CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE WAR ON THE WINE-SHOP

Outside the confectioner's Gloria let down her veil again, and turned her steps towards the Neptunburg. Trafford, at her request, took the opposite direction. His habitually fierce features wore a grimmer look than ever,--for his brows were knit and his teeth set,--and there was a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes. He was the prey to a host of indefinable emotions, that worked his turbulent spirit to its most aggressive mood. Disappointment, a tinge of bitterness, coupled with a wild sense of intoxication,--caused by the Princess's last relenting act of grace,--had strung his fine nervous system to a point when it demanded violent action as the only possible relief. Had he been at Harvard he would have kindled a bonfire; had Karl been within a reasonable radius of his activity he would have headed a cutting-out expedition to capture that unhappy monarch. As it was, he walked fast, bending his steps unconsciously towards his hotel. The sky showed a pale blue between the lines of house-tops, for as usual the sun was having its morning duel with the white fog that haunts the streets of Weidenbruck at this period of the year. The sun was winning, too,--as it generally did for an hour or so,--and even causing the huge icicles that hung from the eaves to drip a little at their sharp and glistening extremities. But Trafford noted none of these things.

"I am very ill or very much too well," he said to himself, in diagnosis of his own feverish unrest. "If I were an Elizabethan courtier I should write a sonnet; if I were an ordinary American I should play tennis or golf. Being neither, I am suffering the torments of a wild beast in a small cage; my brain is bursting from enforced inaction. Saunders, who is always right, calls me a madman, and to justify his opinion I shall probably break a shop window in about two minutes."

Whether or no he had the slightest intention of putting his insane threat into execution, he looked behind him to see if he were observed. A couple of men were following a few paces in his rear. To his excited fancy there seemed something sinister about their muffled forms. One carried a thick stick, and both seemed to look on him with eyes of malice.

"As I live, I believe they are going to attack me," he said gleefully to himself. "No," he reflected, "the wish is father to the thought. There is not the slightest reason why they should attack me. They are probably respectable burghers doing a morning's shopping in the Königstrasse."

The original idea, however, fascinated him, and he stopped; the men stopped too. He went on, and the men went on, and a backward glance told him that they were summoning a third person from across the street, and pointing at him as an object either of curiosity or offence. He continued his walk with a wild hope in his heart, and in the course of a hundred yards the hope became a certainty. A small crowd was now dogging his footsteps, and such uncomplimentary references as "traitor," "spy" and "_schweinhund_" assailed his ears. The situation would have alarmed most men, and would have accorded even "Nervy" Trafford a certain measure of uneasiness under ordinary conditions. But in his present state of psychical unrest the atmosphere of danger had a marvellously relieving effect. The fever went out of his bones, his blood slackened to a normal speed, his brain adjusted itself to meet the crisis. He was still spoiling for a fight, but seething pugnacity had given way to ice-cool combativeness. He walked on without quickening his pace, and though he looked neither to right nor left, he felt instinctively that the numbers of his retinue were swelling fast. The hum of muttered execrations rose to a stronger note, and every yard of his progress brought fresh idlers in his wake. From time to time he passed a policeman, but these were gorgeously uniformed officials whose idea of upholding civic dignity was to adopt a pose of statuesque aloofness to things human and divine.

Presently a piece of frozen snow struck him on the nape of his neck. He swung round in a fury, and as he did so the foremost of the pack struck his shako from his head.

"Von Hügelweiler!" he cried, recognising in his roughly-clad assailant the Captain of the Guard; and quick as thought he planted a sledge-hammer blow full in his rival's face. The Captain staggered and fell, and profiting by the diversion, Trafford crossed the wide street and plunged into a narrow alley. He was running now, doubling in and out of the congested slums that formed this quarter of the town: and if there was no fear in his heart, there was a growing appreciation of the fact that his life was in danger, and that a single-handed contest with an infuriated mob was an unsatisfactory way of working off superfluous energy. For a space he threaded his rapid way through the winding alleys round the Goose-market, but the hue and cry was strong, and the neighbourhood seemed momentarily more fit for deeds of violence.

But Trafford had not lost his head, and there was a motive in his flight that was born of quick thought and prospective vengeance rather than panic fear. At the door of a certain wine-shop he halted breathless; a backward glance showed his nearest pursuer fifty yards distant.

"Herr Krantz!" he called, bursting into the brasserie.

"Mein Herr?"

"Do you recognise me?"

The man surveyed him coolly.

"I never forget a face, Excellency," he answered.

"Good!" said Trafford. "And are you still loyal to the good Queen Gloria?"

The man nodded as if the question was unnecessary.

"Then you will help me," said Trafford; "I am being attacked by her enemies."

Hardly had he spoken when a wild-looking man entered the shop with upraised bludgeon and a cry of "Traitor!" Trafford picked up a convenient beer-can and floored the intruder with a well-directed blow.

"Close the door and shut the shutters!" called out Trafford, drawing his sword and holding at bay a couple of ruffians who had outrun the main body of his pursuers.

There was little time to spare, but there were one or two early customers of Herr Krantz, who lent instant and unquestioning aid. These helped Trafford told the narrow street till the landlord had set his oaken shutters in front of the glass shop-front. Then, as the increasing pressure threatened to overwhelm them, they darted into the shop, banged the door, and shot the massive bolts. A rattle of blows resounded on the woodwork, and a chorus of fierce cries came in strident chorus from the crowded lane. Krantz switched up the electric light to relieve the darkness.

"I will telephone for the police," he said.

"No," said Trafford, who did not share his host's confidence in the Weidenbruck constabulary. "Ring up the Palace."

Krantz retired to the telephone in the inner room, and the hammering on door and shutters went on with redoubled violence.

"What is it that they want?" asked the inmates of the shop of Trafford.

"Me," replied the latter.

"Why?"

Trafford had but the vaguest idea, but he answered boldly:

"Because I am the Queen's friend."

"I have given a message that you are here and in danger," said Herr Krantz, returning.

"Thanks. Are your shutters sound?"

"I believe so, Excellency."

"I am glad to hear it. I think we should be well advised to go to an upper window and survey the prospect."

Krantz assented, and led the way up a dark and narrow stair to a room on the first floor. Opening the double windows, Trafford surveyed a scene of many heads; the confined thoroughfare was literally crammed with a sea of human beings. All were shouting, and those whose position enabled them to do so were banging against the defences with sticks and fists.

"I trust Herr Krantz's shutters are as sound as he thinks," he muttered looking down on the surging mass of his enemies. "What an excitable folk these good Weidenbruckers are! I suppose that cross-grained beast, Von Hügelweiler, has been concocting some evil tale about me, and is egging them on to pull me to pieces in revenge for his defeat on the Rundsee. But he finds me in good fighting trim, and I will follow up that blow on the nose with other attentions if I get half a chance."

He craned his head sideways, to take full stock of his adversaries, and as he did so it came into contact with a huge icicle, one of the many that hung like gigantic dragon's teeth from the over-hanging eaves. The slight shock to his cranium instilled a fresh idea.

"Have you any snow on your roof, Herr Krantz?" he asked, drawing back into the room.

"The pitch is steep and throws off the snow, Excellency, but there may be a hundredweight or two."

"And can we get on to the roof?"

"If you will."

"We might create a diversion," pursued Trafford. "A little snow distributed scientifically on the heads of these good people might have a wonderfully cooling effect on their heated tempers."

Krantz doubted the wisdom of further infuriating the mob, but Trafford's enthusiasm was infectious, and he won his way.

A steep ladder and a trap-door gave access to the tiled roof. A shovel was procured, and in a few seconds a small avalanche was dislodged on to the more aggressive bombarders of the oak shutters. The effect was excellent, and a desire to edge away from the immediate proximity of the wine-shop manifested itself. Trafford, however, was seen, and his image served to increase the streperous chorus of execration below. He replied with a mocking bow and a shovel-full of snow tossed lightly into the middle of the throng. For the moment he held the advantage: curses were met with jeers; threats with a polite obeisance; any symptom of action was countered with a swift reprisal of hurtling snow. But the situation was not allowed to remain definitely favourable. Among the crowd was someone with an intelligent brain as well as an excitable nature. Von Hügelweiler at this time was as full of the sentiment of human hate as an insulted and disappointed egotist could be. The blow he had received had been the last straw. A bullet in his breast or a sword through his arm would not have burned with such a fire of shame as the crude, coarse shock of his rival's fist. All sense of proportion, all notion of justice, let alone mercy, had long ago been swamped by the bitter tide of maddening disappointment which poisoned his best instincts. And now the lust of vengeance,--baulked for the moment by his enemy's resource,--led him to do rather a clever thing. There was a small fire-station hard by Krantz's brasserie, and this, with the assistance of his chosen followers, Von Hügelweiler raided. A few minutes later, helmet on head and axe in hand, he and some half-dozen desperadoes returned hopefully to the attack.

As the first axe-blow crashed into the oaken woodwork, Trafford sent a mass of snow on to the assailant. The man shook under the weight, but his helmet protected him, and he went on with his work undeterred.

In vain Trafford and his companions shovelled their crystalline ammunition on to the heads and shoulders of their attackers; they delayed the work of irruption, but delayed it immaterially. It was the crowd's turn to jeer now, for the axes were playing havoc with the stout shutters, and it seemed a matter of minutes only before oak yielded to steel, and the inevitable rush of furious humanity flooded the beer-house.

"We are undone," said one of Trafford's companions; "we must try and escape over the roofs."

"One moment," said Trafford, sprawling at full length on the tiles, his head hanging over the eaves. "Herr Krantz, sit on my legs."

The proprietor, a man of weight, did as he was bid.

With the hilt of his sword Trafford banged at the base of one of the huge icicles that fringed the overhanging cornice. At the third blow it parted--four feet of glistening ice pointed to dagger fineness descended like a javelin on to the back of one of the storming party. The man fell without a sound. A snarl, half horror and half rage, burst from the crowd. His comrades raised his limp and lifeless body from the snow, and bore it from the danger zone.

"Forward again!" cried Von Hügelweiler, furiously rushing against the shop and burying his hatchet in the splintering shutter.

But Trafford was busy dislodging another icicle of even more formidable dimensions, and when that was used there were a score of others. The men drew back; one traitor's life was not worth the risk, and Von Hügelweiler, finding himself unsupported, withdrew too.

Whether caution would have prevailed, or whether the spirited harangue which Von Hügelweiler now addressed to his followers would have had its effect, can never be known. A diversion, more serious than hurtling snow or crashing icicle, occurred to change men's moods. A troop of horse, cuirassed, high-booted, armed with naked swords, was making its slow but irresistible way down the congested thoroughfare; and in the midst, with black slouch hat and sable uniform, rode the grimly smiling person of Father Bernhardt. A cheer greeted him, for his errand was unknown, and he might have come, for all they knew, to help in taking the traitor. If that was their idea, however, they were soon undeceived. The ex-priest's quick eye detected Von Hügelweiler, and the latter, reading its sinister message, commenced a hasty retreat.

"Two hundred kronen to the man who brings me Von Hügelweiler, dead or alive!" called out Bernhardt.

There was a movement in the crowd, and in it the late Captain of the Guard was lost to view.

"Good-morning, Father Bernhardt!" cried Trafford from the roof. "You arrive at an opportune moment; her Majesty's lieges were getting troublesome. At first I contented myself with snow-balling them, but they turned nasty and I had to despatch an icicle. I am afraid one liege was rather hurt."

Bernhardt's smile widened as he took in the situation.

"A pity it wasn't Von Hügelweiler," he said. "But you'd better let me escort you to your rooms. For the moment you seem to have fallen out of favour with the plebs."

"I fear so," replied the American, "and had it not been for good Herr Krantz, I might have fared badly at the hands of these gentlemen."

"Herr Krantz shall be rewarded," said Bernhardt. "His loyalty is well known and appreciated in the highest quarter. And as for these 'gentlemen,' as you call them," he went on, turning to the mob, "I've a good mind to give them an experience of a cavalry charge in a narrow lane."

The suggestion was taken literally by the mob, and something of a panic began in the neighbourhood of the steel-clad troopers. But Bernhardt checked the movement with a quick shout.

"Stop, you fools!" he cried, rising in his stirrups and letting his great voice ring out. "Stop, and listen to me before you go about your business--or your idling! What do you mean by this breach of the peace? Has there not been trouble enough in the city of late? Are you men or wolves, that you hunt a man through the streets, and pull down the doorway of a peaceful citizen?"

"He is a traitor!" cried one. "He freed Karl!" cried another, and a babel of tongues broke out in an eager flood of accusation.

For a moment Bernhardt let them speak. Then he raised his hand and won instant silence.

"He is not a traitor," he said with slow emphasis. "He rescued me from the Strafeburg. Was that the act of a traitor? Had it not been for this brave and resourceful American I should now be rotting in a dungeon, and you still beneath the yoke of Karl. It is true that Karl has fled to Weissheim, but that was a mistake due to no fault of Trafford's. And the fault, whosoever's it was, he will undo, for he accompanies me to Weissheim, sworn to win back the Marienkastel from the Queen's enemies."

The quiet force of his words carried conviction to his hearers. They feared the grim, black figure as a pack of dogs fears its master, but there was a certain canine affection in their debased regard. Bernhardt was a superior being, one whose word was law. They heard and believed, and even began to feel self-reproachful.

"For shame on you, men of Weidenbruck!" went on the ex-priest in upraised tones. "Shame on you, I say, compassing harm against the man who delivered you from tyranny! This loyal friend of mine, whose courage and craft you have just experienced to your own hurt, joins an expedition to Weissheim as my right-hand man. A foreigner, he endures hardships and dangers for your sake and that of your noble young Queen. 'Traitor,' you called him! Hero and liberator would be better titles, I think, for such as he. With his help there is no fear but that we shall capture Weissheim from our enemies, and bring back Karl a prisoner to the capital. What reward will you have then for Trafford, the deliverer? Will you hunt him through your streets like a mad dog? Or will you strew garlands in his path, acclaim him from your housetops--aye, and give him the highest in your land to wife!"

Assuredly if the power of words is a wonderful thing, the power of personality is infinitely greater. Bernhardt had spoken with a certain ready eloquence, a certain skill of pleading in his client's cause; but another might have spoken with twice his skill and twice his oratory, and have failed completely. It was not that he followed the temper of the mob and adapted himself to their moods; rather, he made their moods for them, and used them to his own sweet will. When he reasoned they followed and were convinced, when he lashed they cringed, when he reproached they suffered agonies of shame; and at the end he raised their enthusiasm for the object of their late malice, with the ease of a consummate master of men, and his last question was met with a ringing cry of "Long live the American! Long live Gloria of Grimland!" The ex-priest's smile was more of a sneer than anything--so cheap did he hold his triumph over the flaccid minds of the shifty horde; but his eye wandered to the roof where Trafford stood, shovel in hand, cheering himself and his secretly-married wife.

"We will escort you to your hotel," Bernhardt called out.

"It is not necessary," replied the American. "Bernhardt the Magician has effected my metamorphosis--he has changed me from a fox to a lion."