CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE TEMPTATION OF ULRICH

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.