ALL through 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 windows
until 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 from invisible
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 not come 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
refrain from 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 of _esprit_, 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 inadvertence which 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 a _Te Deum_ with a _De profundis_ ever 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 to remain 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 being so 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 leaving you 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 mind whether 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 young officer, 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 with _us_?”
“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 leg grew 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’s _naïveté_.
“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, he
would 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.”
Having written this in much haste and fury, Gavin put together his
money and papers, including Frederick’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 rowed ashore, 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 you can 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 his money 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 everybody connected 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
unreal than 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. There was 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 had he 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.
[Illustration: “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--_if_ he ever was 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 the room 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 Ziska and 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.”