THEY were soon across the drawbridge and outside the ramparts. The
night was pitch dark, but in spite of it the coachman drove rapidly
along the well-known road, and they were not stopped once after getting
outside. As soon as they were on the side of the citadel opposite the
town, they knew they were on the side of the Bohemian mountains. This
was their point of escape. Gavin disengaged himself of his pillows
and threw the heavy cloak over his arm, and St. Arnaud did likewise;
they could not afford to cast away such excellent disguises. Then,
noiselessly opening the carriage door, they both dropped to the ground
with so much dexterity that they managed to shut the door, so its
banging might not attract the orderly’s attention. They thus found
themselves outside the fortress within fifteen minutes of the time they
had escaped. They stopped and listened for a moment, but evidently no
alarm had yet been given.
“We shall hear the guns, though, as soon as the carriage reaches the
postern gate, if not before; and after that--” said St. Arnaud.
Gavin only pointed before them. “Yonder are the mountains. We cannot
see them--so much the better--no one can see us. The frontier is twenty
English miles away, and we should gain it before daylight.”
With the blood leaping in their veins at the thought of liberty, even
for an hour, they plunged forward through the fog. The snow made
walking difficult, but they felt as light of foot as the chamois among
the hills. They sped along in spite of every obstacle, and when, within
half an hour, the report of the three alarm guns rumbled through
the heavy air, they had already gained a considerable distance. The
darkness and the fog made it impossible for them to know precisely in
what direction they were going; they only knew that they had got among
fields and hedgerows, which they ardently hoped were in the direction
of the mountains. Gavin, however, in the long marches of the past
campaign had got something of the soldier’s instinct for the right
road, and when toward midnight the fog lifted and a pallid moon came
forth, they found they were on the right track for the mountains,
although they had not come as straight as they had hoped.
At intervals they had heard faint and distant sounds indicating
pursuit; but the damp air stifled sound. At midnight, though, when it
suddenly cleared, they heard afar off the tramping of hoofs. They found
themselves on a by-road, where there were hedges, but no trees, and
farmhouses were scattered about. All was as still as death except for
that light but ominous echo of advancing horses and men. The sound was
coming nearer, and the hoof-beats could be distinctly heard.
In front of them was a farmstead, with good outbuildings, including
a cattle shed and stables. The snow was much trodden thereabouts, so
that their tracks would not betray them. They found both the shed
and the stable doors locked, but the stable window was left open for
ventilation. They crawled in the window, and found a ladder leading to
the loft, which was stored with hay. In two minutes they were concealed
under it. In ten minutes more a squad of cavalry had ridden up, and
every farmhouse was astir with the news they brought. Two prisoners
had escaped, and the commandant would pay a hundred florins for either
of them. The stable door was flung open, and the farmer who owned the
place and his two sons saddled the horses, arranging their plans in
full hearing of the fugitives just above their heads. The business of
the squad of cavalry was to arouse the country, rather than personally
hunt for the fugitives. They soon passed on, therefore, and in a little
while most of the men in the hamlet had joined in the search, while the
rest returned to bed.
The hay in the loft was warm and dry, and Gavin and St. Arnaud were
terribly fatigued, and they longed to take rest until morning; but the
hours of darkness were precious to them. They waited until everything
had quieted down, and then, starting forth from their hiding-place,
resumed the march toward the mountains.
They trudged along, somewhat guided by their map, and although they
caught sight more than once of pursuing parties, they managed to
conceal themselves, but they knew they could not expect to be so
fortunate in broad daylight.
The dawn came clear and beautiful, and bearing no trace of the fog
of the night before. The Bohemian mountains, only ten English miles
away, loomed darkly beautiful on the horizon. The snow lay deep upon
the whole earth when the first golden shafts of light struck the
mountain tops from the east; as the sun rose in glory, they glowed
milk white against a sky all blue and gold and rose-coloured. Gavin
and St. Arnaud saw the exquisite sunrise with heavy hearts; a clear
day made the chances of their eluding pursuit for ten miles still more
hazardous. They were half dead with fatigue, after their weeks of close
confinement; they were foot-sore and hungry, but their spirits were
unfaltering, and no word of complaint escaped them.
They had avoided the highway, although they knew that every lane,
by-road, and hedgerow would be searched for them; and as the day fully
broke, they found themselves in a pleasant rolling country, somewhat
off the usual line of travel, with many houses of a good class, but
barren of woods. Immediately before them was a pleasant villa, with a
tall yew hedge all around it. As they trudged past they noticed a kind
of natural alcove in the hedge, in which they were tolerably concealed
from view; and they threw themselves down for a moment to rest their
weary limbs and study their rude map.
Soon they heard merry voices and laughter on the other side of the
hedge. Two milkmaids were at their work, and as the milk foamed into
the pails they laughed and chatted about the events of the night
before.
“Such a night!” cried one. “Troopers all over the place at one o’clock
in the morning; and Miss Hein screamed so loud when the officer caught
her in her curl papers that he thought she had certainly concealed the
two prisoners in the house.”
“How sorry I am to have missed it!” replied the other one. “This place
is so dull, nothing happening from one week’s end to another, that I
even like the notion of being routed out as you were last night. The
truth is, I don’t fancy living with these quiet, prim ladies, like Miss
Hein. I would rather live in a large family, with plenty of servants,
and gay doings below stairs.”
Gavin peeped through an opening in the hedge. The milkmaid plunged into
a description of the adventures of the night before, when the house and
offices had been searched for the two fugitives; and in the excitement
of her tale she stopped milking. Her back and that of her companion was
toward Gavin, and the milk bucket was just within reach of his arm. He
noiselessly thrust his arm through the opening and, reaching the milk
pail, raised it as high as he could, and St. Arnaud, tiptoeing over the
hedge, took it. There was about a quart of milk in it, and first St.
Arnaud taking a pull at it, and then Gavin, it was emptied in a minute.
Gavin’s long arm then replaced it, and they resumed their places of
concealment. A shriek of dismay presently informed them that the
milkmaid had found her bucket empty. The cow having strayed off, too,
there was great excitement for a while, but both the women moved away
from the hedge, marvelling the while over the strange disappearance of
the milk.
St. Arnaud, turning to Gavin, said: “We shall be caught before twelve
o’clock if we attempt to make across the country in this clear weather.
This place has been searched once, and is not likely to be searched
again. I believe our best chance is to remain here.”
“How?” asked Gavin.
“I will show you, if you will have confidence in me.”
A look was Gavin’s only answer to this.
St. Arnaud then, with Gavin, made his way boldly to the front door of
the house and knocked loudly. Another maid opened the door, and from
the smirk she wore, she, too, thought it rather amusing to have a
sensation occasionally as they had had the night before. But there was
no smirk upon the face of Miss Hein, a tall, thin, lugubrious-looking
lady, with a not unkind face, who appeared behind her.
“Madam,” said St. Arnaud to Miss Hein, with a low bow, “I hear that
you were very much disturbed last night by the searching of your house
for two runaways from the fortress. I have come to make you every
apology. We are officers, as you see. The officer last night was a mere
subaltern, and, although zealous, he evidently did not know how to
perform an unpleasant duty.”
“He certainly did not,” replied Miss Hein tartly.
“Ah, madam,” cried St. Arnaud sentimentally, “would that I had come in
the first instance! I would not have disturbed you in the least. Any
complaint you have to make about the officer or men I will attend to
with pleasure.”
Miss Hein, whose placid house had been the scene of such unusual
turmoil, was immensely pleased at the different tone that this supposed
Prussian officer took with her, and bowing politely, invited them to
enter. “And as you have probably been all night searching for the
fugitives, you must be both tired and hungry, and I will have breakfast
for you.”
Gavin could hardly restrain a shout of joy.
Miss Hein took them into a comfortable sitting-room on the first floor,
and while waiting for breakfast to be prepared St. Arnaud made such
good use of his time and tongue that the poor lady was completely won
over. He begged that she would give them the honour of her presence
while they breakfasted, which she graciously did. St. Arnaud asked if
handbills had yet reached them describing the escaped prisoners, and
with a deep feeling of joy heard they had not. At this Gavin said for
the benefit of the servant waiting on them, as well as Miss Hein:
“I can tell you what they are like. St. Arnaud is a great big,
red-headed fellow with a terrible squint--you would know the man to be
a rascal anywhere. His manners are harsh, and his voice is like sawing
wood with a dull saw.”
St. Arnaud, determined not to be outdone, broke in: “And the other
one, Hamilton by name, would be taken for a girl dressed up in man’s
clothes--a weak, puling creature, and universally considered the
ugliest man in the French army.”
“Do you hear that, Martha?” said Miss Hein to the maid. “Remember it
and tell the other servants.”
A good breakfast had very much raised the spirits of the two fugitives,
but they realized that they were in jeopardy every moment. St. Arnaud,
after reflecting a moment, said to Miss Hein: “Would it be asking too
much of your kindness to let a couple of tired Prussian officers sleep
a few hours in your house? We have been travelling all night--I will
explain later why we have no horses--and we are overcome with fatigue.”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Hein, who had been completely won by her
amiable guests. “I myself am leaving in my travelling chaise this
afternoon, to pay a visit of some days in the town of Glatz, and I will
take you both with pleasure. The chaise seats four. Meanwhile, you may
take your rest in an upper chamber. I am glad to show hospitality to
officers who know so well how to treat a helpless woman.”
They were shown upstairs into a comfortable room with two beds. As they
shut and locked the door, they looked earnestly at each other. St.
Arnaud, without a word, tumbled into one of the beds, saying: “We may
never come out of this room alive; but let us take our rest calmly. We
are in the hands of fate.”
“In the hands of God, you mean--so my mother taught me,” answered
Gavin; and straightway he plumped down on his knees at the side of the
bed, and said a prayer out aloud for their success in escaping; and
then, throwing himself on the bed, was asleep in two minutes.
St. Arnaud waked first. There was a clock in the room, and he saw that
it was five o’clock, and the short winter twilight was coming on. He
shook Gavin, and in a few moments they went downstairs. Miss Hein, in
her riding-dress, was walking up and down the hall impatiently. “I am
afraid,” she said, “it is too late to make our start.”
“That is unfortunate,” responded St. Arnaud. “Would you, however,
permit us to use your chaise to the next posting-house, which cannot be
more than two miles away?”
Miss Hein cogitated for a moment. But there was a sweet persuasiveness
in St. Arnaud’s tone that she had not been able to resist since the
first hour she met him, and she answered pleasantly:
“Yes. You have been so polite--”
“Oh, madam, it is you--it is your kindness--and trust me, it will never
be forgotten.”
The chaise was before the door, and Gavin and St. Arnaud, bidding an
adieu so warm that it brought the blood to Miss Hein’s faded cheek,
went out and entered the carriage. The coachman, a country lout, drove
off in the direction of Glatz. As soon as they were out of sight of the
house, St Arnaud put his head out of the window and said:
“You are going in the wrong direction. It is the next posting-house
toward the mountains that we wish to reach.” The rustic turned his
horses about, and they travelled toward the mountains for four miles.
They were too intent upon listening for pursuit and surprise to speak
much, but Gavin said: “It is not often that escaped prisoners ride in
coaches and chaises, as we have done.”
“Good Miss Hein!” cried St. Arnaud. “I had half a mind to throw
ourselves on her mercy. I believe there is scarcely a woman who lives
who will not be kind to an unfortunate.”
At the next posting-house they had no trouble in securing horses, Miss
Hein’s chaise and servants being well known. The postmaster and all
the people were asking about the fugitives, and several detachments of
soldiers had visited the place that day. St. Arnaud, talking with the
postmaster, carelessly asked if descriptive handbills had been posted
yet.
“We are expecting them every moment,” replied the man.
St. Arnaud then gave a personal description which could not possibly
apply to either himself or Gavin; and, asking for a private room, wrote
Miss Hein a note full of gratitude, to which he signed a German name.
The chaise they had ordered soon appeared, and in a little while they
were travelling toward the frontier.
When night fell they were entering a little mountain village marked
with a cross on their map; and, driving through the steep and
straggling street, they came to a shop with a bag of wool hanging in
one window and a hank of yarn in the other.
They knocked, and were asked to enter by a pleasant-faced woman. The
house was a kind of a rude inn, as well as shop and dwelling, and
half a dozen peasants were gathered around a fire on which a pot was
boiling. St. Arnaud spoke two words--“Madame Ziska”--in the woman’s
ear, and she responded by an intelligent look.
“This is no place for your honours,” she said; “I have a little room
off that I can give you.”
She led them into a small room, scarcely more than a shed, and
shut the door. “I have change for a hundred ducats,” she whispered.
“My cousin--for so Madame Ziska is, although I am not fit to be her
waiting-maid--told me to give you that much money out of my savings,
and you would give me a bank-note for it.”
They quickly made the exchange, and both eagerly asked for news of
Madame Ziska, but there was none since she had passed through the
village on her way to Vienna.
Supper was presently served--the first meal St. Arnaud and Gavin had
eaten in liberty since the first night of their meeting. They were
waited on by a tall, handsome, intelligent-looking girl, Bettina, the
niece of the hostess. She took them for Prussian officers, and showed
them the utmost ill-will. She nearly knocked Gavin’s head off with a
platter when he turned to ask her some simple question, and scowled
blackly at St. Arnaud when he airily threw her a kiss. They were in
uproariously high spirits, although they kept their voices down as much
as possible.
“This is magnificent,” cried St. Arnaud, ladling cabbage soup into
his mouth. “I have altogether lost my taste for pâté de foie gras and
champagne, in favor of cabbage soup and onions, bacon, and black
bread. They are the real luxuries of life.” To which Gavin agreed.
St. Arnaud then turned his attention to the sulky Bettina. “What a
great stroke it would be if you capture those two fellows escaped from
Glatz! You would get two hundred florins.” No reply from Bettina,
except a furious clattering of dishes. “You could get married with that
portion,” continued St. Arnaud.
“Not unless I meet some men who are a vast improvement on those who
come here,” retaliated Bettina, flouncing out angrily.
Presently the woman of the house entered and, after refusing to take
any money for their entertainment, said: “You will find outside a cart
and horse. They belong to me, so you may do as you like with them.”
She showed them a way out without passing through the front part of
the house, and there, in the moonlight, was a rough country cart,
and Bettina sitting in it to drive them. But what a change was in
her! Eager, smiling, and obliging, she could do nothing at first but
apologize for her rudeness. “I did not know you were Madame Ziska’s
friends,” she protested a dozen times.
They mounted into the cart, and with thanks that came from the bottom
of their hearts parted with their friend. They travelled on through
the night, Bettina driving rapidly and skilfully. The moon sank, and
then came the ghastly hour between night and day, and presently a
sunrise more glorious than they had ever seen, for they were at liberty
and in safety.
Bettina was to leave them at a small village across the frontier, where
they hoped to get horses, but were far from certain. Hearing them
discuss this, Bettina said: “If you like, you can buy this horse and
cart. My aunt has been trying to sell them both for forty florins this
month past; she wants to buy better ones.”
“Here are fifty florins,” joyfully cried St. Arnaud. “But how will you
get back home?”
“I can walk,” nonchalantly replied Bettina, “and if I get tired on
the way, I will wait for the carrier’s cart, which goes to my village
to-day.”
She got down in the road, St. Arnaud handed her the money, and she made
him promise to feed the horse well; and then St. Arnaud, proceeding, by
way of reward, to give her a kiss, Bettina raised her strong arm and
fetched him a thundering box on the ear; and Gavin, who was standing by
quite innocent, inadvertently happening to laugh, Bettina gave him two
corresponding slaps that nearly knocked him down, crying:
“Is that the way you behave? I’ll teach you better manners, both of
you!” and she strode down the road indignantly, scorning to look back.
“I thought,” said Gavin, rubbing his tingling cheeks, “that women were
always kind to the unfortunate.”
“Well, there are exceptions,” diplomatically replied St. Arnaud. “For
my own part, I am very much obliged to the young lady for not giving me
a good beating; she is perfectly capable of it, physically as well as
morally.”
“And we are not unfortunate any longer,” cried Gavin, jumping into
the cart, and giving the patient horse a whack. “We are free, we have
money, we have this equipage!”
“Yes,” replied St. Arnaud gayly, “we will not trouble with
post-chaises; we will travel the whole distance to Vienna in this
blessed cart; we will make our _entrée_ as conspicuously as possible.
We will drive under the palace windows of the Empress Queen herself,
and let her see us. Oh, we will make such an arrival into Vienna that
it won’t be forgotten in a hurry!”
“We will! We will!” shouted Gavin, belabouring, in the excess of his
joy, the poor horse; “and we won’t say anything about the fond adieu we
had from Miss Bettina.”
Some weeks after this, on a brilliant winter morning, the last day
of the year, all Vienna was astir for a great military review. The
Empress Queen, undaunted by the disasters at Rosbach and Leuthen,
had determined to renew the contest with her old enemy, the King of
Prussia, at the earliest practicable moment; and to give heart to her
army and people, she appeared constantly before them, reviewed her
troops often, and showed undiminished confidence in them. She had,
it is true, consented that her brother-in-law, the Archduke Charles,
should be relieved of the command of the army, in deference to the
popular will. But she, the most loyal sovereign in the world to all
who had served her, took occasion to soften the blow to the Archduke
Charles by appearing with him in public and treating him with a
kindness that his courage and devotion merited, although he had been
vanquished by the superior genius of the King of Prussia. She had,
therefore, ordered a grand review of the household troops, with a
number of veterans of the last campaign. It was a means she took of
keeping up the courage of her people, as well as complimenting a loyal
but unfortunate servant. When her enemies thought her nearest to ruin,
then it was that Maria Theresa showed herself so superior to fear that
she infused her own high courage into her army and her people. And for
this reason, when her military fortunes were low, she chose rather
to act as if disasters were mere mishaps, to be redeemed in another
campaign.
The Viennese, who love pageants better than any other people in the
world, were out early to see the spectacle, which did not begin until
ten o’clock. Scarcely had the sun tipped the glorious tower of the
cathedral of St. Stephen, and blazoned the long lines of windows in the
Imperial Palace until they shone like molten gold, before the streets
were thronged with citizens and people from the surrounding country.
The Empress Queen had selected the broad and splendid plaza in front
of the Imperial Palace from which to view the march past, and the
multitudes poured toward the Stadt, through the narrow and tortuous
streets which lead to this region of palaces, museums, and churches.
The morning was clear, mild, and beautiful, and the gay Viennese had
apparently forgotten the dreadful day of Rosbach and the terrible hours
of Leuthen.
The sunny air resounded with martial music and the steady tread of
marching feet of men and iron-shod hoofs of horses. Splendid coaches
bearing ambassadors and ambassadresses rolled majestically through
the streets. Great officers of state, resplendent in their orders and
decorations, leaving their chariots wedged in the eager, curious, and
noisy throng, made their way on foot to the palace doors. Military
officers in glittering uniforms, with gorgeous horse trappings, dashed
about on their spirited chargers. A blare of trumpets on the one hand
was answered by the quick music of a military band on the other, and
the air vibrated with the continuous clang of the fife and drum. It was
the day of glory of the brave army, which, though defeated, stood ready
to renew the conflict with its old enemy at the first signal. As the
morning hours sped on toward ten o’clock the enthusiasm of the crowds
increased. The prospect of seeing their Empress Queen in state always
put the Viennese in a good humour, and the multitudes that packed the
streets leading toward the palace were full of merriment and in the
notion to be pleased with everything.
The approach of the troops was heralded with cheers that seemed to come
from miles away, and followed them to the point where the head of the
first column debouched before the palace. At the same moment a fanfare
of silver trumpets from the trumpeters of the guard announced that the
Empress Queen had left the palace. The great gates were thrown wide
open, and the Imperial body-guard rode forth. This was a magnificent
battalion of men, all mounted on coal-black horses, and wearing brass
helmets and cuirasses that glittered in the dazzling light. After them
came the Hungarian contingent, a people between whom and Maria Theresa
a peculiar bond of affection subsisted. The people greeted these with
imitations of the peculiarly wild and piercing cries of their country.
Next rode the young archdukes, handsome lads, and superbly mounted.
Last, appeared the Empress Queen, mounted upon a noble, iron-gray
charger, with the Emperor Francis on her right and the Archduke Charles
on her left.
Maria Theresa never looked more royal and imperial than when on
horseback. She rode with exquisite grace, and her stately mien fitly
indicated her brave spirit. Although then past her first youth and the
mother of many children, she was still the most graceful princess in
Europe; and maturity had not robbed her of her natural comeliness. Her
eyes still shone with star-like brightness, and the colour mounted
beautifully to her cheek when, after a moment’s sudden checking of
noise, a roar of joyous cheering, of wild hand-clapping, and of
military music clashed heavenward. She had then ridden briskly out upon
the open space, where, under the splendid standards of the Empire, she
bowed right and left, with an enchanting smile. Maria Theresa loved to
be with her people, and was as happy to show herself to them as they
were pleased to see her. The Emperor Francis, a handsome man of middle
age, and his brother, the Archduke Charles, came in for their share of
applause, and acknowledged it gracefully. But the Empress Queen had
been for twenty years the darling of the people, and her husband and
children were loved and applauded chiefly because they were hers.
The march past then began. First came a splendid body of cavalry,
hussars, cuirassiers, and dragoons. The Hungarian contingent, led
by their hetmans, was gorgeously picturesque, and as they waved
their swords and lances in the air with wild grace the Empress Queen
responded with a charming inclination of the heard. Maria Theresa
had not forgotten that in her most perilous hour the loyalty of the
Hungarians had saved her throne and country from the rapacity of
Frederick. Next came the foot regiments, sturdy men who had withstood
the shock of battle, and whose stained and tattered battle-flags showed
what service they had seen. The field artillery, then a great novelty
in warfare, followed, their long, bronze guns, cast with the Empress
Queen’s crown and cipher in the metal, gleaming dully in the sunlight.
So brilliant was the spectacle, that the hours sped away, and it was
long after noon when the end of the last column appeared in view.
Among those watching it, in the crowd of diplomats, was a slight but
singularly high-bred looking man, evidently an Englishman. He sat in a
plain but handsome coach, magnificently horsed. All who saw the parade
and the outburst of affectionate loyalty toward the Empress Queen were
affected to a certain degree by it except this English gentleman. He,
however, regarded it all with a cool smile, and did not speak except to
make some disparaging remark to an officer in an English uniform who
sat on horseback next the coach.
As the end of the columns drew near there was a new and sudden outburst
of cheering heard afar off, mixed with laughter; the multitudes of
people had evidently seen something to both please and amuse them.
It was so noticeable that the Archduke Charles sent an aide riding
down the line, who came back smiling. He approached the Empress Queen
and the Emperor, and said something which caused them both to smile,
too. At the same moment the last detachment of troops was passing,
and directly behind them came a country cart, drawn by a sorry horse.
On a plank laid across the cart sat Gavin Hamilton, driving. He still
wore the enormous chapeau and cloak of General Kollnitz. The huge hat
was pushed back, showing his handsome bronzed face, his white teeth
gleaming in a perpetual smile; while he awkwardly held up the huge
cloak in handling the coarse rope reins.
Sitting in solitary magnificence in the body of the cart was St.
Arnaud, dressed in Pfels’ hat and cloak. He sat flat, with his shapely
legs stretched stiffly out before him, and, in contrast to Gavin’s
boyish grins of delight, St. Arnaud was as perfectly grave and composed
as if in attendance upon royalty. The crowds had found out who they
were, and shouts resounded, and cries were bandied about.
“There they are, in the disguise they escaped in! They say that
Frederick was so angry when he heard of their getting away that he
burst a blood-vessel!”
“And poor old Kollnitz took to his bed with chagrin, and has never left
it since!” called out another.
The English gentleman turned to the officer on horseback and said:
“What children are these Viennese! Because a couple of officers make a
clever escape, and appear riding in a cart, these childish people go
wild with delight. Depend upon it, it is neither the escape nor the men
who matter--it is the cart and horse which pleases them.”
“You scarcely do the Viennese justice, Sir Gavin,” replied the officer,
standing up in his stirrups to look as the cart approached. “I
recognise young St. Arnaud of Dufour’s regiment as the officer sitting
down; but who is the younger one--evidently St. Arnaud’s junior--who is
driving?”
Sir Gavin Hamilton stood up in the coach and looked attentively at the
cart, which was then passing the royal party. Gavin brought the horse
to a standstill, stood up, as did St. Arnaud, and both respectfully
saluted the Empress Queen.
“That younger man,” said Sir Gavin, with the utmost nonchalance, “is my
son. He is not my heir, however.”
The officer uttered an exclamation of surprise, but Sir Gavin’s face
remained quite impassive. No one but the officer heard him, and the
next moment there was a general movement of the privileged bystanders
as the royal party turned toward the palace. Then an aide-de-camp rode
up to the cart, and after a few words St. Arnaud and Gavin descended,
and an orderly led the equipage away.
Gavin and St. Arnaud followed the aide, Captain Count Derschau, into
the courtyard of the palace, and to a small door in a wing of the vast
building. Entering, he showed them the way to a small anteroom, saying:
“You will remain here until Her Majesty sends for you, which will be
within half an hour;” and courteously excusing himself, he left them.