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World War Series
THE GUNS OF EUROPE
by
JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER
Author of "The Guns of Bull Run", "The Texan Triumph", etc.
Illustrated by Charles Wrenn
D. Appleton and Company
New York and London
1915
* * * * *
THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
The Star of Gettysburg
The Guns of Bull Run
The Scouts of Stonewall
The Guns of Shiloh
The Sword of Antietam
The Rock of Chickamauga (In preparation)
THE WORLD WAR SERIES
The Guns of Europe
The Hosts of the Air
The Forest of Swords
THE YOUNG TRAILERS SERIES
The Young Trailers
The Riflemen of the Ohio
The Forest Runners
The Scouts of the Valley
The Free Rangers
The Border Watch
THE TEXAN SERIES
The Texan Star
The Texan Scouts
The Texan Triumph
Apache Gold
A Soldier of Manhattan
The Quest of the Four
The Sun of Saratoga
The Last of the Chiefs
A Herald of the West
In Circling Camps
The Wilderness Road
My Captive
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Their careering machine made but a single
target while they could fire into the pursuing mass."]
FOREWORD
"The Guns of Europe" is the first of three connected romances, of which
"The Forest of Swords" and "The Hosts of the Air" are to be respectively
the second and third, dealing with the world war in Europe.
It was the singular fortune of the author to be present at the beginning
of this, the most gigantic struggle in the history of our globe. He was
in Vienna the day Austria-Hungary declared war upon Servia, thus setting
the torch that lighted the general conflagration. Returning westward, he
reached Munich the day Germany declared war upon Russia. He remained in
Germany nearly a month, having witnessed in turn the Austrian and German
mobilizations, and then arrived in England in time to see the gathering
of the British Empire's armed hosts.
He was also, upon his return, in Quebec when the greatest colony of the
British was rallying to their support. Such an experience at such an
extraordinary crisis makes ineffaceable impressions, and through his
characters, the author has striven his best to reproduce them in these
three romances.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE SISTINE MADONNA
CHAPTER II. THE THUNDERBOLT
CHAPTER III. THE REFUGE
CHAPTER IV. THE THRILLING ESCAPE
CHAPTER V. THE FIGHT IN THE BLUE
CHAPTER VI. ABOVE THE STORM
CHAPTER VII. THE ZEPPELIN
CHAPTER VIII. THE FRENCH DEFENSE
CHAPTER IX. THE RIDE OF THREE
CHAPTER X. THE DRAGONS OF THE AIR
CHAPTER XI. THE ARMORED CAR
CHAPTER XII. THE ABANDONED CHATEAU
CHAPTER XIII. ON THE ROOF
CHAPTER XIV. THE GERMAN HOST
CHAPTER XV. THE GIANT GUN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Their careering machine made but a single target while they could fire
into the pursuing mass."
"A second shot came presently from the forty-two centimeter."
"Overhead the aeroplanes swooped lower and lower, like gigantic birds."
"A vast red whirlwind in which the faces of men shone and steel
glittered."
THE GUNS OF EUROPE
CHAPTER I
THE SISTINE MADONNA
John turned a little to the left, going nearer to the window, where he
could gain a better view of the Madonna, which he had heard so often was
the most famous picture in the world. He was no technical judge of
painting--he was far too young for such knowledge--but he always
considered the effect of the whole upon himself, and he was satisfied
with that method, feeling perhaps that he gained more from it than if he
had been able to tear the master-work to pieces, merely in order to see
how Raphael had made it.
"Note well, John, that this is the Sistine Madonna," began William Anson
in his didactic, tutorial tone. "Observe the wonderful expression upon
the face of the Holy Mother. Look now at the cherubs gazing up into the
blue vault, in which the Madonna like an angel is poised. Behold the
sublime artist's mastery of every detail. There are those who hold that
the Madonna della Sedia at Florence is its equal in beauty and
greatness, but I do not agree with them. To me the Sistine Madonna is
always first. Centuries ago, even, its full worth was appreciated. It
brought a great price at----"
The rest of his speech trailed off into nothingness. John had
impatiently moved further away, and had deliberately closed his ear also
to any dying sounds of oratory that might reach him. He had his own
method of seeing the wonders of the Old World. He was interested or he
was not. It was to him a state of mind, atmospheric in a way. He liked
to breathe it in, and the rattle of a guide or tutor's lecture nearly
always broke the spell.
Anxious that Mr. Anson should not have any further chance to mar his
pleasure he moved yet closer to the great window from which came nearly
all the light that fell upon the Sistine Madonna. There he stood almost
in the center of the beams and gazed upon the illumined face, which
spoke only of peace upon earth and good will. He was moved deeply,
although there was no sign of it in his quiet eyes. He did not object to
emotion and to its vivid expression in others, but his shy nature,
feeling the need of a defensive armor, rejected it for himself.
It was a brighter day than the changeful climate of Dresden and the
valley of the Elbe usually offered. The sunshine came in a great golden
bar through the window and glowed over the wonderful painting which had
stood the test of time and the critics. He had liked the good, gray city
sitting beside its fine river. It had seemed friendly and kind to him,
having in it the quality of home, something almost American in its
simplicity and lack of caste.
They had arrived as soon as the doors were opened, and but few people
were yet in the room. John came from his mood of exaltation and glanced
at the others, every one in turn. Two women, evidently teachers, stood
squarely in front of the picture and looked alternately at the Madonna
and one of the red volumes that mark the advance of the American hosts
in Europe. A man with a thick, black beard, evidently a Russian, moved
incessantly back and forth, his feet keeping up a light shuffle on the
floor. John wondered why some northern races should be so emotional and
others so reserved. He had ceased to think that climate ruled
expression.
A stout German frau stood gazing in apparent stolidity. Yet she was not
so stolid as she seemed, because John caught a beam of appreciation in
her eye. Presently she turned and went out, doubtless returning to some
task of the thrifty housewife in this very city of Dresden. John thought
her emblematic of Germany, homely herself, but with the undying love of
the beautiful shown so freely in her fine cities, and in the parks,
gardens and fountains more numerous than in an other country.
Her place was taken by an officer in a uniform, subdued in color, but
martial. He was a tall, stiff man, and as he walked with a tread akin to
the goosestep his feet clanked upon the floor. He wore a helmet, the
cloth cover over the spike, but John noticed that he did not take off
the helmet in the presence of the Sistine Madonna. He moved to a place
in front of the picture, brushing against the sisterhood of the red
book, and making no apology. There he stood, indifferent to those about
him, holding himself as one superior, dominant by force, the lord by
right of rank over inferior beings.
John's heart swelled with a sense of resentment and hostility. He knew
perfectly well that the stranger was a Prussian officer--a strong man
too, both in mind and body. He stood upright, more than six feet tall,
his wide shoulders thrown well back, his large head set upon a powerful
neck. Reddish hair showed beneath the edges of the helmet, and the blue
eyes that gazed at the picture were dominant and masterful. He was about
thirty, just at the age when those who are strong have tested their
minds against other men in the real arena of life and find them good.
The heavy, protruding jaw and the compressed lips made upon John the
impression of power.
The picture grew somewhat dim. One of those rapid changes to which
Dresden is subject occurred. The sunshine faded and a grayness as of
twilight filtered into the room. The glances of the young American and
the Prussian officer turned away from the Madonna at the same time and
met.
John was conscious that the blue eyes were piercing into him, but he had
abundant courage and resolution and he gave back the look with a
firmness and steadiness, equal to the Prussian's own. The cold steel of
that glance rested upon him only for a few moments. It passed on,
dissected in an instant the two teachers with the red guide book, and
then the man walking, to the window, looked out at the gray walls of the
city.
John had not lowered his eyes before the intrusive gaze, but he felt now
as if he had been subjected to an electric current. He was at once angry
and indignant, but, resolving to throw it off, he shrugged his shoulders
a little, and turned to his older friend who was supposed to be comrade
and teacher at the same time.
Mr. Anson, the didactic strain, strong in him, recovered his importance,
and began to talk again. He did not confine himself any longer to the
Sistine Madonna, but talked of other pictures in the famous gallery, the
wonderful art of Rubens and Jordaens, although it seemed to John's
normal mind that they had devoted themselves chiefly to studies in fat.
But the longest lecture must come to an end, and as the inevitable crowd
gathered before the Madonna William Anson was forced by courtesy into
silence. The Prussian had already gone, still wearing his defiant
helmet, his sword swinging stiffly from his belt, his heavy boots
clanking on the floor.
"Did you notice that officer?" asked John.
"I gave him a casual glance. He is not different from the others. You
see them everywhere in Germany."
"He seemed typical to me. I don't recall another man who has impressed
me so much. To me he personified the great German military organization
which we are all so sure is invincible."
"And it _is_ invincible. Nothing like the German army has ever before
stood on this planet. A great race, strong in both body and mind, has
devoted itself for half a century to learning everything that is to be
learned about war. It's a magnificent machine, smooth, powerful,
tremendous, unconquerable, and for that very reason neither you nor I,
John, will ever see a war of the first magnitude in Europe. It would be
too destructive. The nations would shrink back, appalled. Besides, the
tide is the other way. Remember all those ministers who came over with
us on the boat to attend the peace conference at Constance."
John accepted readily all that Mr. Anson said, and the significance of
the Prussian, due he was sure to his own imagination, passed quickly
from his mind. But he was tired of pictures. He had found that he could
assimilate only a certain quantity, and after that all the rest, even be
they Raphael, Murillo and Rubens, became a mere blur.
"Let's go out and walk on the terraces over the river," he said.
"But many other famous pictures are here. We can't afford to go back to
America, and admit that we haven't seen some of the masterpieces of the
Dresden gallery."
John laughed.
"No, we can't," he said, "because if we do ignore a single one that's
the very one all our friends will tell us we should certainly have seen.
But my eyes are growing tired, there's a congestion in the back of my
head, and these polished floors have stiffened my ankles. Besides, we've
plenty of time, and we can come back as often as we wish."
"I suppose then that we must go," said Mr. Anson, reluctantly. "But one
should make the most of the opportunities for culture, vouchsafed to
him."
John made no reply. He had heard that note so often. Mr. Anson was
tremendous on "culture", and John thought it all right for him and
others like him, but he preferred his own methods for himself. He led
the way from the gallery and the older man followed reluctantly.
The sun, having gone behind the clouds, stayed there and Dresden was
still gray, but John liked it best in its sober colors. Then the homely
touch, the friendly feeling in the air were stronger. These people were
much like his own. Many of them could have passed for Americans, and
they welcomed as brethren those who came from beyond the Atlantic.
He looked from the Bruhl Terraces over the Elbe--a fine river too he
thought it--the galleries, the palaces, the opera house, the hotels, and
all the good gray city, beloved of English and Americans as well as
Germans.
"What is that buzzing and whirring, John?" asked Mr. Anson suddenly.
"Look up! Always look up, when you hear that sound, and you will see the
answer to your question written in the skies! There it goes! It's
passing over the portion of the city beyond the river."
The long black shape of the Zeppelin dirigible was outlined clearly, as
it moved off swiftly toward the southwest. It did not seem to diminish
in size, as it left the city, but hung huge and somber against the sky,
its whirr and buzz still audible.
"An interesting toy," said Mr. Anson.
"If a toy, it's certainly a gigantic one," said John.
"Tremendous in size, but a toy nevertheless."
"We're going up in it you know."
"Are you still bent upon that wild flight?"
"Why there's no danger. Herr Simmering, the proprietor of our hotel,
chartered a dirigible last week, and took up all the guests who were
willing to pay and go. I've talked to some of them and they say it was a
wonderful experience. You remember that he's chartered another for next
week, and you promised me we could go."
"Yes, I promised, but I thought at the time that something would surely
happen to prevent it."
"Indian promises! I won't let you back out now!"
William Anson sighed. His was a sober mind. He liked the solid earth for
his travels, and he would fain leave the air to others. The daring of
young John Scott, for whom he felt in a measure responsible, often
alarmed him, but John concealed under his quiet face and manner an
immense fund of resolution.
"Suppose we go to the hotel," Mr. Anson said. "The air is rather keen
and I'm growing hungry."
"First call in the dining-car," said John, "and I come."
"I notice that you're always eager for the table, although you shirk the
pictures and statues, now and then."
"It's merely the necessity of nature, Mr. Anson. The paint and marble
will do any time."
William Anson smiled. He liked his young comrade, all the more so
perhaps because they were so different. John supplied the daring and
adventurous spirit that he lacked, and the youth had enough for two.
"I wonder if any new people have come," said John, as they walked down
the steps from the terrace. "Don't think I'm weak on culture, Mr. Anson,
but it's always interesting to me to go back to the hotel, see what
fresh types have appeared, and guess from what countries they have
come."
"The refuge of a lazy mind which is unwilling to cope with its
opportunities for learning and progress. John, I feel sometimes that you
are almost hopeless. You have a frivolous strain that you ought to get
rid of as soon as you can."
"Well, sir, I had to laugh at those fat Venuses of Rubens and Jordaens.
They may be art, but I never thought that Venus weighed three hundred
pounds. I know those two painters had to advertise all through the Low
Countries, before they could get models fat enough."
"Stop, John! Is nothing sacred to you?"
"A lady can be too fat to be sacred."
Mr. Anson shook his head. He always stood impressed, and perhaps a
little awed before centuries of culture, and he failed to understand how
any one could challenge the accepted past. John's Philistine spirit,
which he deemed all the more irregular in one so young pained him at
times. Yet it was more assumed than real with young Scott.
They reached their hotel and passed into the dining-room, where both did
full justice to the good German food. John did not fail to make his
usual inspection of guests, but he started a little, when he saw the
Prussian officer of the gallery, alone at a table by a window
overlooking the Elbe. It was one of the pleasantest views in Europe, but
John knew very well that the man was thinking little of it. His jaw had
not lost is pugnacious thrust, and he snapped his orders to the waiter
as if he were rebuking a recruit.
Nobody had told John that he was a Prussian, but the young American knew
it nevertheless, and he knew him to be a product, out of the very heart
of that iron military system, before which the whole world stood afraid,
buttressed as it was by tremendous victories over France, and a state of
readiness known to be without an equal.
Herr Simmering, fat, bland and bald, was bending over them, asking them
solicitously if all was right. John always liked this bit of personal
attention from the European hotel proprietors. It established a friendly
feeling. It showed that one was not lost among the swarm of guests, and
here in Germany it invariably made his heart warm to the civilians.
"Can you tell us, Herr Simmering," he asked, "who is the officer alone
in the alcove by the window?"
Herr Gustav Adolph Simmering, the soul of blandness and courtesy,
stiffened in an instant. With the asking of that simple question he
seemed to breathe a new and surcharged air. He lost his expansiveness in
the presence of the German army or any representative of it. Lowering
his voice he replied:
"A captain attached in some capacity to the General Staff in Berlin.
Rudolf von Boehlen is his name. It is said that he has high connections,
a distant cousin of the von Moltkes, in much favor, too, with the
Emperor."
"Do Prussian officers have to come here and tell the Saxons what to do?"
The good Herr Simmering spread out his hands in horror. These simple
Americans surely asked strange and intrusive questions. One could
forgive them only because they were so open, so much like innocent
children, and, unlike those disagreeable English, quarreled so little
about their bills.
"I know no more," he replied. "Here in Germany we never ask why an
officer comes and goes. We trust implicitly in the Emperor and his
advisers who have guarded us so well, and we do not wish to learn the
higher secrets of state. We know that such knowledge is not for us."
Dignified and slow, as became an important landlord, he nevertheless
went away with enough haste to indicate clearly to John that he wished
to avoid any more questions about the Prussian officer. John was
annoyed. He felt a touch of shame for Herr Simmering.
"I wish the Germans wouldn't stand in such tremendous awe of their own
army," he said. "They seem to regard it as some mysterious and
omnipotent force which is always right."
"Don't forget their education and training, John. The great German
empire has risen upon the victories of 1870, and if ever war between
them should come again Germany could smash France as easily as she did
then."
"I could never become reconciled to the spectacle of an empire treading
a republic into the earth."
Mr. Anson smiled. He had dined well, and he was at peace with the earth.
"Names mean little," he said indulgently.
John did not reply, but his under jaw thrust forward in a pugnacious
manner, startlingly like that of the Prussian. The officer, although no
word had passed between them, nor even a glance of real hostility had
aroused a stubborn antagonism, increased by the obvious awe of Herr
Simmering and the deference paid to him by the whole establishment of
the hotel.
He saw Captain von Boehlen go out, and drawn by a vague resolve he
excused himself, abandoning Mr. Anson who was still trifling pleasantly
with the fruit, and also left the dining-room. He saw the captain
receive his helmet from an obsequious waiter, put it on his head and
walk into the parlor, his heavy boots as usual clanking upon the
polished floor. In the final analysis it was this very act of keeping
his helmet on, no matter where he was, that repelled young Scott and
aroused his keen enmity.
John went to the smoking-room. Von Boehlen lingered a moment or two in
the parlor, and then took his way also down the narrow passage to the
smoking-room. It was perhaps a part of the American's vague plan that he
should decide suddenly to go by the same way to the parlor. Hence it was
inevitable that they should meet if Captain von Boehlen kept his
course--an invariable one with him--in the very center of the hall. John
liked the center of the hall, too, particularly on that day. He was tall
and strong and he knew that he would have the advantage of readiness,
which everybody said was the cardinal virtue of the Prussian army.
Just before they reached the point of contact the Prussian started back
with a muttered oath of surprise and annoyance. His hand flew to the
hilt of his sword, and then came away again. John watching him closely
was sure that hand and hilt would not have parted company so readily had
it been a German civilian who was claiming with Captain Rudolf von
Boehlen an equal share of the way.
But John saw the angry flash in the eyes of the Prussian die suddenly
like a light put out by a puff of wind, and the compressed line of the
lips relax. He knew that it was not the result of innate feeling, but of
a mental effort made by von Boehlen, and he surmised that the fact of
his being a foreigner had all to do with it. Yet he waited for the other
to apologize first.
"Pardon," said the captain, "it is somewhat dark here, and as I was
absorbed in thought. I did not notice you."
His English was excellent and his manner polite enough. John could do
nothing less than respond in kind.
"It was perhaps my fault more than yours," he said.
The face of Captain von Boehlen relaxed yet further into a smile.
"You are an American," he said, "a member of an amiable race, our
welcome guests in Europe. What could our hotels and museums do without
you?"
When he smiled he showed splendid white teeth, sharp and powerful. His
manner, too, had become compelling. John could not now deny its charm.
Perhaps his first estimate of Captain von Boehlen had been wrong.
"It is true that we come in shoals," he responded. "Sometimes I'm not
sure whether we're welcome to the general population."
"Oh, yes, you are. The Americans are the spoiled children of Europe."
"At least we are the children of Europe. The people on both sides of the
Atlantic are apt to forget that. We're transplanted Europeans. The
Indians are the only people of the original American stock."
"But you are not Europeans. One can always tell the difference. You
speak English, but you are not English. I should never take an American
for an Englishman."
"But our basis is British. Despite all the infusions of other bloods,
and they've been large, Great Britain is our mother country. I feel it
myself."
Von Boehlen smiled tranquilly.
"Great Britain has always been your chief enemy," he said. "You have
been at war with her twice, and in your civil war, when you were in dire
straits her predominant classes not only wished for your destruction,
but did what they could to achieve it."
"Old deeds," said John. "The bad things of fifty or a hundred years ago
are dead and buried."
But the Prussian would not have it so. Germany, he said, was the chief
friend of America. Their peoples, he insisted, were united not only by a
tie of blood, but by points of view, similar in so many important cases.
He seemed for some inscrutable reason anxious to convince one as young
as his listener, and he employed a smoothness of speech and a charm of
manner that John in the morning in the gallery would have thought
impossible in one so stiff and haughty. The spell that this man was able
to cast increased, and yet he was always conscious of a pitiless
strength behind it.
John presently found himself telling his name, how he was traveling with
William Anson, older than himself, and in a way both a comrade and a
tutor, how he expected to meet his uncle, James Pomeroy, a United States
Senator, in Vienna, and his intention of returning to America early in
the autumn to finish his course at the university.
"I should like to see that America of yours," said von Boehlen, after he
had told something of himself, "but I fear it is not to be this year."
"You stay in Dresden long?" asked John.
"No, I leave tonight, but we may meet again, and then you can tell me
more of that far western world, so vast and so interesting, but of which
we Europeans really know so little."
John noticed that he did not tell where he was going. But he surmised
that Prussian army officers usually kept their destination to
themselves. His talk with von Boehlen had impressed him more than ever
with the size, speed and overwhelming power of the German army machine.
It was not possible for anything to stand before it, and the mystery
that clothed it around imparted to it a superhuman quality.
But he brushed away such thoughts. The sun was shining again. It danced
in a myriad golden beams over the Elbe, it clothed in warmth the kindly
city, and von Boehlen, with a politeness that was now unimpeachable rose
to tell him good-bye. He acknowledged to himself that he felt a little
flattered by the man's attention, and his courtesy was equal to that of
the Prussian. Then the officer, dropping his hand to the hilt of his
sword, apparently a favorite gesture, stalked away.
It was John's first impulse to tell Mr. Anson of his talk with von
Boehlen, but he obeyed his second and kept it to himself. Even after he
was gone the feeling that some motive was behind the Prussian's
blandness remained.
A letter came that afternoon from his uncle, the Senator. He was in
Vienna, and he wished his nephew and Mr. Anson to join him there,
cutting short their stay in Dresden. They could come by the way of
Prague, and a day or two spent in that old Bohemian city would repay
them. John showed the letter to Mr. Anson, who agreed with him that a
wish from the Senator was in reality a command, and should be obeyed
promptly.
John, although he liked Dresden, had but one regret. He could not go up
in the Zeppelin dirigible and he hastened to tell Herr Simmering that
his entry was withdrawn.
"I'll have to cut out the dirigible," he said in his colloquial tongue.
"Perhaps you can find somebody to take my place."
"Perhaps," said the landlord, "and on the other hand it may be that the
dirigible will not go up for me.
"Why? I thought you had chartered it for a second trip."
Herr Simmering compressed his lips. John saw that, under impulse, he had
said more than he intended. It was an objection of his to Germany--this
constant secrecy and mystery that seemed to him not only useless but
against the natural flow of human nature.
"Are all the Zeppelins confiscated by the government?" he asked,
speaking wholly at random.
Herr Simmering started. Fat and smooth, he shot a single, menacing
glance at the young American. But, in a moment, he was smiling again and
John had not noticed.
"Our government never tells its plans," he said. "Mr. Anson says that
you leave tomorrow for Prague."
"Yes," said John curiously, "and I can almost infer from your tone, Herr
Simmering, that you will be glad to see us go."
But Herr Simmering protested earnestly that he never liked to lose
paying guests, above all those delightful Americans, who had so much
appreciation and who made so little trouble. The German soul and the
American soul were akin.
"Well, we do like your country and your people," said John. "That's the
reason we come here so much."
In the evening, while Mr. Anson was absorbed in the latest English
newspapers which had just come in, John went out for a walk. His
favorite method of seeing a European city was to stroll the streets, and
using his own phrase to "soak" it in.
He passed now down the street which led by the very edge of the Elbe,
and watched the long freight boats go by, lowering their smokestacks as
they went under the bridges. The night was cloudy, and the city behind
him became dusky in the mists and darkness. Dresden was strangely quiet,
too, but he soon forgot it, as he moved back into the past.
The past, not the details, but the dim forgotten life, always made a
powerful appeal to John. He had read that Dresden began with a little
fishing village, and now he was trying to imagine the tawny men of a
thousand years ago, in their rude canoes, casting their nets and lines
in the river which flowed so darkly before him. But the mood did not
endure long. He strolled presently upon the terraces and then back
toward the king's palace, drawn there by a great shouting.
As he approached the building he became conscious that an event of
interest was occurring. A huge crowd had gathered, and the youth of it
was demonstrating with energy, cheering and breaking soon into national
songs.
John pressed into the edge of the crowd, eager to know what it was all
about, but not yet able to see over the heads of the close ranks in
front of him. "What is it? What is it?" he asked of several, but they
merely shrugged their shoulders, unable to understand English.
John was angry at himself once more for knowing nothing of German. The
whole life of a nation flowed past him, and all of it was mysterious,
merely because he did not have that little trick of tongue. He caught
sight at last of a man in an automobile that moved very slowly in the
heart of the crowd, the people fairly pressed against the body of the
machine. It was obvious that the stranger furnished the occasion for the
cheering and the songs, and John repeated his questions, hoping that he
would ultimately encounter some one in this benighted multitude who
understood English.
His hope was not in vain. A man told him that it was the King of Saxony
returning to his capital and palace. John then drew away in some
distaste. He did not see why the whole population of a city, even though
they were monarchists, should go wild over the coming home of a
sovereign. Doubtless the King of Saxony, who was not so young, had come
home thousands of times before, and there must be something servile in a
people who made such an old story an occasion for a sort of worship.
He pushed his way out of the crowd and returned to the terrace. But the
noise of the shouting and the singing reached him there. Now it was
mostly singing, and it showed uncommon fervor. John shrugged his
shoulders. He liked such an unreasonable display less than ever, and
walked far along the river, until no sound from the crowd reached him.
When he returned toward the hotel everybody had gone, save a few
policemen, and John hoped that the king was not only in his palace, but
was sound asleep. It must be a great tax upon Saxon energy to
demonstrate so heavily every time he came back to the palace, perhaps
from nothing more than a drive. He found that Mr. Anson, having
exhausted the newspapers, had gone to his room, and pleasantly weary in
both body and mind, he sought his own bed.