The Pariserhof, whither Mrs. Saunders betook herself at her husband's
desire, was sufficiently safe, both from its situation and character,
to form a rallying point for non-combatants of both sexes and diverse
nationalities. From its upper stories an excellent view of the
hostilities could be obtained, and in its cellars there was not only
efficient shelter from chance missiles, but a considerable mitigation
of the thunder of artillery. The latter apartments, therefore, were
crowded with old ladies and young children, with a sprinkling of
sensitive males who had come to Weissheim to recover nerve-tone
rather than to listen to gun-fire. On the flat roof over the great
dining-hall Mrs. Saunders was standing, field-glasses in hand,
surveying the operations with a steady and critical gaze. Most often
her glasses were directed towards the Marienkastel, against which the
forces of the invading party were being gradually focussed; but no
sound passed her lips, neither did the fine, white fingers that held
the field-glasses twitch or tremble in the least degree. Hers was
the curious, irrational pride that prefers to hide its suffering,
though the suffering be doubled by the effort of concealment.
A few adventurous spirits had sallied forth to other points of
vantage, where they could get a better, though less secure, view of
the rare spectacle afforded by the fateful day. But for once the
curling-rink and skating-rink belonging to the hotel were deserted;
for once the surface of the ice-runs was unscarred by the iron
runners of innumerable toboggans. Only on Major Flannel's private
rink,--not far from the Marienkastel itself,--the contest for the
Flannel Cup was proceeding as though the day was a day of sport and
not of war. The keenest curlers in Weissheim were there: "Skipper"
Fraser, the sandy Scot, whose perky humour lent such spice and
piquancy to the most tragic moments of the game; Major Flannel
himself, roaring out his commands, reproaches, and encouragements in
a voice which easily made itself heard through the growing din of
battle; Strudwick, the gigantic American, who could always be relied
on when a "knock-out" shot was required; little Hobbs, the
Englishman, who sent down his stones in an unorthodox manner, but
always within an inch of where his "skipper" wanted them, so that a
particularly brilliant shot came to be known, not as a "beauty" or a
"daisy," but as a "Jimmy Hobbs."
But all the while Bernhardt had been developing his plans with the
deliberate skill of a born general. He had forced the enemy to
unmask the batteries that guarded the lower part of the town. These
he could have forced at a price, had he willed, for, though cunningly
constructed, snow ramparts are not an effective protection even
against rifle fire. But to have done this would have meant long
hours of heavy loss, with the grim prospect of stern street fighting
when the last redoubt yielded to his superior forces. Could he
capture the Marienkastel and establish the few pieces of artillery he
had brought so laboriously with him, the town would be at his mercy,
and he could make,--as he had said,--any terms he wished. By eleven
o'clock the movement against the old Schloss commenced in earnest.
Bernhardt might have brought his guns to bear on the ancient masonry,
but there were sentimental reasons for not reducing the historic pile
to a heap of rubble; nor was he the man to waste time in an artillery
duel if the place could possibly be taken by a _coup de main_. The
Marienkastel must be restored intact to its rightful owner and peace
dictated to the dethroned monarch before the sun sank to rest behind
the western mountains.
So Saunders,--watching the course of operations from a lofty
tower,--perceived imposing bodies of Infantry approaching against him
on three sides. On they came on their skis over the soft
snow--Guides in extended order to the right, Sharpshooters cresting a
low bluff to the left, and throwing up a hasty entrenchment of snow
with the evident intention of holding the hill against any
retaliatory turning movement on the part of the garrison; and in the
centre,--clinging to the wooded ground,--came a powerful force of
Guards in their winter fighting garb of white. In the extreme rear
was Gloria with the reserve, guarding the ammunition sleighs and a
battery of field guns.
Between the invaders and the Schloss lay the bob-sleigh run, and
Saunders,--expecting a bombardment of the Marienkastel,--had filled
the track with a strong advance guard of his men. The bob-run made
an excellent trench, and fortunately at this point had but a very
slight declivity, so that the men found no difficulty in retaining
their position on its glassy surface. The track indeed started high
up by the Marienkastel, just above Major Flannel's curling-rink, and
began with a tremendously steep S-shaped curve, known as "The Castle
Leap"; then it went straight for a bit and almost level, then wound
round again with gradually increasing steepness, and so on in a
succession of curves and bends till it joined the main road some
thousand feet below, near the hamlet of Riefinsdorf.
But before a shot was fired against the castle a small party was seen
approaching under a white flag. Through his field-glasses Saunders
detected the form of his friend Trafford accompanied by a couple of
officers, all on skis. Instantly Saunders sent out a corresponding
party, also under the white flag. Trafford, having expressed a
desire to see the officer commanding the Schloss, was blindfolded,
together with his two satellites, and conducted through the lines of
the defence to the enceinte of the Marienkastel.
"You are in the presence of the Commander," said the officer who had
conducted him to the courtyard, where Saunders was awaiting him.
"What is it you have to say?"
"My message is brief," said Trafford, speaking in German, and
saluting his unseen adversary. "It can be framed in one
word--surrender!"
"And it can be answered in one word," replied the Commander of the
Marienkastel, also in German. "And in a good English word--'No.'"
"Saunders, by all that's wonderful!" ejaculated Trafford.
"The same, dear disturber of the peace."
"Then that makes things much easier. I am a humane man, as you know,
and I have no particular desire to kill or be killed. We are in a
position to take this eligible chateau, which belongs of right to the
lady I am privileged to call Queen. But in the taking you will
probably hurt a few of my loyal and trusty followers, and we shall
certainly damage some of yours. My suggestion is, that you should
evacuate with the full honours of war, retaining all arms and
standards, and playing any drums, bugles, or other instruments of
military music you may chance to possess."
"And in return for our obliging courtesy?"
"We will give a free amnesty to all who have taken part against her
gracious Majesty Queen Gloria. As for one Karl, styling himself King
of Grimland, he can live anywhere he likes outside the territories,
possessions, and dependencies of the aforesaid Gloria, and he will be
granted a revenue of one hundred thousand kronen per annum from the
royal treasury."
"The proposition is dazzlingly attractive," returned Saunders. "But
I regret that I must refuse. My orders leave me no alternative."
"Nonsense!" said Trafford warmly: "Here are we, two Anglo-Saxons in
the middle of a host of benighted foreigners ready to fly at each
others' throats! What nobler or more dignified proceeding than to
make terms over their heads, prevent bloodshed, establish peace, and
inaugurate an era of good-will and prosperity?"
"A most ennobling idea," agreed Saunders, "and one which can easily
be carried out by your renouncing your schemes of robbery and
usurpation. If you agree to lay down your arms, and throw yourself
on the mercy of my royal master, I will use my influence with
him--which is considerable--to grant a full amnesty to all traitors,
rebels, and discontents, including yourself."
"Enough jesting!" cried Trafford. "Gloria owns nine-tenths of the
country, and we have a sufficient force with us to take Weissheim two
or three times over. I want to save life--she wants to save life.
We have no time to waste. Will you surrender--yes or no?"
"No!"
Trafford stretched out his hand blindly in the direction of his
friend.
"Good-bye!" he said soberly. "In ten minutes we shall be potting at
each other. I hope it won't be our misfortune to hit each other."
"Good-bye!" replied Saunders, gripping his enemy's hand with a strong
pressure. "I share your wish to the full. I regret that
circumstances do not find us on the same side, but the fault is none
of my making."
There was a momentary silence and in that silence was audible a
peculiar humming, grinding roar, the penetrating music of granite
bowls gliding over thick ice.
"What's that?" asked Trafford.
"Curling," replied Saunders. "A match on Major Flannel's rink."
"Where's that?" As much of Trafford's face as was visible under the
bandage looked thoughtful.
"Two hundred yards above us in a hollow near the start of the
bob-run. Why?"
"Nothing," said Trafford. "Only they ought to be warned that they
are playing a dangerous game. A chance shot might convert a pleasant
pastime into a black tragedy."
"I sent to warn them half an hour ago," replied Saunders, "but the
sole reply was that they were having a most interesting match, and
that they hoped I should have equally good sport."
Trafford laughed and gave his friend a final hand-grip.
"Good-bye, again," he said. "I respect your decision to stick to
your post--but it is a pity,--a great pity."