Saunders and Meyer exchanged glances.
"Herr Trafford," said the latter, "when I said you must not go, I
meant to couch a command in terms of courtesy. The streets of
Weidenbruck are in a dangerous state to-night, and as the person
responsible for the public safety I really cannot sanction your
departure from the Neptunburg."
Trafford glanced round him. On either side were flunkeys in powdered
wigs, knee breeches, and yellow coats. Between him and the street he
desired to gain was--an elderly Jew.
"Is your command based solely on a concern for my personal safety?"
he asked.
"Solely," was Meyer's sarcastic reply.
"Then I shall disregard it," said Trafford, producing his gun and
flourishing it about in reckless fashion, "for I am quite capable of
protecting myself, dear General, I assure you."
Meyer flinched violently as the muzzle of the deadly weapon was
pointed in all directions, and most frequently at his own person.
For a half-moment he hesitated; he had been playing a game of bluff,
but he had not appreciated the bluffing capabilities of his opponent.
He might call the guard, but he had a nerve-destroying idea that if
he did so the mad American would have an accident with the revolver
and shoot him through the leg. His half-moment's hesitation was
fatal to his scheme for retaining Trafford in the Neptunburg. The
latter brushed past him, threw back the bolt, and with a "Good-night,
Saunders. Good-night, General," vanished into the street.
Having gained the open, Trafford's first steps were directed hastily
to the scene of the late contest between the mob and the soldiers.
The roadway was strangely empty,--as though some dominant attraction
had lured away all such as could walk or run,--leaving only those
whom the recent fracas had robbed of their limbs' use. It was these
latter to whom Trafford paid instant and anxious attention. One by
one he bent over the prostrate forms with peering eyes and a nameless
dread in his heart. There were about a dozen, some dead, some dying,
some merely incapacitated.
At the conclusion of his search Trafford heaved a deep sigh of
relief, for they were all men, and what he had feared had not
happened. Then, just as he was wondering what he could do to
alleviate the sufferings of the stricken ones, he saw a party of
friars, black-cloaked and hooded, approaching the scene with
charitable intent. And so, leaving the task of mercy to better hands
than his, he hastened in the direction from which distant sounds of
shouting were audible. His ears led him towards the Cathedral
Square, and as the noise of turbulence swelled louder and fiercer,
and as his own sense of relief at the Princess's escape from danger
made itself felt more consciously, a strange exaltation of the spirit
took him. His heart sang at the joyous prospect of a disturbance
beside which the finest college row on record would seem a small and
trivial thing. He quickened his footsteps to a run, for his nerves
were taut and tingling with the shrill joy of anarchy. Houses would
be burnt instead of furniture, policemen would be assaulted with
genuine ferocity, instead of the half-humorous roughness of his
undergraduate days. The war-drum was sounding in his ears. The
strange brain, that could pity human suffering with a superhuman
sympathy, was kindled with the wild flames of primitive pugnacity.
The strange heart, that could conceive an ethereal, passionless
regard for a woman, was a fierce swirl of troubled waters.
Trafford, Nervy Trafford, the fire-brand of Caius, was on the warpath.