Von Hügelweiler,--standing with his paltry hundred men facing the
wild throng,--wondered what this new press and surge of human billows
might portend. So far he had done his duty loyally and well: hour
after hour he had stood at his post watching the varying temper of
the people, as it seethed and cooled and then rose suddenly again to
more than boiling heat. Nor did this fresh mood of aggression
affright him with its terrifying unanimity and savage outburst of
song. He was essentially a man of temperament. Egotist, in the
sense that he valued his own happiness and well-being above all
things, he was no coward. Egotists, in fact, seldom are, for their
swollen self-esteem cannot lightly suffer so humiliating a burden as
a suspicion of timidity. Moreover, he was young and virile, a scion
of a warlike family, and the vibrant roar of a thousand voices served
but to string his nerves to the heroic pitch. Had he foreseen the
post that was to be assigned him that evening his dark cheek might
have blanched at the prospect, and his spirit sickened before the
appalling ferocity of the hungering mob. But the actual
situation,--serious beyond all expectation,--found him not merely
calm and determined, but actually desirous of bringing matters to the
touch.
Perhaps the "Rothlied's" wild measure had mounted his brain and made
him drunk with its pulsing beat, for he almost wished that these wild
men and women who surged towards him so threateningly were his
comrades in some task of note or honour. Yet, if they were his foes,
he prayed that they would attack at once and give swift scope to his
itching sword-arm. So, blade in hand, with bright eye and scornful
lip,--no mean figure of a soldier in his grey-blue surcoat,--he stood
at the head of his company before the portals of the Strafeburg.
But his astonishment was great when, with a swaying of the mob and a
louder note of acclaim, the sleigh driven by Trafford emerged into
the open space held by the patrolling Dragoons. He failed for the
moment to recognise in the driver his late rival of the Rundsee, but
his eye quickly detected the fur-enveloped figure of the Princess on
the back seat. For a moment his heart stood still, for the Dragoons
were galloping up from the right-hand corner of the building, and he
feared that in the shock of the encounter violence or mischance might
lay low the fair creature whom he loved more than his honour or his
King. But the temper of the people was not to let their new-found
heroine be seized or trampled on before their eyes, and a section of
the mob, stiffened by the mutinied soldiers, thrust a stout wedge
between the Princess and the oncoming cavalry.
Trafford rose to his feet on the summit of the box. Quicker of
perception than Von Hügelweiler, he recognised the latter in an
instant.
"Good-evening, Herr Captain!" he called out genially; "kindly open
the door of the Strafeburg,--your Queen desires it."
Von Hügelweiler's eyes wore a daze of wonderment. What on earth was
the American doing on the box of the Princess's sleigh?
"Give your men the order to let us pass," went on Trafford with
masterful good humour; "I want to avoid bloodshed! The people mean
entering the Strafeburg; they mean rescuing Father Bernhardt!"
Von Hügelweiler laughed scornfully, a rising anger in his heart. How
dared this mad foreigner address him in such tones of easy
condescension, as if he were a dog to be coaxed aside from a door!
What was he doing championing the Princess--_his_ Princess?
"You are a very confident fellow, Herr Trafford!" he called back;
"but if you mean forcing this doorway you must do it by your own
valour. You have no favourable umpire here, as on the Rundsee."
The allusion passed Trafford by. Nor did he perceive that he was
face to face with an angry and excited man.
"Don't waste time, Captain!" he cried. "You see these soldiers here
fraternising with the crowd? Ten minutes ago they were holding the
Königstrasse for Karl. Do you see those Dragoons over there? Are
they forcing a bloody way through the throng to effect our capture?
No; the troopers are laughing with the crowd; some of them are
singing the 'Rothlied'; even the officers are resigning themselves to
the inevitable, and cheering for the Princess."
This was anything but a true description of the real state of
affairs, as Trafford could see from his exalted position on the box.
To Von Hügelweiler, however,--who could see nothing but a confused
mass,--it sounded probable enough. In reality, a pretty stern
struggle was going on, the officer commanding the Dragoons desiring
above all things to annex the person of the Princess, while at the
same time unwilling to embitter the fury of the people by further
slaughter. No firearms were used, but the troopers were employing
the flats of their swords to considerable purpose, and despite the
courage of the people and the support of the mutineers, the
protecting wedge between the Princess and the cavalry was being
appreciably diminished. Trafford saw that success must come quickly
or not at all.
"Let us pass, Captain," he went on. "There's been enough bloodshed
to-night. I don't want to hurt a good sportsman like yourself."
But Captain Von Hügelweiler was in no mood to yield to an implied
threat.
"To the devil with your kindness!" he cried wildly, brandishing his
sword with a defiant gesture. "Drop words and come to hand-grips,
_schweinhund_ of an American!"
These words would doubtless have had their effect on the excitable
Trafford had not the Princess grasped the vital danger of the moment.
In a twinkling she had risen to her feet and thrown out her arms
appealingly.
"Ulrich," she implored, "I want your help. The whole city is on my
side; will you alone stand between me and my ambition? Help me now,
and I can give you rewards beside which the King's Prize you failed
to win yesterday will seem a trivial and empty honour."
"I want no bribes," said the Captain between his teeth.
"I will make you captain of my body-guard," pursued the Princess in
tones of soft entreaty. "It will be your sacred duty to guard my
person day and night. Ulrich, for the sake of the old days at
Weissheim, will you let me pass?"
An anarchy of tangled emotions rioted through the Captain's brain.
He half-closed his eyes, and his whole form tottered like that of a
drunken man.
"Ulrich!" breathed the Princess.
There was a moment's silence, a life-time of twenty seconds, during
which the blood left the Captain's face and crowded his bursting
heart. Then came the jangling crash of steel on stone. Captain
Ulrich von Hügelweiler had thrown his sword on to the steps of the
prison-house.
"Soldiers, present arms!" he called out in a hoarse voice; and
between the ranks of saluting infantry the Princess and her followers
passed into the Strafeburg.