While Trafford was devouring the enticing viands of the Neptunburg,
and listening to the inspiriting conversation of the Frau Generalin
von Bilderbaum, a certain captain in the third regiment of Guides was
the prey to a whole host of mixed sentiments, divergent ideals, and
other troubles of a conscientious egotist. Ulrich von Hügelweiler
was sitting in his barrack quarters, smoking hard and thinking
harder, and occasionally kicking the legs of the table in an excess
of mental indecision.
"I am a loyalist by instinct," he murmured to himself, lighting his
fourteenth cigarette. "But to whom? Loyalty is a virtue,--a grand
virtue as a rule,--but loyalty to the wrong person is as immoral as
worship paid to a false god." And having delivered himself of this
platitudinous monologue he kicked another flake of varnish from the
leg of his long-suffering table.
He recalled the post of honour that had been assigned him that
morning on the slopes of Nussheim, and he longed to prove his worth
by the solid arguments of a soldier's sword. And yet ... and yet ...
it ought to have been he, not the American, who was the honoured
guest at the Neptunburg, that night.
For the memory of his disappointment on the Rundsee rankled
intolerably in his retentive brain. Meyer had offered him a dirty
task and had cheated him of fame and glory because he had refused to
undertake it. He hated Meyer--hated him far more than he loved the
King. He hated Trafford, too, for winning the King's Prize. He
threw away his last cigarette-end with a gesture of annoyance, and
rose impatiently to his feet. He would have liked at that moment to
have faced Meyer on even terms with measured swords and stripped
body; and having pinked the Jew's bosom, he would like to do the same
service to the cursed American, who had come between him and his
honourable ambition. But Karl had played no part, so far as he knew,
in the dishonourable intrigue which had prevented him being placed
first in the skating competition. Karl was a man who had proved his
personal courage in the rising of 1904, and who,--despite the ugly
rumours which flooded the city,--had an undoubted charm of
personality. He repented of having tendered his resignation, for the
manner in which that resignation had been deferred touched all that
was most soldierly and honourable in his heart. And then into the
troubled whirlpool of his thoughts came a vision, so calmly
dominating, so unconquerably insistent, so sweetly imperious, that
the dictates alike of hate and loyalty grew faint and indecisive
before the splendid allure seen of his inward eye. A Princess stood
before him, bright eyes looked pleadingly into his own, soft hands
caressed the lappet of his coat. A breath sweeter than the spices of
Araby was in his nostrils. Conscience, maybe, called one way, but
something stronger than conscience called the other. The call of the
one was clear and loud; but the call of the other stirred every fibre
in his sensuous being.
He sat down again in his arm-chair, and buried his face in his hands,
and because his eyes were blinded by the action, the vision of
Gloria's youthful beauty and smiling lips grew clearer, more
tangible, more seductive. His mind harked back to the dismal moment
when he was leaving the Rundsee, a defeated, discredited candidate
for the blue ribbon of the skating world. The Princess had appeared
to him at a moment when her bright presence had seemed especially
dazzling by contrast with the black thoughts that filled his brain.
She had appealed to him for assistance, had promised, or at least
hinted at, the great reward that would bear him rose-crowned to the
stars. That was worth much--everything perhaps--even a soldier's
honour. But would his honour inevitably be sacrificed by placing his
sword at the Princess's disposal? He had reasons for being
dissatisfied with his present service, he argued. Karl--well, he
could not bring himself to dislike Karl, but he was certainly a man
of whom much ill was spoken. His Commander-in-Chief, Meyer, he knew
for a scheming and unscrupulous politician rather than an honest
soldier. And so, little by little, desire suborned conscience, till
he persuaded himself,--as self-centred men habitually do,--that the
path of pleasure was the path of duty.
The blare of a bugle broke rudely on his meditations. Rising and
looking out of the window, he saw his men hurriedly mustering in the
barrack-yard. A second later his door burst open and his Colonel
entered.
"Captain Hügelweiler, proceed instantly with a full company and fifty
rounds of ball-cartridges to the Domkircheplatz," came the sharp
command. "There is trouble outside the Strafeburg, and your orders
are to restore tranquillity at all costs."
* * * * *
When the party at the Neptunburg broke up abruptly, as it did soon
after the glare of incendiarism had flushed the sky to a threatening
crimson, Trafford paid a hasty leave-taking of his Majesty, and
hastened down the great staircase to the entrance hall. Here stood
Saunders in close consultation with General Meyer.
"Nervy," said the former, "if I were you I should stay here. There
is no necessity to go, and if you come up to my room we can watch
things comfortably from my window."
"Thanks," said Trafford curtly, "I am not fond of watching things
from the window."
"You really must not leave us," said the Commander-in-Chief, with
exaggerated politeness.
"I'm afraid I must, though," said the American decisively, buttoning
up his coat and putting on his snow boots over his evening shoes.
"We really cannot allow you to depart," persisted Meyer, walking to
the hall-door and ostentatiously shooting a massive bolt.
A gleam lighted in Trafford's eye, but his response was politeness
itself.