CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MUSIC AND THE MOB

When Trafford reached the Cathedral Square he found a vast number of people, a considerable amount of noise, but nothing very stirring in the way of action. The military and the mob seemed to be watching one another in an equipoise of mutual distrust. The King's Dragoons,--who had escorted Father Bernhardt to the Strafeburg,--were patrolling a space before the prison-house, while the portal itself was held by a company of Guides under Captain von Hügelweiler. On one side, indeed, a body of energetic firemen were engaged in pumping exceedingly cold water on to an ignited building, but though the crowd jeered and shouted, the brass-helmets proceeded in their duty, unheeding and unmolested. An air of palpable dejection seemed to oppress the throng, as though they had tried conclusions with the military and come off second best. The situation pleased the American not at all. His own enthusiasm was at boiling-point, and it fretted his high spirit to see a promising revolution fizzling out for want of leaders and concerted action. He edged his way into the outskirts of the crowd, in the dim hope of meeting some kindred spirit, perhaps, even if fortune favoured him, of chancing across the Princess.

"Oh, for five minutes of Father Bernhardt!" murmured a mild-looking individual in spectacles, broadcloth, and a high felt hat. Trafford turned and regarded the gentleman who had voiced that spirited aspiration in such a tone of quiet pathos. He was a very large person, eminently respectable in appearance, and he was seated on a wooden stall intended for the display of merchandise.

"What would Father Bernhardt do?" asked Trafford.

"Do!" echoed the other. "Why he'd turn these dull logs of people into blazing firebrands in five minutes." The tone was one of regret and disappointment, slightly bitter and distinctly reproachful.

"Indeed!" said Trafford, scenting a character, and drawing him out.

"Yes," said the other in rising tones, "with a few of his red-hot sentences fresh from heaven or hell, or wherever it is he draws his inspirations, he'd light a flame that would roast Karl and all his pack of venial favourites and hungry courtesans."

Trafford smiled appreciatively. There were symptoms of a battle-light in those big, grey eyes, a certain rude force and stubborn vigour on those heavy, bovine features.

"Father Bernhardt's in the Strafeburg," said the American.

"Alas, yes," admitted the stranger in a voice of infinite sadness. "He alone held the threads of revolution in his hands. He alone possessed the magic of command, the subtle influence that turns _canaille_ into heroes. Without him we are an army of sheep without a leader."

"Why not attempt a rescue?" suggested Trafford.

The other made a gesture of contempt.

"Look at us," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Do we look the sort of people to pull down six-foot walls in the face of rifle bullets? We've been peppered once to-night, and we didn't like it. Then the firemen turned their hoses on us, and the cold water was worse than the hot fire. Look at my hat!"

Trafford regarded the high felt head-covering, and could not restrain a smile. Its crown was shiny and cockled, and its brim limp and dripping.

"I'm wet through," went on the stranger pathetically, "and I'm going home. I'm a doctor, and if there's not going to be a revolution, I'm not going to undermine my constitution watching these cowards do nothing."

"Nonsense!" said Trafford cheerily, "Something must and will be done. Why, my good man, I've come all the way from New York to see a revolution, and do you suppose I'm going back without seeing one?"

"You'd better make a speech," suggested the stranger sarcastically.

"That's not a bad idea," said Trafford, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "but I think I've got a better one."

The stranger turned his glance on the American, a spark of interest in his gloomy eye.

"I heard a song the other night at the Eden Theatre," went on Trafford. "I think it was called the 'Rothlied.' Its effect on the audience was remarkable. Old men became boys, women went fighting mad, and officers in uniforms swore death to all. _If we could get the 'Rothlied' going we'd have Father Bernhardt out of the Strafeburg in half an hour._"

"Young man," said the stranger solemnly, "I'm not sure you're not a genius."

"Neither am I," said Trafford modestly. "Look here--can you sing?"

"I have a powerful baritone--and you?"

"Have the voice of a crow," said Trafford. "Also I don't know the words, and I'm not very sure of the tune."

The other repeated a few lines in Trafford's ear and hummed a few bars of the melody.

"That's all right," said Trafford. "Now then, as loud as you can. One--two--three----

"Tremble tyrants, base and callous, Tremble at the people's cry, See the flaming star of freedom Rise blood-red in the sky."

In a trice the song was taken up by those nearest the two agitators, and in an incredibly short time the whole square was resounding with the swinging chorus of the inflammatory melody. The thing succeeded beyond all expectation. A new temper seemed to come over the entire throng. Wet clothes were forgotten in an access of revolutionary ardour. Men who had seen red wounds and staring death forgot the chill remembrance in the burning music of the "Rothlied." Louder and louder it swelled, fiercer grew the gesticulations of the fermenting mob. The whole mass swayed and surged with the leaven of revived fanaticism.

"We've got something to work on now," said Trafford gleefully. "Give me a pick-a-back, Herr Doctor, and I'll make a speech."

The doctor bent his massive back, and Trafford climbed up on to the broad shoulders.

"Into the thick of them, good doctor horse!" he cried, and the doctor struggled on manfully under his burden,--albeit he lost his high felt hat in the press, and the cold wind chilled the perspiration on his benevolent brow. And Trafford addressed the populace with fervid words and execrable grammar, and for some inexplicable reason his assurance and manifest energy won him a ready hearing and savage applause.

"Form barricades!" he shouted at the conclusion of his wild address.

"Why?" whispered the doctor.

"Don't you know that there is no such thing as a revolution without barricades," replied the American, "they are a necessary part of the game. Form barricades, my brothers!" he repeated in louder tones.

"With what?" demanded one.

"With snow, son of a crossing-sweeper!" replied Trafford. "Work hard, brothers, and form a rampart breast high, and hold it against all comers."

The tone of command and his imposing position on the big doctor's shoulders, won their way. The doctor, too, was recognised as a prominent burgher of "advanced" tendencies, and the crowd set to work with the utmost energy and determination.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked a soft voice by his side.

Looking down he perceived the Princess Gloria. The girl was evidently under the stress of great excitement; her eyes were unnaturally bright and her bosom was heaving tumultuously under her coat of sables. But when her eyes met Trafford's she laughed; it would not have been the Princess Gloria had she not done so.

"What on earth are you doing on Doctor Matti's shoulders?" she repeated.

"Telling the people to make snow-men for the Dragoons to charge against," he replied.

"But that won't stop them," she objected.

"Of course it won't," he agreed, "but it keeps these fellows warm and busy. The essence of a revolution is to keep things moving. Inaction is the foe to insurrection."

"You talk like a paid agitator," she said, still smiling.

"I am. The highest-paid agitator that ever was. Have you forgotten the agreed price?"

"It will never be earned," said the Princess in a low voice. "Our plans are ruined. Father Bernhardt has been taken, and without him our organisation crumbles to pieces."

"Nil desperandum Tenero duce et auspice Tenero," quoted Trafford softly. "Substitute Trafford for Tenero, and hope is unvanquished."

"You are going to lead us?" asked the Princess, with a note of expectant confidence that ministered strangely to Trafford's pride.

"Certainly," he replied, "but we want a little more enthusiasm."

"But the people are frantic," objected the doctor.

"I was referring to the soldiers," explained Trafford drily. "They lack enthusiasm for the popular cause."

"They are our enemies," said the Princess bitterly; "they have fired on us several times to-night."

"They are Grimlanders," retorted Trafford, "and they only want a slight excuse to forget discipline, and remember their national characteristics."

"I think we shall do well to trust the gentleman on my shoulders," advised Doctor Matti. "It was he who set the 'Rothlied' going, and put fresh courage into the hearts of the people. I believe he possesses a most magnetic personality."

"So do I," agreed the Princess heartily. "Ten minutes ago all was despondency and depression. From the time the prison doors were shut on Father Bernhardt all energy and enthusiasm seemed to die. No one appeared to know me. I could not make myself heard. I was lost in a mob of my own partisans. Now the whole throng is in motion. Pressure is put on the soldiers at every point. If this gentleman were to lead a charge all might be won."

Trafford laughed recklessly. The situation was mending with extraordinary rapidity. There was talk now of charges, instead of returning home, and the touching confidence of the Princess in his generalship put the coping stone on his exhilaration.

"Will you do exactly what I tell you?" he asked of the Princess.

"Absolutely," was the sweet reply.

"If the people don't recognise you as the Princess," he went on, "they must recognise you as the Schöne Fräulein Schmitt, of the Eden Theatre. From my point of vantage on this good gentleman's shoulders I see a sleigh not far from us, with a couple of horses, blocked in the crowd. Let us annex it in the name of beautiful Miss Smith."

At Trafford's command the doctor bore him through the surging, singing press towards the sleigh, the Princess following closely in their wake. It was a public vehicle of the cab type, and the driver stood at the horse's head, wondering resignedly when it would be possible to get out of his present impasse.

"Hi! coachman," sung out Trafford; "are you engaged?"

"Engaged! Excellency, I've been here three hours in the midst of these excited gentlemen, and I daren't move, for the temper of the people is none too pleasant to risk an accident."

"That's all right," said Trafford. "I'll charter your cab for the evening. Here's a twenty krone piece." So saying, Trafford leaped on the box-seat and bade Doctor Matti and the Princess enter the vehicle. With a crack of the whip, and a cry of "Make way there for the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt! Way for the singer of the 'Rothlied!'" he forced a slow and dangerous progress through the close-packed multitude. His objective was the neck of the Königstrasse, and somehow he arrived there without injuring life or limb. Between the cordon of infantry and the mob was an open space, up and down which a number of officers walked with drawn swords and a palpable air of nervousness. The crowd was still singing the incendiary song, and the rank and file of the soldiers looked obviously bored with their duties, and longing to join in the chorus. Trafford drew up on the verge of the open space.

"Silence, my friends!" he called out to the crowd, rising to his feet on the box. "Silence for the _Schöne Fräulein Schmitt_, of the Eden Theatre!"

The Princess rose at his gesture of command. Her face was pale, and her twitching hands betokened intense nervousness, but there was a twinkle in her eye that showed that she added humour to the proverbial courage of her race. And in the intense silence of appreciation her sweet young soprano rang out free and fresh into the cold night air. Confidence came to her with each additional line of the song. The occasion,--which had begun by almost overwhelming her,--served now but to stimulate her highest powers. She put fire into her melody; she added gestures appropriate and warlike; she became not merely a singer, but Bellona herself, young and beautiful and ardent.

"Hurrah for the beautiful Fräulein! Hurrah for freedom!" shouted the crowd.

"The chorus, now!" yelled Trafford, with a special appeal to the soldiers; and, as he had anticipated, the chorus was sung, not by the mob alone, but by the triple line of infantry holding the neck of the Königstrasse. Harsh commands were given by frantic officers, but to no avail. The music had got into the men's blood, and curses and entreaties, blows even, failed signally to check the tide of revolutionary song.

"Well sung, brothers!" cried out Trafford as the song died down. "Three cheers for the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt!"

Three cheers were given by all, and with especial heartiness by the soldiers.

"Now, listen to what I'm going to say," went on Trafford in stentorian tones. "The lady who just sang that song isn't the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt, for there is no such person. The beautiful Fräulein Schmitt is the most noble and high-born Princess Gloria von Schattenberg, whom you are going to set on the throne of Grimland. Behold your Queen who is to be!"

At these words a mighty shout rent the air. No one seemed to doubt the truth of the startling _dénouement_; the crowd was drunk with its own singing, drunk with the lust of anarchy, its reasoning faculties dulled in a wild orgy of rebellion. The form and features of the Princess Gloria were practically unknown in Weidenbruck, but all the Grimlander's innate love of change had grouped itself beneath the ægis of her name. For years she had been the official figure-head of the revolutionary party. Wild legends and poetic fantasies had been woven round her little-known existence. And now the present dramatic disclosure of her personality,--identified as it was with that of the popular Fräulein Schmitt, the singer of the all-pervading "Rothlied,"--kindled an enthusiasm no bonds could restrain.

"Long live the noble and high-born Princess!" shouted Trafford, but his voice was drowned in the wild confusion of cries that shook the air like thunder. The soldiers broke their ranks and mingled with the crowd; several of the officers joined the swelling stream of insurrection; a few,--neither wholly false nor wholly brave,--slunk off down the Königstrasse, pursued by the jeers of their late subordinates.

Trafford, with the instincts of a true leader, struck hard while the iron glowed.

"To the Strafeburg!" he cried.

"To the Strafeburg!" shouted a hundred responsive voices.

Trafford cracked his whip, and set his horse in motion towards the prison house.

"To the Strafeburg! Make way there! way for the Queen!" he cried. And in a seething unison of struggling limbs and straining throats, the vast crowd of men and women, soldiers and civilians, pressed irresistibly towards the doomed prison house.