"I can't see that this is such a vast improvement on little old New
York!" was Trafford's growling comment as he strolled the streets of
Weidenbruck the evening of his arrival.
"Ah, but Weidenbruck is the city of the plain!" returned Saunders,
who was accompanying him in his perambulations. "As soon as this
skating competition is over----"
"It will be back to Broadway for mine, I think!" interrupted the
American, and then went on with despondent logic: "If it is cold
here, what will it be five thousand feet higher up?"
"Hot," retorted the other. "At Weissheim the sun shines unobscured
by mist. The air there is dry and bracing. The thermometer may
stand at zero, but your warm gloves will be a mockery, your great
coat an offence."
A gust from a side street blew a whirl of powdered snow in the faces
of the two men. Trafford buried his chin in the warm collar of his
overcoat; he swore, but without undue bitterness. The cold indeed
was poignant, for the unfrozen flood of the Niederkessel lent the
atmosphere a touch of moisture that gave malice to the shrill frost,
a penetrating venom to the spiteful breeze that swept the long length
and broad breadth of the straight, prosaic Bahnofstrasse. The trams
that rushed noisily up and down this thoroughfare were the only
things that still moved on wheels. Cabs, carriages, omnibuses,
perambulators even, had discarded wheels in favour of runners; and
arc-lamps shone coldly from an interminable line of iron masts, while
a cheerier glow blazed from the windows of innumerable shops which
still displayed their attractive wares for the benefit of the good
citizens of Weidenbruck, who have raised the science of wrapping up
to the level of a fine art.
"But then why come to this cellar of a town?" grunted Trafford.
Saunders shot a glance at his companion. He was genuinely fond of
Trafford, had been genuinely shocked at the narrowness of his escape
from tragic ruin, and was genuinely glad when his morbid companion
began to take intelligent interest in his surroundings,--even though
that interest manifested itself in irritable comments and deprecatory
grunts. The Englishman had chaffed the would-be suicide, had poured
cruel scorn on his inamorata, and preached the cold gospel of
worldliness and selfish pleasure; but if he had spoken cynically it
had been because cynicism had seemed the right remedy, rather than
because his own nature was bitter. Beyond having a rather high
opinion of his own abilities and a predilection for new clothes,
Saunders was a man of much merit.
"Because this skating competition happens to be held here," he
answered, "and the King's Cup is the important event in the sporting
calendar of Grimland. The winner--who may be yourself--is looked
upon as a king among men, a demi-god to be honoured with the burnt
offerings of the rich and the bright glances of the fair."
"The latter I can dispense with. Cut it out!" the American exclaimed
with much bitterness, and then went on: "I did not come to Grimland
merely for sport, as you well know, but because you hinted at
political troubles. Moreover, I have taken your advice literally,
and have brought my gun along."
"Keep it loaded then," said Saunders curtly. "I hear Father
Bernhardt has returned."
"Who in thunder is Father Bernhardt?"
"A renegade priest. In the troubles of 1904 he eloped with the
Queen, who had been plotting her husband's downfall with the
Schattenbergs."
"His Majesty's opposition," put in Trafford, who knew something of
the country's turbid history.
"Yes, kinsmen of King Karl's who have always cherished a secret claim
to the throne. They very nearly made their claim good, too, in 1904."
"Only one Robert Saunders intervened," interjected Trafford with an
envious glance at his companion.
"Providence upheld the ruling dynasty with a firm hand," Saunders
went on to explain, "and the rebellious family, the Schattenbergs,
were pretty well wiped out in the process. Two alone
survived:--Prince Stephan,--who was too young to participate in the
trouble, and who subsequently died of diphtheria at Weissheim,--and
the Princess Gloria,--a girl of one-and-twenty, who escaped over the
Austrian frontier."
"And what is she doing?" inquired Trafford with some approach to
curiosity.
"No one exactly knows. Unless she has altered in three years, she is
a beautiful young woman. She lives in the public imagination partly
because she is a possible alternative to King Karl, who has the
demerit of being a respectable middle-aged man. If,--as is
rumoured,--she is in alliance with Father Bernhardt, there will
certainly be trouble, for the ex-priest is a man of energy and
resource. Moreover, he was once a religious man, and believed
himself damned when he ran away with King Karl's fickle consort; and
a man who is looking forward to eternal damnation is as dangerous in
his way as a Moslem fanatic seeking Paradise."
Trafford said nothing, but breathed a silent prayer that the renegade
priest might indeed be in Grimland. For Trafford was one of those
curiously constituted people--rarer now than they used to be--who
value excitement without counting the cost. At Oxford he had always
regarded Saunders with a deep, if unmalicious envy. The Englishman
had captured the highest honours, had won his cricket blue,
performing prodigies at Lord's before enthusiastic men and women;
and, later, had played a conspicuous, almost heroic, part in the
Grimland troubles of 1904. On the other hand, he, Trafford--Nervy
Trafford--had to be content both at Harvard and Oxford with only
limited athletic successes, these being achieved by sheer pluck and
infectious energy. But men had always loved him, for he could sing a
rousing song, dance a spirited war-dance, and kindle bonfires in
unexpected places with the most expensive furniture. In a word, his
was an ardent, effervescent nature, and now that the tragedy of a
tumultuous but misplaced passion had robbed life of its normal
interest and savour, his ideas of a diverting holiday were of a
distinctly reckless nature.
Wandering down the Bahnhofstrasse they purchased a few
picture-postcards at a stationer's, a meerschaum pipe at an elegant
tobacconist's where they sold Hamburg cigars in Havana boxes, and
finally halted before a big corner shop where all the paraphernalia
appertaining to winter sports were displayed in interesting and
attractive profusion.
"I thought you had a good pair of skates," said Saunders.
"So I have," returned the other. "But there are two styles of
skating, the English and the continental; and I am one of those
rarely gifted Americans who can skate both styles equally well,--a
fact I intend to take advantage of at this competition. But I need a
different pair of skates for each style."
"Do you think you're really any good?" asked Saunders, smiling. He
was accustomed to refer to his own abilities in eulogistic terms, but
was not used to his companion doing so.
"If you were to ask that question in Onondaga, New York,
U.S.A.,--where I was born and bred,--they'd laugh at you," was
Trafford's serious reply.
"All right, let's go in and buy something from Frau Krabb," said
Saunders, leading the way into the shop.
Within was a jumble of wooden luges, steel-framed toboggans, and
granite curling stones; from the low ceiling hung numberless pairs of
skis, like stalactites from a cavern roof; while bunches of skates
adorned the balusters of the deep staircase leading to the upper
floor.
Frau Krabb, the proprietress, was being accosted by another customer.
The customer in question was a young officer in the shiny shako and a
fine fur-trimmed sur-coat of grey-blue, frogged with black. He was a
sufficiently attractive object in his picturesque uniform, but though
his carriage was energetic and manly, the face that showed beneath
the military headgear was by no means that of a typical soldier. It
was a dark, oval face with a wisp of a black moustache, big lustrous
eyes, and a small, pretty mouth, adorned with the whitest and most
regular of teeth. It was a proud, sensitive face, more remarkable
for its beauty than its strength, but for all that, good to behold
for its intelligence, refinement, and glow of youthful health.
"Good-evening, Frau Krabb," began the soldier, genially saluting.
"Are my skates ready yet?"
"They were ready at four o'clock, as promised, Herr Captain," replied
the woman, a plump person with more fat than features.
The Captain passed his finger critically along the edge of the
newly-ground blades, and expressed himself satisfied.
"And you will win the King's Cup, Herr Captain, of course?" continued
Frau Krabb, smiling a fat smile into her customer's face.
"I'm going to have a good try at it," was the guarded reply. "I'd
sooner win the King's Cup than the Colonelcy of the Guides. No one
has practised his 'rocking turns' and 'counters' so assiduously as I,
and I'm feeling as fit as a fiddle--which counts for more than a
little in a skating competition."
"You look it," said the woman admiringly.
"I've got to meet Franz Schmolder of Wurzdorf," went on the soldier
musingly, "and Captain Einstein of the 14th, so it does not do to be
too confident. There's an American, too, competing; but I don't fear
him. He doubtless skates only in the English fashion, and their
style of skating is too stiff and stilted to be of any use in
elaborate figures, though it is pretty enough for big, simple
movements and combined skating. Schmolder's the man I fear, though
Einstein's a big and powerful skater, with the nerve of a demon."
"Herr Schmolder has a strained knee," said the woman, "and Captain
Einstein's nerve is not so good as it was. He is too fond of Rhine
wine and Kirschwasser, and though he has a big frame it is not full
of the best stuffing."
"I'd like to win better than anything in the world," said the young
officer in tones of the deepest earnestness, his eyes lighting up
wonderfully at the golden prospect.
"You _will_ win," said Frau Krabb simply; "I have two kronen with my
man on you, and you have my prayers."
"God answer them!" said the soldier piously. Then in a moment of
enthusiasm he bent down and kissed the comical upturned face of the
old shopwoman. "Pray for me with all your soul," he said, "for I
want that cup, Mother of Heaven! I must have that cup." And,
slinging his skates over his shoulder the officer was about to leave
the shop, when Saunders accosted him.
"Hullo, Von Hügelweiler!" said the latter.
The soldier's eyes brightened with recognition. He had met the
Englishman at Weissheim a few years previously, and was proud of the
acquaintance, for Saunders was a name to conjure with in Grimland.
"Herr Saunders!" he cried, "I am charmed to meet you again. You are
his Majesty's guest, I presume."
"I am at the Neptunburg, yes. Permit me to present my friend, Herr
Trafford, of New York. Trafford, my friend, Ulrich Salvator von
Hügelweiler, Captain in his Majesty's third regiment of Guides."
The two shook hands.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said the Grimlander. "But
what are you requiring at Frau Krabb's?"
"Some skates for to-morrow's competition," replied Trafford.
"Himmel!" ejaculated Hügelweiler, "so you are the American
competitor. You had better not ask me to choose your skates, or I
should certainly select a faulty pair."
Trafford laughed.
"You are indeed a dangerous rival," he said.
"I wish to succeed," said the soldier simply. "Perhaps success means
more to me than to you; but I don't think I am a bad sportsman."
"I will not tempt your probity," said Trafford. "I will select my
own wares."
Von Hügelweiler waited till the purchase was complete,--expressing
his approval of the other's choice,--and then the three men sallied
forth into the nipping air of the Bahnhofstrasse.
"Where are you going?" asked Saunders of the Grimlander.
"Back to barracks," replied the Captain. "Will you accompany me?"
Saunders consulted his watch.
"Trafford and I are dining in an hour's time," he said, "but we will
walk part of the way with you. I wish to show my friend a bit of the
town."
Turning to the left, they entered one of the numerous lanes which
proclaim the city's antiquity with gabled front and mullioned window.
Ill-lit, ill-paved under the trampled snow, and smelling noticeably
of garlic, bouillon, and worse, the thoroughfare--the Schugasse--led
to the spacious Soldatenplatz, wherein was situated the fine barracks
of the King's Guides. They had been walking but a few minutes, when
a tall figure, heavily muffled in a black coat, strode rapidly past
them. Trafford had a brief vision of piercing eyes shifting
furtively under a woollen cap, as the man cast a lightning glance
behind him. Then as the figure vanished abruptly into a mean
doorway, Saunders and Von Hügelweiler exchanged glances.
"So he _is_ back," said the former. "Then there is certain to be
trouble."
"Nothing is more certain," said the Captain calmly.
"Who is back?" demanded the puzzled Trafford.
"Father Bernhardt," replied his friend.
And the American heaved a sigh of thankfulness.