CHAPTER IX
Allthrough the night the storm raged. The air grew warm and murky, and thunder and lightning roared and flashed. The river, swollen by other streams, overflowed its banks, and flooded all of the old part of the town where the King’s headquarters were. St. Arnaud had been brought from the observatory in a boat, and had got drenched to the bone in the process. There was no possibility at that hour, between two and three in the morning, of St. Arnaud and Gavin getting back to their own quarters. Supplied with dry clothes by the officers of the King’s military family, and given a room with a bed and a sofa in it, they threw themselves down, still dressed, to sleep. Gavin, with the readiness of a child to go to sleep, dropped into a deep slumber within two minutes. St. Arnaud, much fatigued, yet found himself kept awake by the commotion of the storm. Great peals of deafening thunder shook the house; the wind, blowing frightfully hard, rattled the windowsuntil it sounded like a continuous discharge of musketry. The surging of the waters could be heard only at intervals, while torrents of rain descended. St. Arnaud, weary, but quite unable to sleep, rose, and went to the window. The blackness of darkness encompassed everything except for the lightning flashes, which zigzagged across the inky sky, showing the whole dreadful scene. The streets were altogether submerged, and both sentry boxes had floated away. Trees were twisted off and sent scurrying along the raging waters; some bodies of drowned animals floated by.
In the gleam of the lightning St. Arnaud saw that all the houses in the neighbourhood were lighted up and the people astir. In the house in which he was no one slept except Gavin. St. Arnaud heard officers moving about, prepared, in case of a catastrophe, which was far from improbable.
As the wild sky turned from black to a pallid gray, without any abatement of the storm, St. Arnaud saw all the destruction it had wrought. Opposite him was a house with far-projecting eaves. The wind, which had lulled somewhat, suddenly rose to a gust, and the roof went skyward with a crash of breaking timbers. A cry frominvisible sources rent the air, as, at a window, in the roofless house, appeared a man, half dressed. The house shook and tottered, the walls seeming about to fall in. The man, a young fellow, evidently a workman, coolly prepared to spring into the water. He leaped none too soon. The walls, weakened by the floods and the tearing away of the roof, cracked inward as he struck the water. He was evidently no swimmer, but with great self-possession floated flat on his back. A dozen persons appeared at the neighbouring windows, ready to assist him; but, carried by the flood, he was floating straight for a little balcony on which the window of St. Arnaud’s room opened. St. Arnaud stepped out promptly, to catch him as he passed; but to his surprise looked up, and Gavin was beside him.
“That infernal racket waked me at last,” he said.
Both of them sat astride the balustrade in order to catch the man still floating straight toward them. He reached Gavin first, who, leaning forward, with his long, muscular arms outstretched, caught him firmly, and proceeded to drag him on to the balcony by main force. In some way, however, Gavin lost his balance, and if St. Arnaud had notcome to the rescue would have gone over himself. As it was, he could do little toward helping St. Arnaud to drag the workman on to the balcony; and as soon as it was accomplished he limped inside the open window. Half a dozen officers, among them the King’s surgeon, were then in the room to assist the workman, who had suffered nothing worse than a wetting, and to ask if there were any persons in the house when it collapsed. There were none, and a servant was directed to take the man below and give him some dry clothes. While this was going on no one noticed Gavin, who sat on a chair, nursing his leg. When they turned to him, however, he was slipping off his chair, and the next instant he lay in a heap on the floor, in a dead faint.
The King’s surgeon was down on his knees in a moment, trying to bring Gavin to, while his clothes were unloosed by St. Arnaud. In a few minutes he recovered, only to groan with pain. His leg was badly wrenched, and when the surgeon examined it, he horrified both Gavin and St. Arnaud by saying:
“You have a bad sprain, and you will not be able to move to-day or to-morrow, or for a good many days to come.”
And too true it proved.
With daylight came an abatement of the storm, but an increase of the flood. There had been many casualties, and as long as the flood lasted there was great danger. The King, who had not slept since he left the observatory, was active in taking measures of safety for the soldiers and citizens; but he did not forget to have Gavin and St. Arnaud made comfortable. He expressed much sympathy for Gavin’s misfortune, inquired how they were lodged, ordered two communicating rooms to be given to them, and desired them to ask for anything they wished.
Their position, however, was highly uncomfortable. Gavin proved the worst of patients from the beginning. He was fretful and irritable, impatient of pain, and made himself much worse by his wilfulness and childishness. St. Arnaud, whom he adored, was the chief victim of his wrath. Nothing could exceed St. Arnaud’s kindness and unflagging attention, but it was helpless to soothe Gavin. When St. Arnaud was present, everything he said and did was wrong. When he was absent for a few moments, he was met with a storm of reproaches on his return. He bore it all with smiling patience; but when once he could not refrainfrom laughing, Gavin threw himself about so, in his agony of impatience, that even St. Arnaud was a little frightened.
On the evening of the day of the accident, the King sent word that he would come, after he had supped, and see Lieutenant Hamilton. St. Arnaud proceeded to make him ready. He lay on a sofa, his unlucky leg on a chair. He growled and grumbled when St. Arnaud, with the tenderness and dexterity of a woman, made him presentable for the King. As St. Arnaud brushed Gavin’s dark hair, which he had let grow in ringlets since he had become an officer, Gavin snapped out:
“I did not curry my horse so hard when I was a private soldier.”
“Perhaps not,” replied St. Arnaud coolly; “but you must remember I am not used to currying horses—I have had no instruction in that line.”
Gavin remained silent, but only slightly ashamed.
St. Arnaud had a real fear that Gavin would not behave himself properly on the occasion of the King’s visit; but he had not altogether given the complete rein to folly.
About eight o’clock, the King, entirely unattended,entered. Frederick of Prussia had a passion for men ofesprit, and at this period of his career, having lost much of his taste for the other amusements of life, he grew more fond of the society of brilliant and polished men than ever before. Especially was this true concerning Frenchmen, who had for him a peculiar charm; and St. Arnaud, on the two occasions they had met, had afforded him extreme entertainment. On St. Arnaud’s part, he perfectly understood how far he stood in the King’s good graces. A knowledge of courts had given him a just appreciation of this sort of favour from princes; he did not delude himself with the idea that it meant a solid regard, and he despised the understandings of those who take the chance liking of monarchs for more than what it is. He maintained, therefore, with Frederick an attitude of easy, but respectful independence, which gave their intercourse enough of equality to be agreeable. As for Gavin, Frederick only remembered him as a spirited but rather awkward boy; however, Gavin’s threat to throw him into the water if he spoke disrespectfully of the Empress Queen had diverted him extremely, and to divert the King of Prussia once was a guarantee of being expected to do it again.
Gavin, who was lying on the sofa with his leg on a chair, endeavoured to rise, as St. Arnaud did, when the King entered; but Frederick good-naturedly ordered him to keep still.
“I shall not take advantage of your helplessness to speak disrespectfully of the Empress Queen,” he said, laughing; and motioning St. Arnaud to be seated, drew a chair up to the fire.
“The fact is,” he continued, with a slight laugh, as musical as his delightful voice, “I never speak disrespectfully of her Majesty. It has been my misfortune to be much disliked by two ladies—the Czarina of Russia and the Empress Queen—and, consequently, I have led a bad life of it for several years. These two ladies, between them, and with the assistance of the Dauphiness of France, have leagued against me populations amounting to a hundred millions of souls. There are not five millions of Prussians; but we have tried to give a good account of ourselves.”
“And your Majesty has certainly done so,” replied St. Arnaud. “Luckily for us, your Majesty does not command everywhere.”
“No; and I have Winterfeld no longer.”
St. Arnaud had perfect control of his countenance, and it was design, and not inadvertencewhich made him, at the mention of Winterfeld, fix his clear eyes upon Frederick’s, equally clear, and piercing in their power of expression. He remembered that General Winterfeld, who had been called the King’s only friend, had lost his life at the beginning of the Prince of Bevern’s unfortunate campaign, and it had been said that Frederick held Bevern’s faulty arrangements partly accountable for Winterfeld’s death.
After a pause, St. Arnaud spoke:
“General Winterfeld was under the command of the Prince of Bevern, to whom I am indebted for the opportunity of seeing your Majesty at this time.”
A smile, faint but full of meaning and not altogether pleasant, appeared in the comers of Frederick’s mouth and shone in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, tapping his breast. “I have Bevern’s letter here. I have read it attentively. Be sure you tell him that.”
“And permit me, sire, to say, that I apprehend I shall have no other reply to take the Prince of Bevern when I return.”
“You are a good diplomatist, Captain St. Arnaud. You know my meaning, without plaguing me with questions.”
“Thanks, sire; and as far as my errand goes I might leave to-morrow morning. But this young gentleman will not be able to move for a week at least, so the surgeon says.”
“And there is not a bridge standing within fifty miles, I hear. So make yourself satisfied, and exchange winter quarters at Breslau for winter quarters at Vienna for a little while. You will not find it gay. Last month, my sister, the Princess Amelia, was here, and there were some balls and concerts; but as the time for taking the field approaches there is work to be done. I have been wretchedly ill, and do not think I shall be well until spring opens, and I again sleep in a tent with the flap open.”
“Beating us evidently does not agree with your Majesty’s health.”
“Ah, well! This year—who knows? But, as you are a well-informed man, can you tell me of any campaign of ancient or modern times in which there have been such vast vicissitudes as in the last eight months?”
“Indeed, I cannot, your Majesty. The French and Austrians have alternated aTe Deumwith aDe profundisever since this year’s leaves appeared on the trees.”
“So have I. Those two ladies I spoke of in Austria and Russia have given me no peace at all, nor do they seem likely to. I hear the Empress Queen has horsed her artillery from the imperial stables. We are quits, for I have melted up mountains of useless silver knick-knacks at my unused palaces for money for my pay chest. You see, I am frank—the wiseacres say I am too free in my talk—but I take it, that the world notes my determination to maintain my kingdom the better only for seeing how ready I am to sacrifice for my army the baubles which most kings cherish far beyond their value.”
“True, sire, her Majesty made no secret of it when she ordered the doors of the imperial stables to be thrown wide, and Field-Marshal Daun to take the best of all he saw.”
During this talk Gavin had listened with all his ears. The reflection came to him with great force, “How much more is there in personality than in words! Everything said by this great man, no matter how much it resembles the language of other men, has a deeper significance. His beautiful and eloquent eyes and his strangely musical voice make even his most ordinary conversation memorable.” And for once Gavin was willing toremain silent and a listener; so, too, was St. Arnaud; but Frederick was an admirable talker in two senses—he listened as gracefully as he talked, and his pleasure in being entertained was as strong as his pleasure in entertaining. He led St. Arnaud to speak of the French court. St. Arnaud, who had infinite tact, managed to describe it without touching on the ugly side of it—the scandals, the corruption, the weakness of the King, and the ascendancy of Madame de Pompadour. He did not once mention the favourite’s name; but when a pause in the conversation came, Frederick said suddenly:
“And how about Madame de Pompadour?”
“I thought, sire,” responded St. Arnaud, “that you did not know of her existence. At least, M. Voltaire says when he gave you Madame de Pompadour’s regards, you said, ‘I don’t know her.’”
Frederick looked gravely into St. Arnaud’s eyes, and then they both burst out laughing, and Frederick said:
“You should have seen M. Voltaire’s face before and after I made my remark. Harlequin in the show did not change so rapidly. I think that lady does not like me, either; and as for your Dauphiness—well, I am truly unfortunate in beingso unpopular with the fair sex. I have done nothing to deserve it. Had they but allowed me to remain in peace! For peace is my dream, let me tell you. A man must have his dreams; who should know that better than I, whose early life was all spent in dreams? Even now I am fighting to conquer a peace.”
“So say all great captains, sire.”
“True; but most great captains have ulterior views. I have already all I want in this life—the throne of Prussia—if only those ladies I spoke of would let me enjoy it in quietness.”
“And the Empress Queen bewails daily that she, too, must ever be at war. If only she and the Emperor could have a little time to enjoy their heritage! The Empress Queen takes great interest in guns both great and small. Prince Leuchtenberg, who is the head of our artillery, often comes to the palace with his books and portfolios of drawings, and her Majesty says, ‘Such beautiful guns are too good to be used in killing the poor soldiers of the King of Prussia.’”
“But they are probably not too good to be used in killing the King of Prussia. Eh?”
“I do not think, sire, that her Majesty counts you among her favourites, or contemplates leavingyou any part of her private fortune, or even money to buy a mourning ring.”
“She hates me like the devil. However, speaking of those guns, the Austrian artillery is as good as any in the world, my own not excepted. You did not invent the iron rammers and ramrods, but as soon as the Prince of Dessau contrived them you adopted them. Men have never ceased to labour diligently at the task of inventing implements with which to destroy men.”
“And never will, sire.”
“Let us be thankful that a part of their energy is put into efforts to save life. I have cause to be grateful for that, because but for the new discovery of the Jesuits’ bark, I would have died of fever this winter. Even the Empress Queen would have pitied me if she had seen me in my paroxysms of burning fever and shivering cold. The Jesuits’ bark, though, has helped me.”
The conversation continued for hours. St. Arnaud seemed to exercise a charmed spell over Frederick, and when he laughingly owned up to a weakness for making verses, Frederick cried out with delight:
“Now have I found a man who can both fight and write. Nature had not made up her mindwhether I should be a soldier or a poet or a musician when she thrust me into this world. Fate decided the question for her, but Nature will still be heard. I have made bushels of verses this last autumn, in spite of Rosbach and Leuthen. And my flute is always in my pocket, though not often at my mouth.”
Gavin could remain silent no longer. He cried out:
“And, your Majesty, St. Arnaud still plays the harpsichord. Don’t you remember the night you took us prisoners how beautifully he played and sang too?”
Frederick, who was in high good humour, laughed extremely at this, exchanging significant glances with St. Arnaud, who said:
“Pray, pardon him, sire. He has not much experience with sovereigns.”
“That’s true,” responded Gavin; “but then, your Majesty, when one has had a man’s hand on his coat collar, and has been dragged through broken glass, as I was by you, it makes one feel well acquainted with that man, even if he be a king.”
An aide-de-camp, walking up and down the corridor outside the door, stopped another youngofficer, going in an opposite direction, whispering:
“Do you hear the King laughing in there with those two French officers? Did ever you hear him so free and merry withus?”
“Never.”
“And did ever you hear him praise any of his own generals as he is always praising the French and Austrian generals?”
“Yes; he praised Winterfeld after he was dead.”
“They have brought a letter from the Prince of Bevern, about his exchange. Do you think the King will lift his finger for Bevern?”
“As well expect water to run up hill. This King of ours is rightly called Great, but he has ever regarded misfortune as a crime. So, therefore, let us always be lucky, and we shall be rewarded.”
The officer passed on, laughing. Just then St. Arnaud, opening the door of their room, respectfully ushered the King out, who was saying:
“Remember, the first clear night we go to the observatory together.” The young aide, standing rigidly at attention, saluted the King, who passed on without seeing him.
Several days went by, that seemed a nightmare for Gavin, and a strange but not unpleasant dream to St. Arnaud. Gavin’s injury, which was really trifling, was aggravated by his impatience. He persisted in trying to walk about his room, in spite of the surgeon’s prohibition, and at the end of the week was but little better off than he had been at the beginning. St. Arnaud had his hands full in trying to take care of him, and every evening he spent with the King. Frederick, to ensure freedom from disturbance, would go to St. Arnaud’s room. A harpsichord had been placed there, and often the sound of the harpsichord and flute would float out. There had been no visits for several nights to the observatory, as the wind and rain storms had been succeeded by heavy snows. St. Arnaud had completely fascinated Frederick, who was always singularly susceptible to the charm of conversation. It was impossible for any one to resist Frederick’s own powers to please when he exerted himself, and St. Arnaud found himself falling more and more under the spell of a great and comprehensive mind, like that of the King of Prussia.
Within ten days, though, in spite of doing many things to retard his recovery, Gavin’s leggrew so much better that St. Arnaud said to the King:
“Sire, Lieutenant Hamilton is now in condition to travel, and it is our duty to return, especially out of consideration to the Prince of Bevern.”
“Do not trouble yourself about Bevern. The roads are not yet in condition to travel. You will be delayed on the way. Why not remain here? Besides, to-night will be clear, and we must have another night at the telescope.”
Two days passed before St. Arnaud again mentioned it to the King. Both nights had been spent in the observatory.
“Sire,” he said, “I cannot any longer restrain the impatience of Lieutenant Hamilton. He is anxious to return to Vienna, and, as you know, he is very rash and inexperienced; I cannot answer for what he may say or do if he does not return at once.”
“Send him to me.”
Gavin, for the first time walking without a stick, went into the King’s room. It was evening, and the King stood before a large fire.
“So you will not wait until the surgeons say your leg is well enough for you to travel?”
“Sire, my leg is quite well enough to travel.”
“A few days more of rest would be better for it. Your friend, Captain St. Arnaud, is not so eager to leave you as you are.”
“Oh, your Majesty, if you talked to me as you do to St. Arnaud, I would be willing to stay, too. But I know that I am not so well worth talking to—I am not accomplished, and do not know the world and the people in it as St. Arnaud does—and, besides, I have a mother at Vienna that I had not seen for a long time until a few weeks ago.”
Frederick could not forbear smiling at Gavin’snaïveté.
“Very well,” he said; “wait but two days more in patience; the moon is at the full, and I desire to study it with St. Arnaud, and by that time it will be possible for you to start.”
The two days brought very great improvement to Gavin’s leg. He walked about the streets, threw away his stick, packed up such belongings as he had brought with him, and announced his readiness to start at any moment. All of the second day they had expected a message from the King saying horses were at their disposal for their travelling chaise; but the only message they got from him was, that, when supper was over, hewould have a little concert in his own apartments, to which St. Arnaud and Gavin were asked.
“We must go. It is now too late in the day to take the road,” said St. Arnaud.
Gavin, choking with rage and disappointment, said no word. St. Arnaud began to make a careful toilet, while Gavin sullenly watched him. To St. Arnaud’s laughing remark, that royal invitations must always be accepted, Gavin only replied:
“The King will not know whether I am there or not.”
Seeing he was in a dangerously bad humour, St. Arnaud said nothing more and left the room. As soon as he was gone Gavin sat down to the writing-table and dashed off a letter to him.
“You have just left the room for the King’s apartment as I write this. That man has bewitched you. You will not leave this place for a week yet. I cannot stand it another day. I am gone. You will find me at Vienna when you arrive, which I believe will not be until the campaign actually opens, and the King is obliged to send you away. G. H.”
“You have just left the room for the King’s apartment as I write this. That man has bewitched you. You will not leave this place for a week yet. I cannot stand it another day. I am gone. You will find me at Vienna when you arrive, which I believe will not be until the campaign actually opens, and the King is obliged to send you away. G. H.”
Having written this in much haste and fury, Gavin put together his money and papers, includingFrederick’s memorandum concerning their conversation in the flooded garden, stowing them in his breast pocket, and, wrapping his cloak around him, walked downstairs; and watching the moment when the sentry’s back was turned, slipped out of the door and into a side street.
It was already late in the evening, and the city was poorly lighted, which was favourable to his designs. He walked toward the more thinly settled quarters of the town, following the course of the river. He had no plan in his mind, and was simply yielding to a wild impulse. Not until his eye fell upon a number of boats moored near a boat-house under a bridge did a connected idea of the best mode of getting out of Breslau present itself to him. He stepped into a boat, picked up the oars, and pulled rapidly with the stream. It was quite dark, and he could only faintly discern the straggling buildings on the shore and an occasional figure flitting past in the gloom of evening. He knew nothing of the town, but felt sure that at some point the river was watched and defended. In a little while he came to that point—a bridge, near which fortifications loomed, and on which the steady tramp of a sentry’s feet could be heard.
Watching until the sentry was near the end of the bridge, Gavin, with a few swift strokes, found himself in darkness under the arches. There he waited until the sentry again left the middle of the bridge, and some minutes more of hard pulling carried the boat a considerable distance down the stream. Gavin, pulling away with the greatest energy, congratulated himself on the ease with which he had got out of Breslau.
“As soon as I am quite clear of the outposts,” he thought, “I will go ashore, and make straight for the nearest military post where they do not have to report at Vienna, and with my papers and my uniform I can easily get a safe-conduct through the Prussian lines. And how cheap will St. Arnaud feel when I arrive at Vienna a week ahead of him!”
Inspired with these agreeable ideas, Gavin tugged valiantly at his oars, and being heated with the exercise, took off his coat; his cloak already lay in the bottom of the boat.
Having pulled for nearly two hours, he found himself far in the open country. The moon was then rising, and by its light he saw a smooth, wide road, leading down to a landing-place. Concluding this to be a good place to disembark, he rowedashore, put on his coat and cloak, and took the road.
He had not travelled more than two miles when he struck the highway to Breslau. He remembered various landmarks at that point, and discovered to his joy that he was quite eight miles from the city gates.
Trudging along cheerfully in the moonlight, away from Breslau, he heard behind him a clatter of hoofs. Ten or twelve troopers, with a non-commissioned officer riding at their head, were coming rapidly down the road. Involuntarily, Gavin started to conceal himself in the hedge by the roadside; but the troopers were too quick for him. One of them saw him, galloped toward him, and, seizing him by the collar, held him until the sergeant rode up.
Gavin made no effort to escape, and, in truth, was rather glad to be caught, and said promptly to the sergeant, a coarse, brutal-looking fellow:
“I am Lieutenant Hamilton, of the First Austrian Hussar Regiment. I have been to Breslau with a flag of truce with a companion, Captain St. Arnaud, of General Loudon’s corps; but being impatient to return to Vienna, I quietly walked away this evening, and if youcan help me on my way, I shall be infinitely obliged.”
“I see you wear the uniform of an Austrian officer, but what have you got to prove the remarkable tale you are telling us?” replied the sergeant gruffly.
Gavin put his hand in his breast pocket. It was quite empty.
“My papers!” he cried. “My papers and money—they are all lost! I must have left them in the boat.”
“Come along with us,” said the sergeant. “I have to report to my captain, who is ten miles off. I believe you are a spy, and woe befall you if my captain thinks so, too; for he had a brother strung up as a spy by you Austrians last year, and he has sworn that an Austrian officer shall swing for it.” Then, to a trooper:
“Dismount, and get a horse from the farmhouse over there and follow us.”
The trooper dismounted, and Gavin, obeying a signal, got into the saddle, and in another minute he was trotting briskly down the road with the party.
Gavin had scarcely heard the word spy, he was so distressed and disheartened by the loss of hismoney and papers. The sergeant, who rode by his side, asked him no questions, and in perfect silence they traversed the road rapidly by the light of a brilliant moon.
It was quite midnight before they halted at a little village, and, riding up to one of the chief houses, dismounted. Gavin was at once ushered into the presence of the commanding officer, Captain Dreisel, an ill-looking man, whose appearance was not improved by a dirty nightcap over a frowzy wig.
The sergeant, who was by nature a lover of sensations, coolly announced that he had captured a spy. Gavin, who had paid no attention to the man, received a sudden and terrible shock when Dreisel said, in the coolest manner in the world:
“You must disprove what this man says, or you will be hanged as a spy in twenty-four hours.”
“But I am in my uniform as sublieutenant of General Loudon’s hussars! I am a prisoner of war.”
“So was my brother,” replied Dreisel, coolly lighting a huge pipe. “Nevertheless, the Austrians hanged him. They made a thousand explanations afterward, alleged that it was an infernal mistake, and all that, and punished everybodyconnected with the affair; but it could not bring my brother back. And, besides, you may have stolen that uniform. At all events, I have three sublieutenants here, and we will settle the matter for you after breakfast to-morrow morning, without troubling headquarters with it. Meanwhile, I am going to bed. Sergeant, watch this man;” and Dreisel sauntered into the next room.
The sergeant, leaving a couple of soldiers on guard, went out, and Gavin sat down on a bench before the stove to rest, for he did not think he could sleep. He was very hungry, and asking the soldier who walked up and down outside the room door if anything to eat was to be had, the man pointed to a cupboard. Out of it Gavin got some bread and cheese, and then, lying down on the bench, proceeded to sum up the situation, with the result that he considered his chances for being hanged within the next twenty-four hours about as certain as they well could be. But although this was his deliberate and reasonable conclusion, it by no means followed that he actually believed he was going to be hanged. On the contrary, it seemed altogether an impossibility, and the conditions surrounding him appeared to him more unrealthan the wildest dream he ever had in his life. He pinched himself to find whether he was awake. The last time he had eaten, before getting the bread and cheese out of the cupboard, had been at the King’s headquarters in Breslau. He noted that the bread and cheese had no flavour to it; he only knew that he was eating by the looks, not the taste. Yet, it must be something portentous that could make him feel so strangely, and then he recalled all the circumstances, which led him to believe that he had fallen into the hands of a vengeful and desperate man, and something very like a promise had been made him that he would be hanged within twenty-four hours; and going over and over the whole puzzling business, he suddenly fell asleep, his dark, boyish head resting on his arm against the wall.
At daylight he was awake in the same strange mental state. The soldiers who guarded him were amazed at his coolness, but it was really the insensibility of a person too dazed and astounded to think or even feel, to a great degree. He was given a good breakfast, which he ate with appetite; but he might have been eating shavings, as far as his palate went. It annoyed him the way the soldiers and the guard looked at him. Therewas something pitying in their glance, as if they expected him to be hanged—an idea so ridiculous to Gavin that he could have laughed aloud at it. Yet it did not seem ridiculous to them, and that was both strange and disagreeable. Altogether, it was the most unpleasant morning of his life. He was left to himself all the forenoon, but soon after the captain’s midday dinner he was summoned to appear in another room. Seated at the head of the table was Captain Dreisel. One look at his determined and savage countenance showed Gavin that he could not appear before a worse judge. Chance had thrown a victim in this man’s way—a man looking for a victim. It was enough.
Three sublieutenants were seated also at the table, to give it something the appearance of a court martial. They were all young and beardless fellows, and what impressed Gavin as much as anything else was the distress and agitation visible upon the countenances of these young subalterns. They looked anxiously at one another, and it was plain that the work before them was not to their liking.
Gavin, after saluting, was given a chair and seated himself. Never in his life had his soul been in such a tumult as at that moment; yet never hadhe been outwardly more calm or more entirely in possession of his senses, which presently returned to him.
Dreisel began the examination, and Gavin told clearly and frankly all that had befallen him. But, to his consternation, he saw at every word that the three younger officers were losing confidence in him. Great as was their sympathy for him, his adventures, especially his claim of having lived at the King’s headquarters for three weeks, were too unusual to be accepted without proof. And of proof he had not a scintilla.
The examination was done almost entirely by Dreisel, whose artfully contrived questions were admirably adapted to put Gavin in the worst possible light. He felt, himself, the improbable nature of some of his replies, which, though strictly truthful, yet had an appearance of extravagance. As he was plied thick and fast, answering each question eagerly, it was plain that he was not making a good impression upon the three young officers, who, he saw, hated and dreaded the outcome. He saw glances of dismay exchanged among them at some of his answers, and one of these young officers, whose countenance was particularly mild, grew paler and paler,while great drops stood out on his forehead. At last, after an hour of torture, Dreisel said to him:
“And you expect us to believe that you are not a spy?”
At the word spy Gavin involuntarily started. It was the first time the word had been uttered in the presence of the other officers. Nevertheless, he responded promptly:
“I cannot be held as a spy wearing this uniform.”
“True, according to the rules of war among civilized nations. But my brother was hanged as a spy wearing the Prussian uniform.”
The young officer, who had shown such unmistakable marks of distress, interposed at this:
“But the whole affair was disclaimed, sir, by the Austrian military authorities.”
“Well, so may all our proceedings to-day be disclaimed by the Prussian military authorities.”
Dreisel said this with a diabolical grin.
“TAKE CHARGE OF THE PRISONER UNTIL I SEND FOR HIM”
“TAKE CHARGE OF THE PRISONER UNTIL I SEND FOR HIM”
“But I am zealous in the King’s cause; and if I hang a man because I think him a spy, and, moreover, has designs upon the King’s life—for that is the meaning of his skulking about the King’s headquarters for three weeks—ifhe everwas there—it ought not to go very hard with me. Let me ask each and all of you this, Do you believe all the prisoner has told us?”
A dead silence greeted this. Dreisel called to the sergeant outside the door, and said to him when he came in:
“Take charge of the prisoner until I send for him.”
Gavin rose without a word. Had words availed him, he would have poured them forth; but he saw that they were worse than useless. As he passed out, the young officer who had shown such sympathy for him half rose from his chair, and looking at Gavin with eyes of misery, seemed about to hold out his hand.
“You had better not, my friend,” said Gavin, unable to keep silence any longer. “Perhaps you may be shot for shaking hands with a prisoner of war about to be hanged.”
In the corridor leading to the room to which he was conveyed there was a window looking straight into the window of the court-martial room. The sentry who passed the door near which Gavin sat also passed this window in his walk up and down the corridor. Something of sympathy in the man’s eye as he glanced in theroom where Gavin sat, with the sergeant at his side, caused Gavin to say:
“My friend, I, too, once carried a musket before I wore a sword; therefore, I beg of you, as a comrade, to tell me what Captain Dreisel and his unhappy young officers are doing in that room.”
“Lieutenant von Bulow, the soft-hearted one, is standing up speaking to Captain Dreisel,” he said in a low voice.
The man walked away, and, passing the window, returned in five minutes to the open door. He again whispered:
“Lieutenant Reber is now talking very earnestly, and seems not afraid of the captain.”
The third time he passed the door the sentry’s face was ashy pale.
“Captain Dreisel is speaking now, and Lieutenant von Bulow has covered his face and is crying.”
“Is he?” was Gavin’s only remark. “Good Von Bulow. I suppose I am to be hanged. Well, I will lie down on this bench and think over things a little.”
He lay out at full length on the bench, and thoughts of all sorts chased one another through his mind. He had the tenderest thoughts of his mother and of St. Arnaud and Madame Ziskaand her family, and the most acute pity for himself. “No wonder Von Bulow weeps at the thought of an innocent young man being hanged. I would weep for Von Bulow under the same circumstances.” But he could not perceive, much to his surprise, any sensation of fear or weakness. He felt his pulse—it was beating with perfect steadiness—he took up a glass of water and drank it without the tremor of a finger, and lying calmly down again, closed his eyes. And the soldiers watching him saw a strange thing—his breathing grew slower, his limbs relaxed, and he was sleeping as peacefully as an infant. Gavin himself fell into the most delicious dream—he was walking with his mother in the gardens at Schoenbrunn; it was a lovely spring morning, and he carried his hat in his hand to feel the soft, sweet breeze, and his mother was saying to him:
“Now, dear Gavin, we shall be so happy together; there will be no more separations for us.”
He was roused from this by a vigorous shaking, and St. Arnaud’s voice saying:
“Wake up! You don’t seem to mind the notion of being hanged; but for my part, I could give you ten good beatings for the misery and anxiety your folly has cost me.”