. He knew—who did not?—that Bernhardt had eloped some years ago with Karl's consort, but he had always imagined the ex-priest to have been actuated by a disinterested desire to deliver the poor woman from a brutal and tyrannical husband. Bernhardt read the doctor's expression, and laughed.
"The devil tempted me,"—he went on, with a positive delight in shocking the worthy burgher,—"and I fell. The love I had for Karl turned to hatred. I fought against him,—I lied against him,—I swore to effect his downfall, and I effected it; but now that he is dead I wish to clear his memory. Karl was never guilty of inhumanity. He might be stern when occasion warranted. He might be unscrupulous in his methods of suppressing sedition; he would have been a fool had he not been so; but he never stooped to torture. Tell that abroad, my friends. Karl was a clean man, a just man, and if I compassed his ruin it was because that was the price I paid to Satan for the glories of his fellowship."
All were silent at these words, but Gloria put her hands before her eyes and shuddered. Her pallor became, if possible, intensified. She appeared tired out, and as if suffering from a splitting headache.
"It seems we have been fighting under false pretences," she said wearily.
It was Von Hügelweiler who answered her.
"Karl is dead," he said. "I sided against him, not because I hated him, but because I wished to serve the Princessin Gloria von Schattenberg. Long live the Queen!"
"Long live the Queen!" echoed Dr. Matti without enthusiasm. "If Karl was a good man, he is in heaven.Requiescat in pace. We must accept facts, and our first duty is to pacify the country."
"That means an expedition to Weissheim," put in Father Bernhardt. "The district is in a ferment. However, our friends Von Hügelweiler and Herr Trafford, with a few regiments of sharp-shooters, will put that right in a few days."
"More bloodshed!" sighed Gloria.
"The authority of the new Government must be respected," declared Dr. Matti. "We must have no false sentimentality."
Gloria rose from her seat with a look of a new-born resolution on her ashen face.
"There must be no more fighting," she said imperiously. "I am a Schattenberg, I know, and come of a race accustomed to hold life as a little thing. I plotted against Karl, because my father and brother met their death at his hands. But Karl is dead, and his death is a horrible and ghastly memory to me. The men of Weissheim are my subjects, and I will not have their blood on my hands. Our Government must be respected, you say? We will win respect by mercy and tolerance, then, not by the cannon and the shambles!"
Dr. Matti's countenance was a picture of contemptuous irritation. Bernhardt's head sank on his breast, as if he were deep in thought. The silence was broken by a loud rap at the door. Von Hügelweiler strode across the room and opened it.
There was a moment's whispered consultation.
"A messenger with urgent news, your Majesty," said Hügelweiler at length.
"Admit him!"
A man in plain clothes entered. Trafford recognised him as one of the waiters of the Hôtel Concordia.
"Your news, Gottfried, quick," said Bernhardt. "You are interrupting the Council."
The man bowed low to the Queen.
"I am head of the Intelligence Department, your Majesty," he began, "and I have just received news of such import that I felt it necessary to interrupt your Majesty's Council in order to impart it."
"Proceed," said Gloria with a slight inclination of her head.
"Your Majesty, there is much trouble at Weissheim. Theburgherschafthas declared against your sovereignty. The troops refuse to take the oath of allegiance, and the young Prince is cheered wherever seen."
"We know all this," said Bernhardt in some irritation.
"Snow forts are being erected at every strategic point," the man went on, "and heavy pieces of ordnance are being put in position."
"Naturally," said Bernhardt. "We did not imagine they would conduct civil war with popguns."
"Is that all?" demanded Von Hügelweiler.
"No, excellency. There is a report,—a strong report,—that the King is not dead; that he escaped with General Meyer and Herr Saunders, and has made his way to the Palace of the Brunvarad at Weissheim. The wires are cut, and the railway has been blown up in three places, including the great viaduct over the Niederkessel at Eselbruck. It is impossible to obtain direct confirmation, but the rumour is gaining ground even here that Karl somehow escaped our clutches and fled to Weissheim."
At a sign from Bernhardt the man bowed and withdrew.
"A ridiculous rumour, as we have reason to know," said Dr. Matti, appealing to the others.
"We cannot produce his corpse," said Trafford.
"No," said Bernhardt; "that was an oversight on our part. After consigning Karl to the embrace of the Iron Maiden we left his body to his friends. We should have occupied the Neptunburg there and then, and drowned old Meyer in the Palace fountain. As it was, our consciences got the better of us, we fled from the scene of our handiwork without completing our task."
"We should never have begun it," cried Gloria. "I shall never forget the moment when Karl stepped forth and faced the shrieking rabble. The man was a lion among wolves. What followed will haunt me to my grave. And now Father Bernhardt tells us that Karl was a humane man and a moral man, and that it is necessary for us to butcher those of his late subjects who are true to his memory."
"We must forget the past and look to the future," said Dr. Matti sternly. "To display weakness now would only be to increase the sum of human suffering. This expedition must start at once."
The Queen turned in despair to Bernhardt.
"You have heard Gottfried's report," said the ex-priest. "There must be no delay. The expedition must start at once."
"The expedition must start at once," echoed Von Hügelweiler.
Gloria turned to Trafford.
"Yes, yes," said that gentleman absent-mindedly. "By all means let the expedition start at once. I will accompany it."
The Queen rose from the throne.
"The expeditionshallstart at once," she said in tones of unutterable bitterness. "I command that it be so. Gentlemen, I leave you, thanking you for your loyal counsel. This is the day of my life, the dreamed-of day on which I call myself, 'Gloria, Queen of Grimland.'"
Nervy Trafford left the Council with the dawning consciousness that he was not a very wise man. There are kings and kings, he reflected, kings to serve, honour and obey, and kings to harass, embarrass and decapitate; but it was best on the whole to leave the choice of treatment to the subjects of the particular monarch to be dealt with. He had sided against Karl from an innate love of excitement and a romantic enthusiasm for the rebel Princess. He had saved Karl from premature death, because he was a well-brought-up American with a sneaking respect for the sixth commandment. The result was, that the revolution,—which had been by no means bloodless,—was likely to be followed by an aftermath of civil war infinitely more sanguinary. Had he not interfered, Karl might still have been on the throne. Had he persisted in his revolutionary policy, logically and relentlessly, Grimland might have found peace and tranquillity under the unopposed banner of Gloria. As it was, Karl was evidently in Weissheim, and the good Weissheimers,—according to Herr Gottfried,—were preparing glacis and grapeshot for those who did not see eye to eye with them in things political.
He found his way to the Rubens room, and seated himself, wondering how long it was necessary to wait before demanding access to the private apartments. The short winter day was well-nigh done, and the great, unlit chamber looked vast and ghostly in the failing light. The shadowed corners, the rich stillness, touched and oppressed his imagination. Great men and proud women had passed in sumptuous pageantry through the walls of that noble chamber; and Trafford felt their presence, and strove to exorcise them with the fumes of a cigarette. But the impalpable dust of centuries seemed to impregnate the air, and by-gone monarchs looked askance at him from their dim gold frames, in a scornful wonder at the American interloper who sat so carelessly in the seat of kings. He rose, impatient of their glances, and walked to the window. Snow was falling. The sun that had graced and greeted the new-crowned Queen had sunk beneath the rugged outline of the encircling mountains; the sky, which had been of no uncertain blue, was a nondescript monotone weeping a white haze of crystalline tears. His thoughts harked back to the ashen face and sad eyes of the new-crowned Queen. Why had she not grasped the fact that Karl's immurement in theEisenmädchenwas a humane act of rescue, not a piece of callous cruelty? She herself had experienced the same hiding-place under the same innocuous conditions, and yet it did not seem to have occurred to her that the spikes might still be reposing at the bottom of his overcoat pocket. That the others should have failed to suspect the truth was only natural. That they would be angry on discovering it, was probable—but for that he cared not one jot.
What troubled his awakening conscience was, that good men and true must go down before peace reigned again in the troubled monarchy of Grimland.
After a few more minutes of such meditation, he made his way through the Rubens-saal in the direction of the private apartments. In the corridor leading to the Queen's chamber stood the officer on guard, and talking to him was no less a personage than Von Hügelweiler.
"My orders are precise," the former was saying. "Her Majesty is resting and will see no one."
"But have the goodness at least to send in my name," Von Hügelweiler returned pettishly.
"It would be no use, Captain," retorted the other. "The Queen is resting and must not be disturbed."
Von Hügelweiler's disappointment showed itself plainly in his crestfallen air.
"I want access to her Majesty," he said doggedly. "It is true that by admitting me you risk offending the Queen, but by not admitting me you offend me for a certainty."
"I am very sorry, Captain," said the officer in a conciliatory manner. He was quite a young man, and he was rather alarmed at having to defy so important a person as Von Hügelweiler had become. Still, he held stoutly to his position in the centre of the corridor.
"You may be sorrier still, if you persist," said the Captain darkly, detecting, as he fancied, symptoms of wavering on the other's part. "We move in strange times, Lieutenant, and my goodwill is better worth having than my enmity."
At this juncture, Trafford,—who had overheard this conversation, and whose approach had been inaudible on the thick carpet of the Palace corridor,—coughed affectedly, and advanced with admirable swagger.
"I wish to see her Majesty," he said, addressing the lieutenant on guard, and completely ignoring Von Hügelweiler.
It was the latter, however, who answered him.
"The Queen is resting, and will see no one," he said roughly.
Trafford paid not the slightest attention to the Captain's words.
"My name is Trafford," he went on, to the officer.
The Lieutenant's face was a picture of puzzled dismay. His orders were to conduct Trafford to the royal apartments as soon as he presented himself. To all others he was to give the message that her Majesty was exceedingly fatigued and would on no account see anyone. After a moment's embarrassed indecision,—during which he felt Von Hügelweiler's eyes absolutely scorching him,—he bade Trafford follow, and turning his back on the furious Captain, led the way down the long corridor. Arriving at a doorway concealed by a heavy curtain, he pushed open a massive oak portal and signalled Trafford to enter.
The chamber in which the latter now found himself was lofty, smelling of incense, and lit by lamps hanging from a frescoed ceiling. At the far end was an altar garnished with many candles and a silver crucifix.
This undoubtedly was the private chapel of the Neptunburg.
"We are awaiting you," said the quiet voice of Gloria.
Trafford advanced towards the new Queen, who was standing before the steps of the altar in the company of a priest. The chapel was dark, for the stained-glass windows shut out most of the remaining light, and the hanging lamps were little more than points of ruby flame. And yet he could see that Gloria's face was still of an even pallor, and that her eyes were red from recent tears.
"I am a woman of my word, you see," she went on in dull tones. "I promised to marry you under certain conditions, and, those conditions being fulfilled, I waste no time."
"You are carrying out the letter of the contract," returned Trafford, "but are you observing the spirit? I did not bargain for a tearful bride."
"The tears are dried and gone."
"But not the cause that made them flow. You wept because you are a woman, and the woman who regards even the formula of marriage as a little matter has yet to see the light of day. And you wept because you are not sure which thing conscience commands—the violation of a contract or the taking of false vows."
"You are strangely wise to-day," she said with a faint smile. "I did not know such intuition lurked in that wild brain of yours."
"I am right, then?"
"I cannot say"—she hesitated. "Yes, the marriage vow is a serious thing, and this wedding,—as I warned you,—can be no more than a solemn mockery. I am Queen of Grimland. You are a brave man and a gentleman—but you are not a prince of blood royal."
"The Traffords are not people of particularly humble origin," he retorted drily.
"Nor would it affect me if they were. But the State would never sanction my marriage with a commoner."
"Then is it worth while going through the mockery?" he demanded.
"I have asked myself that question, and the answer is that you find me here. My word is pledged."
"Your word, but not your heart."
"Ah, but I once told you that I had no heart."
"Then you uttered a falsehood," he insisted. "Your heart,—whose existence you deny,—bled at the thought of Karl's suffering. Your heart, which was disposed to entertain some kindly emotion for me, has cooled towards me because I compassed Karl's cruel demise."
"Go on, wise man!"
"I will not ask you if I am right," pursued Trafford, "for I read acquiescence in those tear-spoiled eyes. But I will say one thing more: as Queen of Grimland your marriage to me will be null and void. What if you are deposed from your sovereignty, and became again Gloria von Schattenberg, the exile?"
"That will not occur just yet," she replied.
"I am not so certain," he mused. "What if those rumours mentioned by Gottfried were true in substance and in fact? What if Karl really escaped with General Meyer and Saunders and others to Weissheim? What if Grimland's King is still in his own country, alive, alert, surrounded by sage counsel and loyal hearts? Is your position then so very sure?"
"But Karl was put into theEisenmädchen," she protested wonderingly.
"So were you," was Trafford's retort.
"I—yes. But you had unscrewed all the spikes. The Maiden was as harmless as an unfanged snake."
"I put those spikes in my overcoat pocket," said Trafford slowly. "They are still—in my overcoat pocket."
For a dazed moment Gloria stood staring at him. Then she reeled—literally—grasping at the altar rails for support.
"You put him into the Iron Maiden—to save his life?" she gasped.
"That was my rough idea. You see, I am an American, and I hate killing things—especially brave things. There are plenty of men I would kill in the heat of battle—one or two, perhaps, whom I would kill without much heat, but Karl,—whatever his deeds or misdeeds,—was playing the man that night in the Palace yard, and I would sooner have cut off my right hand then have done him an injury. Forgive me, your Majesty, for I served you badly. Providence, which gave me a fair share of muscle and brute courage, was stinting to me in the matter of logic. I should have been logical and replaced the spikes in theEisenmädchen."
"Herr Trafford!"
A hand was laid on Trafford's arm, and in the scanty light of the shadowy chapel the American found himself looking into eyes bright with tears, but tears not of sorrow or vexation, but of happiness and vast relief.
"Oh, what a weight you have taken from off my heart—it was heavier than I could bear," she murmured. "I felt like a murderess, a guilty creature who had risen through blood to the summit of her base ambitions."
"Then I am forgiven?"
"There is nothing to forgive. You have helped me and served me with your splendid impetuosity and your fearless resource. A Grimlander would have slain Karl, and crowned his service with a deed of shame. You were illogical—and I—I almost love you for your noble lack of logic."
"You almost love me?" he asked in a trance.
"At least as much as I have ever loved——"
She broke off suddenly, and smiling upon him one of her rarest smiles, she added: "Yes, George Trafford, I will marry you, and if the Queen of Grimland cannot wed an American, then I will no longer be Queen of Grimland."
Trafford gazed into the pale, brave face as he had never gazed at any living thing. His breath caught with a short gasp. A strange fire had sprung to quivering life in his bosom; a wild march was pealing in his ravished ears. His feet were no longer on the chequered marble pavement of the Chapel Royal, but somewhere in the fine regions of rolling planets and shimmering nebulae. It was no mere human being who bent over that sweet young face and kissed the warm tears from the drooping eyelids as he breathed the one word "Gloria" in an echo of long-drawn sound, but a demi-god, an heroic anachronism with the passions of Phoebus in his kindling soul.
"I thought love was worship," he said, as he strained the slim form to him. "So it is, and something more—something infinitely and deliciously more."
"We are in church," she remonstrated, gently disengaging herself, "and not alone."
But again he kissed her, and this time gently on the brow.
"I was forgetting all things save one," he said, "and that is that you love me."
"Almost love you," she corrected, with a sigh.
"At least as much as you loved the others," he affirmed.
"And that contents you?" she demanded, raising her eyebrows in well-feigned astonishment.
Her question puzzled him.
"It ought not to, of course," he said with wrinkled brow. "I ought to want all or nothing. But I would be content if it were even less you gave, for in the dim light of this ancient chamber I seem to see the workings of Fate."
"Then you are willing on such a basis to go on with the ceremony?"
"If you are content to do so," he returned gravely, "knowing that Karl is alive and may prevail, and that in that event no Parliament will trouble to undo what the good priest does this afternoon."
Gloria looked him frankly in the face.
"I, too, believe in Fate," she said softly, after a pause; and then, slipping her arm into his, "Father Ambrose, you have been summoned here for a purpose. Fulfil that purpose."
While the woman whom he had helped to a throne was being secretly married to George Trafford, Father Bernhardt was sitting alone in his private apartments in the Neptunburg. The room he had chosen for his use was a small chamber on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard. The blinds were drawn, the electric light was burning, and the ex-priest was seated in a comfortable arm-chair reading the poems of Paul Verlaine. At his side were a wine-glass and a bigcarafecontaining a pale green viscous fluid. He seemed to be enjoying his relaxation, for a smile constantly flitted across his face, and as some mordant line appealed more especially to his grim humour he would repeat it several times out loud in manifest appreciation. From time to time he sipped the fluid at his elbow, and it was remarkable that each time he did so he cast a quick look behind him as if fully expecting to see someone.
A rap at the door brought a slight frown to his brow, and the knock had to be repeated before he gave the necessary permission to enter. The intruder was Von Hügelweiler.
"Well, what is it, Captain?" asked Bernhardt impatiently.
Von Hügelweiler's glance took in the nature of the other man's diversion, and a suspicion of contempt showed itself in his curling lip.
"I have news, sir," he said.
"Out with it!"
"Karl is alive!"
"So Gottfried said. The Iron Maiden seems to have grown humane in her old age."
Hügelweiler studied the man whose influence was then paramount in Weidenbruck, and his contempt grew. In common with others, he had been wont to fear Bernhardt. The burning eyes, the quick, imperious brain, the general air of reckless strength were things that impressed the well-born soldier, as they impressed the low-born mob. But Bernhardt sipping absinthe was a different person from the fire-brand of the revolution, and Hügelweiler realised that the lethargic sensualist of the arm-chair needed strong words to rouse him.
"The Iron Maiden has not grown humane," he said, "but there is a traitor in our midst."
Bernhardt sipped pensively.
"How very interesting!" he said.
"Very!" echoed Hügelweiler scornfully. "Before Karl was put into theEisenmädchensomeone had removed the spikes. The pretended execution was nothing more nor less than a scheme to save the King's life."
"A most ingenious scheme."
Von Hügelweiler banged his fist on the table.
"That is one piece of news!" he cried irritably. "It does not seem to move you very deeply; perhaps my second item will affect you more. The Queen has just gone through the ceremony of marriage with Trafford the American!"
Again Bernhardt raised his glass.
"I drink to the happy pair," he said blandly.
Hügelweiler almost screamed with vexation.
"It is scandalous!" he protested, almost with tears in his eyes. "The thing must be annulled. The Queen of Grimland must not wed a commoner, a foreign adventurer, a man who at a crisis turns traitor and saves the dethroned King's life."
A spark of interest glinted into the ex-priest's eye.
"By the way," he asked, "how did you find all this out?"
The question let loose a fresh flood of indignation from the Captain. In tones of choking wrath he told how he had been forbidden the royal presence, and how Trafford had been accorded instant admission.
"That was too much for a man of my kidney," he went on. "I brushed aside the young fool who was doing duty on guard, and I followed this American pig down the corridor. I found myself in the chapel, and I hid myself in the gloom behind a pew. Then I overheard things—pretty things, pretty speeches, tales of the American's mercy, how he had saved the King's life because he disliked killing a brave man. Then these two,—the Queen of Grimland and the traitor who should have been immured in the Strafeburg,—kissed each other and were made man and wife by a damned old fool in a cassock."
"Always speak respectfully of the Church, my son," said Bernhardt with exasperating mockery. "I was, myself, one of its most shining ornaments."
"Can nothing rouse you to the seriousness of the situation?" demanded the Captain in despair.
Again Bernhardt sipped. Then he leaned back, and a slow smile spread over his face.
"You don't drink absinthe, do you, Captain?"
"No," replied the other with an expression of disgust.
"It is a strange fluid," went on Bernhardt thoughtfully. "Sometimes it clears the brain, so that one sees with extraordinary distinctness. But sometimes it obfuscates the reasoning powers, so that one cannot distinguish right from wrong. For instance, at the present moment,HerrTrafford's action appears to me not a wicked, but a positively virtuous one. He saved a man from a cruel death and delivers him to freedom instead of torture."
"But the man was Karl!" expostulated Von Hügelweiler.
"I loved Karl," returned Bernhardt, unmoved, "I loved and hated him. You,—not being anabsintheur,—cannot understand the curious mental pose that loves and hates the same being at the same time. Also I love Herr Trafford. He got me out of the Strafeburg."
Von Hügelweiler made a gesture of despair. He felt he was talking to a madman, one on whom sense and argument were useless and unavailing.
"But the marriage!" he said, raising his voice unconsciously to a shout in the desperate effort to drive home his point. "The marriage must be cancelled! When the truth is known that Trafford helped Karl to escape he will become the most hated man in Weidenbruck. The Queen must never unite her fortunes with such a creature."
Bernhardt gaped, as if the matter had begun to bore him.
"Then the truth must not be known," he said, between his yawns.
"But it shall be known!" cried the soldier angrily. "I shall proclaim it myself from the housetops. The mad American must be whipped out of the country."
"Captain von Hügelweiler," said the ex-priest solemnly, "just now I was enjoying two things: some deliciously bitter poetry and some deliciously bitter liquid. At the present moment I am incapacitated by your disturbing presence from enjoying either. Do I make myself plain?"
Von Hügelweiler turned to go with a stifled oath.
"A fine time for dissipation!" he said, as a parting shaft. "The fortunes of the country are at stake, and Bernhardt, Father Bernhardt, the people's leader, the man of the hour, swills absinthe and absorbs the pernicious writings of a decadent poetaster."
In a flash the ex-priest was on his feet, with blazing eyes and an air of almost terrible menace. Von Hügelweiler thought he had been talking to a sodden drunkard. He found himself confronted by the embodiment of masterful and savage energy.
"You fool!" cried Bernhardt in tones of withering contempt. "May not a man rest? May not a strange man rest in a strange way? I do the work of a hundred—must not the brain be fed and the nerves braced to meet the strain?"
The Captain shrugged his shoulders weakly. Despite his own strong feelings, the other's imperiousness cowed him.
"Go!" continued Bernhardt, pointing to the door. "Go, and hold your peace! Tell nobody this tale of Karl's escape and who contrived it. Tell no one this tale of the secret marriage in the Chapel Royal. I forbid you to speak. The nation's destinies are in my keeping, not yours."
Von Hügelweiler went to the door, smarting under the lash of the tongue.
"Has the American bewitched you, as he has bewitched Gloria von Schattenberg?" he asked, summoning up a spark of courage before quitting the room.
"Aye," retorted Bernhardt, "he has certain very fascinating qualities. He is a man, Von Hügelweiler. Pray to your God, if you believe in Him, to make you one."
And with an oath on his lips, and wrath and rebellion in his heart, Von Hügelweiler flung himself from the ex-priest's chamber.
The following morning George Trafford awoke from sweet dreams to the pleasant consciousness of hot coffee and crisp rolls. He was still occupying apartments in the Hôtel Concordia, and it was a waiter in that excellent establishment who roused him from the glories of slumberland at the hour of 8.30.
"Good-morning, Rudolf," said Trafford, opening a reluctant eye. "I trust you have not forgotten my honey this morning."
"I have brought the honey, your Excellency; also a letter." Trafford glanced at the handwriting on the envelope.
"Sweeter also than the honey and the honeycomb," he murmured. "A letter from dreamland, Rudolf! Tell me, Rudolf, do waiters dream?"
The man laughed.
"Not often, Excellency. They are too busy by day. Once I dreamed that I was appointed headwaiter at the Concordia."
"Ah! you are ambitious, Rudolf. My dreams are less exalted. I only dreamed that a certaingnadiges fräuleindid more than 'almost' love me; that she even cared for me 'more than the others.' It was not a bad dream, Rudolf," he added, casting his eyes over the missive, "and the letter is not a bad awakening."
"You have read it, Excellency?"
"Yes, it is short and sweet. 'Meet me at the confectioner's at the corner of the Königstrasse and the Etizabethstrasse at eleven.' That is all, but the imagination riots at the choice of rendezvous. A sensuous woman would have chosen a restaurant, an extravagant one a milliner's. Only a sweet one could have thought of a pastrycook's."
"I wish your Excellency joy."
"Thank you, Rudolf; my small change is reposing on the edge of the mantelpiece; kindly select a five-krone piece and drink to my good fortune."
At eleven o'clock Trafford was waiting outside a big corner shop, whose ample windows revealed an alluring wealth of edible magnificence. Hardly had the church clock finished striking when a young woman drew near. The combination of blue veil and Russian sables was one Trafford had seen before, and being in uniform he saluted.
"Come inside," said Gloria.
Trafford followed obediently.
"It's so like you to meet me in a place of this kind," he said.
"We must meet somewhere," she returned, and there was a half-mischievous glint in the eyes that looked back into his eyes as she added:—"after what happened yesterday. It's no good meeting at the Neptunburg—a palace has all the luxuries of an ideal home, except privacy. This is one of the places where I was known in my days of exile, and they will serve us chocolate and éclairs in a private room."
"Do you know I dreamed of you last night," began Trafford, as soon as they were alone in a cosy little room at the back.
"Naturally," she laughed.
"And in my dream you were very kind."
"Again, naturally."
"I mean," said Trafford tentatively, "you loved me 'more than the others.'"
"You are most diverting," she said, smiling.
Trafford winced.
"You are not taking me very seriously?" he asked.
"How can I take anything very seriously? If I did, I should go mad. I am a Queen, and Queens must marry. Custom compels. As an exile I had no difficulty in maintaining my spinsterhood. Now, it is different. If I do not marry you—marry you, mind, not merely go through a marriage form with you—I shall be wedded to some young German or Austrian Princeling, whose standard of manhood is measured by the number of beerseidleshe can empty in an evening."
"I am flattered. And now for a few practical considerations. Supposing you marry me—and like you, I am using the word in its fullest sense—what will be the result? What will the public say?"
"The public will say little, but it will do a good deal," said Gloria grimly. "It is true we are moving in a time of great changes; it is true that for the moment you are a very popular person. But it is also true that I am a Queen and you a commoner, and Grimlanders like their Royalty undiluted. If we proclaimed ourselves man and wife we should be wise to board the Orient express at Gleis, and steam westward to Ostend or eastward to Constantinople."
"And you would really—really object to that course?" asked Trafford a little sadly. "Yesterday afternoon you said, 'If the Queen of Grimland may not wed an American I will no longer be Queen of Grimland.'"
"Ah, but I spoke in a moment of enthusiasm," declared Gloria unblushingly. "I had been oppressed by the nightmare of Karl's supposed assassination. The fact that he had not really been killed, that it was your ready wit that saved him from a cruel end, warmed my heart wonderfully towards you. But if you had your dream last night, so had I. Mine was less sentimental but equally pleasant. In it I saw myself Queen of Grimland, Queen of a whole country, with no district in revolt against me. Karl had been defeated, captured, and exiled. I was the reigning sovereign of a loyal and loving people."
Trafford nodded gravely.
"That is the dream of a Schattenberg," he said. "It is much the same dream that your father dreamed before he fell into the great sleep where there are no dreams. But it is not the dream of the woman I kissed yesterday afternoon in the Chapel Royal of the Neptunburg."
Gloria's eyes fell before his steadfast gaze. Her face softened; it saddened under a wave of emotion—an emotion, the instant expression of which, though easily attributable to her actress-temperament, was nevertheless based on something far deeper.
"I wonder if I am a hard woman," she began, still looking down. "Years of exile, of earning one's living on the variety stage, striving—surely these are not softening influences." She paused for him to add some sympathetic word. Whether he intended to do so or not, he forgot it on meeting the eyes that now were looking him through and through, as she continued: "But I do not unsay what I said yesterday! I really like you, immensely—and perhaps I almost love you."
Trafford took her hand and kissed it rapturously; she almost snatched it away, and there was a ring of steel in the tones that now declared:
"But I have tasted power, and now that the horror of Karl's death is no longer on my conscience, I wish to be the unopposed ruler of my country."
"Even though the process of establishing your rule costs the lives of brave men?"
Again she dropped her eyes—was silenced. She sipped her chocolate. When she spoke, it was quietly and with absolute conviction.
"If I had known what Father Bernhardt told us, that Karl was really a humane man and was absolutely innocent of the Archbishop's death, I don't believe I should have headed a rebellion against him. But—rightly or wrongly—the rebellion has succeeded and the seat of government is mine. To falter now would be to cause more misery and bloodshed than to go on. The people have declared against Karl, and Karl they will not have at any price. If I were to abdicate, some other adventurer would take my place. To withdraw myself from Grimland now would be to leave my friends to the certain reprisals of their enemies."
"Your argument is flawless," acknowledged Trafford. "I amde trop. Ambition, to say nothing of humanity, leaves you but one course. Neither do I complain—though I shall return a disappointed man. You are not heartless, far from it, for yesterday in a moment of golden light I caught a glimpse of a great splendour, the gorgeous harmonies of a woman's heart. The vision has faded, and again I say I do not complain. On the contrary, I thank Providence for the vision of what might have been."
A more prolonged silence followed these words. Trafford busied himself with his éclair, while his companion continued to stir her chocolate, till a veritable whirlpool formed in its opaque depths. At last she looked up.
"Of course, I'm not heartless," she said,—and she smiled as a coquette might smile on being told that her flirtations were dangerous,—"and of course, I like you very much, only you miss the whole gist of my argument. If we announce our marriage now we shall be drummed out of the country. That might suit you, but it doesn't harmonise with the ideals that have been instilled into me from my earliest years. If you accompany me in this projected expedition to Weissheim,—not as my husband, but as my officer,—if you exert your skill and valour on my behalf and help to capture Karl and win me back my old home—the Marienkastel—there is no knowing what the enthusiasm of the Grimlander would not do for you. If we return as conquerers, what more fitting crown to our pageant than the union of the vindicated Queen and her triumphant General?"
Trafford gazed at the mantled cheek and the light of expectancy that shone in her eyes now. Certain words of Saunders' came back, ringing in his ears: "When you really fall in love you will refuse to take 'No' for an answer. In the words of the pre-historic doggerel, you will 'try, try again.'"
"I see," he said, "I have done something, but I have not done enough. I will accompany you to Weissheim—a unit of your force—and I will do my best to serve your cause. What has passed between us is nothing, must make no difference in our relations, is merely the burlesque conclusion of a burlesque compact. I thought I saw the working of Fate in the incensed gloom of the Chapel Royal. The next few weeks will prove me an idle visionary or a true seer." He paused. "Which do you wish me to prove?"
She rose to her feet, opened her sable cloak, and disengaged a pearl brooch from her neck. Bending over him so that her breath swept his cheek, she fastened the trinket to the lapel of his green tunic, and finished his subjugation with a long look into his eyes.
"A true seer," she answered.
Outside the confectioner's Gloria let down her veil again, and turned her steps towards the Neptunburg. Trafford, at her request, took the opposite direction. His habitually fierce features wore a grimmer look than ever,—for his brows were knit and his teeth set,—and there was a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes. He was the prey to a host of indefinable emotions, that worked his turbulent spirit to its most aggressive mood. Disappointment, a tinge of bitterness, coupled with a wild sense of intoxication,—caused by the Princess's last relenting act of grace,—had strung his fine nervous system to a point when it demanded violent action as the only possible relief. Had he been at Harvard he would have kindled a bonfire; had Karl been within a reasonable radius of his activity he would have headed a cutting-out expedition to capture that unhappy monarch. As it was, he walked fast, bending his steps unconsciously towards his hotel. The sky showed a pale blue between the lines of house-tops, for as usual the sun was having its morning duel with the white fog that haunts the streets of Weidenbruck at this period of the year. The sun was winning, too,—as it generally did for an hour or so,—and even causing the huge icicles that hung from the eaves to drip a little at their sharp and glistening extremities. But Trafford noted none of these things.
"I am very ill or very much too well," he said to himself, in diagnosis of his own feverish unrest. "If I were an Elizabethan courtier I should write a sonnet; if I were an ordinary American I should play tennis or golf. Being neither, I am suffering the torments of a wild beast in a small cage; my brain is bursting from enforced inaction. Saunders, who is always right, calls me a madman, and to justify his opinion I shall probably break a shop window in about two minutes."
Whether or no he had the slightest intention of putting his insane threat into execution, he looked behind him to see if he were observed. A couple of men were following a few paces in his rear. To his excited fancy there seemed something sinister about their muffled forms. One carried a thick stick, and both seemed to look on him with eyes of malice.
"As I live, I believe they are going to attack me," he said gleefully to himself. "No," he reflected, "the wish is father to the thought. There is not the slightest reason why they should attack me. They are probably respectable burghers doing a morning's shopping in the Königstrasse."
The original idea, however, fascinated him, and he stopped; the men stopped too. He went on, and the men went on, and a backward glance told him that they were summoning a third person from across the street, and pointing at him as an object either of curiosity or offence. He continued his walk with a wild hope in his heart, and in the course of a hundred yards the hope became a certainty. A small crowd was now dogging his footsteps, and such uncomplimentary references as "traitor," "spy" and "schweinhund" assailed his ears. The situation would have alarmed most men, and would have accorded even "Nervy" Trafford a certain measure of uneasiness under ordinary conditions. But in his present state of psychical unrest the atmosphere of danger had a marvellously relieving effect. The fever went out of his bones, his blood slackened to a normal speed, his brain adjusted itself to meet the crisis. He was still spoiling for a fight, but seething pugnacity had given way to ice-cool combativeness. He walked on without quickening his pace, and though he looked neither to right nor left, he felt instinctively that the numbers of his retinue were swelling fast. The hum of muttered execrations rose to a stronger note, and every yard of his progress brought fresh idlers in his wake. From time to time he passed a policeman, but these were gorgeously uniformed officials whose idea of upholding civic dignity was to adopt a pose of statuesque aloofness to things human and divine.
Presently a piece of frozen snow struck him on the nape of his neck. He swung round in a fury, and as he did so the foremost of the pack struck his shako from his head.
"Von Hügelweiler!" he cried, recognising in his roughly-clad assailant the Captain of the Guard; and quick as thought he planted a sledge-hammer blow full in his rival's face. The Captain staggered and fell, and profiting by the diversion, Trafford crossed the wide street and plunged into a narrow alley. He was running now, doubling in and out of the congested slums that formed this quarter of the town: and if there was no fear in his heart, there was a growing appreciation of the fact that his life was in danger, and that a single-handed contest with an infuriated mob was an unsatisfactory way of working off superfluous energy. For a space he threaded his rapid way through the winding alleys round the Goose-market, but the hue and cry was strong, and the neighbourhood seemed momentarily more fit for deeds of violence.
But Trafford had not lost his head, and there was a motive in his flight that was born of quick thought and prospective vengeance rather than panic fear. At the door of a certain wine-shop he halted breathless; a backward glance showed his nearest pursuer fifty yards distant.
"Herr Krantz!" he called, bursting into the brasserie.
"Mein Herr?"
"Do you recognise me?"
The man surveyed him coolly.
"I never forget a face, Excellency," he answered.
"Good!" said Trafford. "And are you still loyal to the good Queen Gloria?"
The man nodded as if the question was unnecessary.
"Then you will help me," said Trafford; "I am being attacked by her enemies."
Hardly had he spoken when a wild-looking man entered the shop with upraised bludgeon and a cry of "Traitor!" Trafford picked up a convenient beer-can and floored the intruder with a well-directed blow.
"Close the door and shut the shutters!" called out Trafford, drawing his sword and holding at bay a couple of ruffians who had outrun the main body of his pursuers.
There was little time to spare, but there were one or two early customers of Herr Krantz, who lent instant and unquestioning aid. These helped Trafford told the narrow street till the landlord had set his oaken shutters in front of the glass shop-front. Then, as the increasing pressure threatened to overwhelm them, they darted into the shop, banged the door, and shot the massive bolts. A rattle of blows resounded on the woodwork, and a chorus of fierce cries came in strident chorus from the crowded lane. Krantz switched up the electric light to relieve the darkness.
"I will telephone for the police," he said.
"No," said Trafford, who did not share his host's confidence in the Weidenbruck constabulary. "Ring up the Palace."
Krantz retired to the telephone in the inner room, and the hammering on door and shutters went on with redoubled violence.
"What is it that they want?" asked the inmates of the shop of Trafford.
"Me," replied the latter.
"Why?"
Trafford had but the vaguest idea, but he answered boldly:
"Because I am the Queen's friend."
"I have given a message that you are here and in danger," said Herr Krantz, returning.
"Thanks. Are your shutters sound?"
"I believe so, Excellency."
"I am glad to hear it. I think we should be well advised to go to an upper window and survey the prospect."
Krantz assented, and led the way up a dark and narrow stair to a room on the first floor. Opening the double windows, Trafford surveyed a scene of many heads; the confined thoroughfare was literally crammed with a sea of human beings. All were shouting, and those whose position enabled them to do so were banging against the defences with sticks and fists.
"I trust Herr Krantz's shutters are as sound as he thinks," he muttered looking down on the surging mass of his enemies. "What an excitable folk these good Weidenbruckers are! I suppose that cross-grained beast, Von Hügelweiler, has been concocting some evil tale about me, and is egging them on to pull me to pieces in revenge for his defeat on the Rundsee. But he finds me in good fighting trim, and I will follow up that blow on the nose with other attentions if I get half a chance."
He craned his head sideways, to take full stock of his adversaries, and as he did so it came into contact with a huge icicle, one of the many that hung like gigantic dragon's teeth from the over-hanging eaves. The slight shock to his cranium instilled a fresh idea.
"Have you any snow on your roof, Herr Krantz?" he asked, drawing back into the room.
"The pitch is steep and throws off the snow, Excellency, but there may be a hundredweight or two."
"And can we get on to the roof?"
"If you will."
"We might create a diversion," pursued Trafford. "A little snow distributed scientifically on the heads of these good people might have a wonderfully cooling effect on their heated tempers."
Krantz doubted the wisdom of further infuriating the mob, but Trafford's enthusiasm was infectious, and he won his way.
A steep ladder and a trap-door gave access to the tiled roof. A shovel was procured, and in a few seconds a small avalanche was dislodged on to the more aggressive bombarders of the oak shutters. The effect was excellent, and a desire to edge away from the immediate proximity of the wine-shop manifested itself. Trafford, however, was seen, and his image served to increase the streperous chorus of execration below. He replied with a mocking bow and a shovel-full of snow tossed lightly into the middle of the throng. For the moment he held the advantage: curses were met with jeers; threats with a polite obeisance; any symptom of action was countered with a swift reprisal of hurtling snow. But the situation was not allowed to remain definitely favourable. Among the crowd was someone with an intelligent brain as well as an excitable nature. Von Hügelweiler at this time was as full of the sentiment of human hate as an insulted and disappointed egotist could be. The blow he had received had been the last straw. A bullet in his breast or a sword through his arm would not have burned with such a fire of shame as the crude, coarse shock of his rival's fist. All sense of proportion, all notion of justice, let alone mercy, had long ago been swamped by the bitter tide of maddening disappointment which poisoned his best instincts. And now the lust of vengeance,—baulked for the moment by his enemy's resource,—led him to do rather a clever thing. There was a small fire-station hard by Krantz's brasserie, and this, with the assistance of his chosen followers, Von Hügelweiler raided. A few minutes later, helmet on head and axe in hand, he and some half-dozen desperadoes returned hopefully to the attack.
As the first axe-blow crashed into the oaken woodwork, Trafford sent a mass of snow on to the assailant. The man shook under the weight, but his helmet protected him, and he went on with his work undeterred.
In vain Trafford and his companions shovelled their crystalline ammunition on to the heads and shoulders of their attackers; they delayed the work of irruption, but delayed it immaterially. It was the crowd's turn to jeer now, for the axes were playing havoc with the stout shutters, and it seemed a matter of minutes only before oak yielded to steel, and the inevitable rush of furious humanity flooded the beer-house.
"We are undone," said one of Trafford's companions; "we must try and escape over the roofs."
"One moment," said Trafford, sprawling at full length on the tiles, his head hanging over the eaves. "Herr Krantz, sit on my legs."
The proprietor, a man of weight, did as he was bid.
With the hilt of his sword Trafford banged at the base of one of the huge icicles that fringed the overhanging cornice. At the third blow it parted—four feet of glistening ice pointed to dagger fineness descended like a javelin on to the back of one of the storming party. The man fell without a sound. A snarl, half horror and half rage, burst from the crowd. His comrades raised his limp and lifeless body from the snow, and bore it from the danger zone.
"Forward again!" cried Von Hügelweiler, furiously rushing against the shop and burying his hatchet in the splintering shutter.
But Trafford was busy dislodging another icicle of even more formidable dimensions, and when that was used there were a score of others. The men drew back; one traitor's life was not worth the risk, and Von Hügelweiler, finding himself unsupported, withdrew too.
Whether caution would have prevailed, or whether the spirited harangue which Von Hügelweiler now addressed to his followers would have had its effect, can never be known. A diversion, more serious than hurtling snow or crashing icicle, occurred to change men's moods. A troop of horse, cuirassed, high-booted, armed with naked swords, was making its slow but irresistible way down the congested thoroughfare; and in the midst, with black slouch hat and sable uniform, rode the grimly smiling person of Father Bernhardt. A cheer greeted him, for his errand was unknown, and he might have come, for all they knew, to help in taking the traitor. If that was their idea, however, they were soon undeceived. The ex-priest's quick eye detected Von Hügelweiler, and the latter, reading its sinister message, commenced a hasty retreat.
"Two hundred kronen to the man who brings me Von Hügelweiler, dead or alive!" called out Bernhardt.
There was a movement in the crowd, and in it the late Captain of the Guard was lost to view.
"Good-morning, Father Bernhardt!" cried Trafford from the roof. "You arrive at an opportune moment; her Majesty's lieges were getting troublesome. At first I contented myself with snow-balling them, but they turned nasty and I had to despatch an icicle. I am afraid one liege was rather hurt."
Bernhardt's smile widened as he took in the situation.
"A pity it wasn't Von Hügelweiler," he said. "But you'd better let me escort you to your rooms. For the moment you seem to have fallen out of favour with the plebs."
"I fear so," replied the American, "and had it not been for good Herr Krantz, I might have fared badly at the hands of these gentlemen."
"Herr Krantz shall be rewarded," said Bernhardt. "His loyalty is well known and appreciated in the highest quarter. And as for these 'gentlemen,' as you call them," he went on, turning to the mob, "I've a good mind to give them an experience of a cavalry charge in a narrow lane."
The suggestion was taken literally by the mob, and something of a panic began in the neighbourhood of the steel-clad troopers. But Bernhardt checked the movement with a quick shout.
"Stop, you fools!" he cried, rising in his stirrups and letting his great voice ring out. "Stop, and listen to me before you go about your business—or your idling! What do you mean by this breach of the peace? Has there not been trouble enough in the city of late? Are you men or wolves, that you hunt a man through the streets, and pull down the doorway of a peaceful citizen?"
"He is a traitor!" cried one. "He freed Karl!" cried another, and a babel of tongues broke out in an eager flood of accusation.
For a moment Bernhardt let them speak. Then he raised his hand and won instant silence.
"He is not a traitor," he said with slow emphasis. "He rescued me from the Strafeburg. Was that the act of a traitor? Had it not been for this brave and resourceful American I should now be rotting in a dungeon, and you still beneath the yoke of Karl. It is true that Karl has fled to Weissheim, but that was a mistake due to no fault of Trafford's. And the fault, whosoever's it was, he will undo, for he accompanies me to Weissheim, sworn to win back the Marienkastel from the Queen's enemies."
The quiet force of his words carried conviction to his hearers. They feared the grim, black figure as a pack of dogs fears its master, but there was a certain canine affection in their debased regard. Bernhardt was a superior being, one whose word was law. They heard and believed, and even began to feel self-reproachful.
"For shame on you, men of Weidenbruck!" went on the ex-priest in upraised tones. "Shame on you, I say, compassing harm against the man who delivered you from tyranny! This loyal friend of mine, whose courage and craft you have just experienced to your own hurt, joins an expedition to Weissheim as my right-hand man. A foreigner, he endures hardships and dangers for your sake and that of your noble young Queen. 'Traitor,' you called him! Hero and liberator would be better titles, I think, for such as he. With his help there is no fear but that we shall capture Weissheim from our enemies, and bring back Karl a prisoner to the capital. What reward will you have then for Trafford, the deliverer? Will you hunt him through your streets like a mad dog? Or will you strew garlands in his path, acclaim him from your housetops—aye, and give him the highest in your land to wife!"
Assuredly if the power of words is a wonderful thing, the power of personality is infinitely greater. Bernhardt had spoken with a certain ready eloquence, a certain skill of pleading in his client's cause; but another might have spoken with twice his skill and twice his oratory, and have failed completely. It was not that he followed the temper of the mob and adapted himself to their moods; rather, he made their moods for them, and used them to his own sweet will. When he reasoned they followed and were convinced, when he lashed they cringed, when he reproached they suffered agonies of shame; and at the end he raised their enthusiasm for the object of their late malice, with the ease of a consummate master of men, and his last question was met with a ringing cry of "Long live the American! Long live Gloria of Grimland!" The ex-priest's smile was more of a sneer than anything—so cheap did he hold his triumph over the flaccid minds of the shifty horde; but his eye wandered to the roof where Trafford stood, shovel in hand, cheering himself and his secretly-married wife.
"We will escort you to your hotel," Bernhardt called out.
"It is not necessary," replied the American. "Bernhardt the Magician has effected my metamorphosis—he has changed me from a fox to a lion."