_A SOLDIER OF THE RIGHT SORT._
I stood for several minutes between the palace and the great church
trying to draw some breath into my lungs, for the pressure of the crowd
had left me like a squeezed lemon.
To search for the missing Rakoczy was useless labour, but it might be
possible to return to the narrow street where I had last seen my
brother.
I soon discovered, however, that the short delay had put that also out
of the question. The people were pouring into the Place; and, though
the terrible stress had been lessened, I was still a prisoner, blocked
in on all sides by the tumultuous throng.
The huge bell in the tower of St. Stephen's clanged out its brazen peals
of warning and menace, and a sharp musketry fire told me that fierce
fighting was going on in the very shadow of the sacred edifice.
A handful of loyal National Guards, faithful to their oaths, and led by
a brave commander, were, like good men and true, sacrificing their lives
in the performance of duty.
Of course, the contest was a hopeless one; but the men stood their
ground bravely, and I guessed from the savage cries of the rioters that
the faithful few were selling their lives dearly.
From where I stood nothing could be seen save the heads of the populace;
but the surging of the crowd backward and forward showed how the fight
progressed.
Clang! clang! pealed the great bell, swinging high in the air, while
below the whirr and rattle of musketry mingled with the frantic shouts
of the people.
A louder yell than usual proclaimed that something decisive had
occurred, and soon the news spread to the very outermost of the packed
onlookers.
"Now they have them! Into the church! Follow them up! Well done,
brave Nationals! Well done, students! Now we'll see who's to be
master!"
It was even so. The gallant band, overwhelmed by numbers, had fallen
back foot by foot, until the insurgents by one wild rush had forced them
into the cathedral, where their leader was slain on the high altar
itself.
All this I learned only from the conversation of the people, being
unable to see anything for myself.
But from what happened next I might easily have known the end had come.
From the middle of the throng a cry rose, and the multitude in their
thousands took it up, shouting wildly, "Latour! Death to Latour!"
This way and that they rushed, some to the south, some to the north of
the Place, seeking any outlet which would lead them to the hotel of the
minister of war.
In an instant I was caught up and hurried off out of the Place, across a
wide street, then into a network of narrow ones, until I was stopped
with the rest in front of the hotel where lived Count Latour.
Was he still there? There had been ample time for escape, and I hoped
against hope that he had taken advantage of it; but, remembering the
calm, proud face of the man, I had my doubts.
The gates were closed; the soldiers, scanty in numbers but well
disciplined, stood at their posts, eyeing the frenzied mob with
contempt.
Some of the students at once opened fire; the soldiers replied, and, the
target being so broad, every bullet lodged somewhere.
Inside the building Count Latour was holding a council of war, and the
members, fearful lest in the growing excitement the monarchy itself
should be swept away, prevailed on him to issue the order to cease
firing.
This of course paralyzed the action of the loyal troops, both at the
hotel and at the barracks, while the spirits of the rebels were
proportionately raised.
From the conversation of those near me, I gathered that their surprise
was equal to their delight, but they gave no thought to the humanity of
those in power.
The fearful cry, "Death to Latour!" was again raised. The gates were
threatened. The soldiers, prevented from firing by the order of the
council, were unable to act. Fresh bodies of rioters came swarming from
various directions. The pressure grew terrible; the gates--I suppose,
as I could see nothing--gave way; the courtyard was filled with the
noisy, shouting, bloodthirsty pack; the doors of the great building were
smashed like glass; and the crowd, screaming and struggling, surged up
the broad staircase.
At the first rush some were thrown violently against the outer walls;
others, by no power of their own, were carried into the interior of the
building, and fate so willed that I belonged to the latter portion. The
name of the gallant old count was on the lips of every one, as if he
were responsible for all the ills in the world, so easy is it to inflame
the passions of a mob which does not think for itself.
It was on the first landing that we received a slight check.
A few National Guards, still loyal to their pledges, attempted to stem
the human torrent. Their success was only momentary, and they were
borne back, but not dispersed.
Here the crowd broke up, some running one way, some another, but all
intent on killing Count Latour.
I followed the Nationals, thinking they would most likely retire in the
direction of the council chamber.
This they did, and that apartment was speedily filled. I caught a
glimpse of Latour, round whom the handful of loyalists pressed. His
face was pale; otherwise he showed no sign of fear, but gazed calmly on
the throng of butchers. Once he made an attempt to speak, but his words
were drowned in the tumult.
"Kill Latour!" was the savage cry. Beyond that one scarcely heard
anything.
However, the brave Nationals resolved to make a fight of it, and by a
stroke of great good fortune I managed to join them.
"Long live Latour! Long live the gallant count!" I cried, with all the
strength of my lungs, and his defenders echoed the cry.
But the others drowned our shouts with "Kill Latour!" and one man,
towering above the rest, sprang at the count with uplifted axe.
It was the burly ruffian who had walked with us a short time in the
morning, and at sight of me his face grew black as a thunder-cloud.
"Traitor!" he shouted, and, swinging round, aimed his axe full at my
head.
There was little time for action, much less for thought; but, having my
pistol free, I levelled it swiftly, and shot the truculent bully dead.
The count threw me a glance of gratitude mingled with pity; and in truth
it appeared as if I needed the latter.
The insurgents rushed at us, bore us back, flung themselves into our
midst, and, acting like wedges, split us into small groups.
I found myself in front of Latour, where the fighting was fiercest, and
emptied my pistol recklessly into the crowd.
The bullets cleared a space, but it was soon reoccupied. Most of the
loyalists were overpowered and disarmed, and now their opponents came to
help seize Latour.
Planting my feet firmly on the ground, I stood by the side of the
veteran, and did my best to save him.
The attempt failed; it was hopeless from the start, and the end came
very suddenly.
There were scarcely half a dozen of us all told, standing shoulder to
shoulder, to stay the rush, and we toppled over like so many wooden
pegs.
I lay on the floor half stunned, with the body of a man right across my
chest. He was badly hurt, and kept moaning feebly.
For several minutes I was unable to rise, or even to move, and during
that time the noise of the fighting grew less and less distinct, finally
dying away altogether.
The shouts of the populace, however, continued to ascend from the
courtyard, and could be plainly heard through the open windows.
As soon as I had recovered a little strength, I shifted the wounded man
gently, and stood up.
The rioters had left the apartment; only the dead and those seriously
injured remained, and amongst these I looked in vain for Latour.
Had they spared his life? The idea seemed too good for truth, but it
was just possible.
Picking up an abandoned sword, I made my way from the chamber to the
staircase. Several bodies lay where they had fallen; otherwise the
place was empty.
I ran down to the first landing, and overtook a frightened, pale-faced
man--a servant, probably, belonging to the hotel. The fellow looked at
me with such a comical expression of woe, that, in spite of the day's
work, I could hardly refrain from laughing.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," I said, slapping him on the shoulder.
"I'm not going to eat you. What have the rebels done with Count
Latour?"
The man's eyes opened wider than before. He bowed his head and mumbled
some words which I could not understand.
"Speak up!" I cried sharply, "or, by the honour of a Botskay, I'll throw
you over the balustrade."
The threat reduced him to a state bordering on imbecility. He made no
attempt to speak, but, plucking at my cloak like a chidden dog, led me
into a small chamber having a window which overlooked the courtyard.
What I saw there held me spellbound; and the man, seeing he was no
longer noticed, quietly slipped off.
Outside, Count Latour, the minister of war, the veteran general who had
carried the black and yellow flag to victory a score of times, who over
and over again had risked his life to uphold the honour of his country,
hung, battered and dead, suspended from a lamp-post.
The mob still lingered about, but in smaller numbers; the most violent
had departed to pursue their work of butchery elsewhere.
Many of the disloyal National Guards, who found it easier work to insult
a dead man than to combat a living one, swaggered about, looking fierce
and truculent. Some decently-dressed citizens regarded the murdered
count, it appeared to me, with pity and sorrow; even to some of the
insurgents remorse had come with terrible swiftness.
The students and men of the slums had gone--the former to fight, the
latter most likely to plunder. More peaceable people helped to fill up
the gap thus caused.
I left the room and descended the stairs slowly, thinking of Stephen.
Where was he? Had he been killed by that terrible crush in the narrow
street? Perhaps he was still there, hurt and unable to move. I must go
and find out.
On the lower part of the staircase I met numbers of citizens coming to
view the scene of the struggle.
I stood aside to let them pass, and they, recognizing my nationality,
saluted me with the cry of "Long live Hungary!" I thought of the dead
man outside, and the blood surged to my face.
In the courtyard there was room to move freely, and, anxious on my
brother's account, I was hurrying away, when the sound of a girl's voice
coming from the left caused me to stop.
A low, angry growl from a section of the onlookers told me something was
wrong, and I ran to the spot.
A young girl, evidently of high birth, stood facing a group of
Nationals. Her head was uncovered, and her hair hung down her back in a
thick, wavy, chestnut-coloured mass. She had a beautiful face, sweet
and fresh as the morning; her features were regular and refined; her
dark-blue eyes were of wonderful depth and expression.
She was slightly, almost delicately framed, and little more than a child
in years; but the inherited pride of centuries burned in her face, and
she confronted the citizen soldiers fearlessly.
Standing erect, with her head thrown back defiantly, she pointed to the
body of the murdered man, and, with a superb gesture of scorn, exclaimed
in a ringing voice, "You pitiful cowards!"
The crowd murmured, some in sympathy, others in anger. Several of the
Nationals moved as if to chastise the speaker, but she did not quail.
One, a bigger poltroon than his fellows, placed his hand on her arm; but
at that instant I sprang to the girl's side and sent the aggressor
sprawling.
"It is true!" I cried recklessly. "You are a pack of cowards to murder
an aged and unarmed man!"
"A Hungarian and a traitor!" shouted a voice from the crowd.
"No traitor," I replied, "as I hope my sword may prove; but no assassin
either."
"Don't be a fool," said the unseen speaker, but using now the Hungarian
tongue. "What is the daughter of an Austrian noble to you? These
others are our friends, and they have done no worse than we did in
Pesth."
"Knock him on the head, and the girl too!" cried one of the soldiers;
but he kept clear of the sword which I had brought from the council
chamber.
"Leave me, sir," implored the high-spirited girl. "The butchers will
kill you. I do not fear them."
I looked at her in smiling admiration, and said, "A Magyar does not
leave a lady in distress. Permit me to take you away from this crowd."
Thinking perhaps of my danger, she shuddered slightly, and passed her
arm within mine, while I prepared to guard her with my life.
We might have escaped without further trouble, but for the action of one
of the Nationals, who, angered by the girl's taunts, threw himself
across our path.
I requested him to stand back, but he refused insolently, and
endeavoured to run me through with his bayonet.
At this several of his comrades came to his assistance, and there was
nothing for it but to cut my way out.
Some of the citizens now interfered, crying "Shame" on the soldiers for
attacking a girl; and, while our opponents stood undecided, I received a
welcome though unexpected reinforcement.
There was a movement in the crowd as of a person pushing his way
through; and all at once I beheld my brother, who, crying, "A Botskay to
the rescue!" sprang between us and the soldiers.
In either hand he held a loaded pistol, and there was an air of
determination in his handsome face which showed he would not hesitate to
fire.
I had just told the girl who the newcomer was, when a second man broke
through the crowd and joined us.
A giant of a fellow he was, wearing a round hat and furred coat, and
carrying in his hand a ponderous club which would have crushed the skull
of an ox.
My fair companion cried delightedly, "Franz! Franz!" and the man bowed
to her with an air of respectful deference.
His countenance was of a ruddy colour, his hair sandy; he had pleasant
blue eyes, a cheerful face, and the massive limbs of an athlete.
"Make way there!" he cried, twirling his tremendous club as if it had
been a soldier's cane; "make way there for the Fraeulein von Arnstein!"
A portion of the spectators, crying, "Room for the Fraeulein von
Arnstein!" hustled the soldiers, who, being pressed by Franz and
Stephen, sullenly began to give ground.
The movement was very slow, and we had not made much progress when a
young man rode into the courtyard, and was received with round after
round of cheering.
He was dressed in civilian costume, but wore in addition a broad red
sash and a red cockade in his hat.
Who or what he was I did not know, but he was plainly a person of
importance amongst the rebels.
At sight of our companion his face expressed the broadest astonishment,
and leaping to the ground he advanced quickly towards her.
Speaking in a soft, silky voice and using polished, well-turned phrases,
he expressed his regret at the conduct of the Nationals, and offered to
accompany her home.
"You will encounter neither danger nor insult while with me," he
concluded smilingly.
The girl looked at him in genuine scorn.
"Your offer comes too late," she said coldly. "These two gentlemen and
my servant Franz are ready to protect me from all the cut-throats in
Vienna, either in or out of uniform."
The stranger's face turned white, but his eyes burned like fire, and I
prepared for mischief.
He controlled his passion, however, bowed low, and made a sign to the
Nationals, who stood back, leaving the way to the gates clear.
As for the girl, she took no further notice of him, but, still leaning
on my arm, walked out haughtily.
Franz marched in front with his club, Stephen, who had replaced his
pistols, followed, while we two brought up the rear.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation, owing to the shouting; and
indeed it suited me well enough to walk in silence, and to glance from
time to time at the face of my beautiful companion.
At last Franz stopped before a large house, and the fraeulein, making a
gracious inclination of the head, begged us to enter, that her mother
might thank us for what we had done.
Stephen, who cared little for the society of ladies, would have declined
the honour, but I did not give him the chance, thanking her myself for
her courtesy.
So the three of us--the lady leading--passed over the threshold, and,
traversing a wide hall, mounted a stately staircase, which led to a
magnificent apartment, as sumptuously furnished as any I had seen in
Paris.
Here we were left by our charming guide, who, however, shortly returned
with an older lady, grave and ceremonious, but no doubt kindly at heart.
This was the Baroness von Arnstein, the mother of the proud yet dainty
girl, whom she called Theresa, and the wife of an officer highly placed
in the army commanded by Prince Windischgratz.
The baroness listened to her daughter's story, and at the end thanked us
for having, as she was pleased to say, saved her child's life.
Having passed an hour very pleasantly, and promised to repeat our visit,
we took our leave of the ladies, and once more found ourselves in the
streets of the excited city.
It was late evening now, and rapidly growing dusk; but the people were
still abroad, shouting, singing the French Marseillaise, and
congratulating each other on the result of the day's doings.
Many, however, occupied the time in far different fashion. Some paid
visits to the principal shops, especially to those containing food or
weapons, which they promptly seized. Others, with an eye to the future,
were erecting barricades or strengthening old ones, and trying to put
the city in a state of defence.
"Imbeciles!" exclaimed Stephen angrily. "When Windischgratz arrives he
will knock the place about their ears. I wonder what has become of
Rakoczy."
"She has the most beautiful eyes," I murmured, pursuing my own train of
thought, "and of the loveliest blue. And what remarkable bravery to be
shown by a girl so young!"
"Remarkable folly," replied my brother, "if you are speaking of the
Austrian maid; but enough of her. Let us think of Rakoczy. The poor
fellow may be dead, or sorely needing our help."
"If so, he will take some finding. I haven't seen him since we left the
bridge; but I don't think 'The Joyous' will come to any harm. Look at
that red light in the sky! There is a big fire somewhere."
"It is at the arsenal, my brave Hungarians!" said a wild-looking fellow
staggering along beneath a load of plunder. "The students are attacking
the arsenal. Never fear, my boys! We'll soon give you your
independence!"
This speech was particularly galling to Stephen, who moved on quickly,
saying, "Come, George; it is likely we shall find Rakoczy there."
It was difficult to get near the arsenal, as the streets were crowded,
and from some we had to turn back, owing to the erection of barricades.
We were hungry, too, having eaten nothing since the early morning; and
seeing an open cafe, I persuaded Stephen to enter. The place was dirty,
and the food not the best; but hunger is a good sauce, and we ate what
was set before us without complaining.
From the talk of the men in the cafe we learned that the soldiers
guarding the arsenal were making a stout fight against the students and
National Guards, though, unless reinforcements arrived, they were
certain to be overpowered by numbers.
"Well," said one fellow, chuckling, "we have our revolution at last.
There's no drawing back for the faint-hearts now."
"Latour's death has let them in up to the neck," said another. "They'll
find it mighty hard to pull out of that bog!"
"And a good job too!" replied the first speaker. "What's the use of
making a revolution in kid gloves? Strike while the iron's hot is my
motto. Why should we stop at Latour when there's bigger game to be
found at Schoenbrunn? Why not--"
Fortunately by this time we had finished our meal, and were moving to
the door; so, linking my arm in Stephen's, I led him out hastily.
Though the government called him a Hungarian rebel, he had scanty
sympathy with Austrian republicans, and I feared an explosion which
would do little good.
Once outside the shop, we forgot the incident in looking at the sky,
which, near the arsenal, had now become a deep-red colour, made more
intensely vivid by the increasing darkness.
"The building's on fire!" I said. "The garrison will have to
surrender."
"Unless the sparks fall on the powder-magazine, and then--"
"It will be farewell both to soldiers and students!"
A man whose face was blackened by powder, came up the street shouting,
"The arsenal's captured! Cheers for the brave students!" and
immediately the people set off running.
"Let us go too!" said Stephen. "It is possible we may find our friend;"
and I, knowing how irresistibly a fight attracted "John the Joyous,"
willingly agreed.