CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE PARLEY

The Pariserhof, whither Mrs. Saunders betook herself at her husband's desire, was sufficiently safe, both from its situation and character, to form a rallying point for non-combatants of both sexes and diverse nationalities. From its upper stories an excellent view of the hostilities could be obtained, and in its cellars there was not only efficient shelter from chance missiles, but a considerable mitigation of the thunder of artillery. The latter apartments, therefore, were crowded with old ladies and young children, with a sprinkling of sensitive males who had come to Weissheim to recover nerve-tone rather than to listen to gun-fire. On the flat roof over the great dining-hall Mrs. Saunders was standing, field-glasses in hand, surveying the operations with a steady and critical gaze. Most often her glasses were directed towards the Marienkastel, against which the forces of the invading party were being gradually focussed; but no sound passed her lips, neither did the fine, white fingers that held the field-glasses twitch or tremble in the least degree. Hers was the curious, irrational pride that prefers to hide its suffering, though the suffering be doubled by the effort of concealment.

A few adventurous spirits had sallied forth to other points of vantage, where they could get a better, though less secure, view of the rare spectacle afforded by the fateful day. But for once the curling-rink and skating-rink belonging to the hotel were deserted; for once the surface of the ice-runs was unscarred by the iron runners of innumerable toboggans. Only on Major Flannel's private rink,--not far from the Marienkastel itself,--the contest for the Flannel Cup was proceeding as though the day was a day of sport and not of war. The keenest curlers in Weissheim were there: "Skipper" Fraser, the sandy Scot, whose perky humour lent such spice and piquancy to the most tragic moments of the game; Major Flannel himself, roaring out his commands, reproaches, and encouragements in a voice which easily made itself heard through the growing din of battle; Strudwick, the gigantic American, who could always be relied on when a "knock-out" shot was required; little Hobbs, the Englishman, who sent down his stones in an unorthodox manner, but always within an inch of where his "skipper" wanted them, so that a particularly brilliant shot came to be known, not as a "beauty" or a "daisy," but as a "Jimmy Hobbs."

But all the while Bernhardt had been developing his plans with the deliberate skill of a born general. He had forced the enemy to unmask the batteries that guarded the lower part of the town. These he could have forced at a price, had he willed, for, though cunningly constructed, snow ramparts are not an effective protection even against rifle fire. But to have done this would have meant long hours of heavy loss, with the grim prospect of stern street fighting when the last redoubt yielded to his superior forces. Could he capture the Marienkastel and establish the few pieces of artillery he had brought so laboriously with him, the town would be at his mercy, and he could make,--as he had said,--any terms he wished. By eleven o'clock the movement against the old Schloss commenced in earnest. Bernhardt might have brought his guns to bear on the ancient masonry, but there were sentimental reasons for not reducing the historic pile to a heap of rubble; nor was he the man to waste time in an artillery duel if the place could possibly be taken by a _coup de main_. The Marienkastel must be restored intact to its rightful owner and peace dictated to the dethroned monarch before the sun sank to rest behind the western mountains.

So Saunders,--watching the course of operations from a lofty tower,--perceived imposing bodies of Infantry approaching against him on three sides. On they came on their skis over the soft snow--Guides in extended order to the right, Sharpshooters cresting a low bluff to the left, and throwing up a hasty entrenchment of snow with the evident intention of holding the hill against any retaliatory turning movement on the part of the garrison; and in the centre,--clinging to the wooded ground,--came a powerful force of Guards in their winter fighting garb of white. In the extreme rear was Gloria with the reserve, guarding the ammunition sleighs and a battery of field guns.

Between the invaders and the Schloss lay the bob-sleigh run, and Saunders,--expecting a bombardment of the Marienkastel,--had filled the track with a strong advance guard of his men. The bob-run made an excellent trench, and fortunately at this point had but a very slight declivity, so that the men found no difficulty in retaining their position on its glassy surface. The track indeed started high up by the Marienkastel, just above Major Flannel's curling-rink, and began with a tremendously steep S-shaped curve, known as "The Castle Leap"; then it went straight for a bit and almost level, then wound round again with gradually increasing steepness, and so on in a succession of curves and bends till it joined the main road some thousand feet below, near the hamlet of Riefinsdorf.

But before a shot was fired against the castle a small party was seen approaching under a white flag. Through his field-glasses Saunders detected the form of his friend Trafford accompanied by a couple of officers, all on skis. Instantly Saunders sent out a corresponding party, also under the white flag. Trafford, having expressed a desire to see the officer commanding the Schloss, was blindfolded, together with his two satellites, and conducted through the lines of the defence to the enceinte of the Marienkastel.

"You are in the presence of the Commander," said the officer who had conducted him to the courtyard, where Saunders was awaiting him. "What is it you have to say?"

"My message is brief," said Trafford, speaking in German, and saluting his unseen adversary. "It can be framed in one word--surrender!"

"And it can be answered in one word," replied the Commander of the Marienkastel, also in German. "And in a good English word--'No.'"

"Saunders, by all that's wonderful!" ejaculated Trafford.

"The same, dear disturber of the peace."

"Then that makes things much easier. I am a humane man, as you know, and I have no particular desire to kill or be killed. We are in a position to take this eligible chateau, which belongs of right to the lady I am privileged to call Queen. But in the taking you will probably hurt a few of my loyal and trusty followers, and we shall certainly damage some of yours. My suggestion is, that you should evacuate with the full honours of war, retaining all arms and standards, and playing any drums, bugles, or other instruments of military music you may chance to possess."

"And in return for our obliging courtesy?"

"We will give a free amnesty to all who have taken part against her gracious Majesty Queen Gloria. As for one Karl, styling himself King of Grimland, he can live anywhere he likes outside the territories, possessions, and dependencies of the aforesaid Gloria, and he will be granted a revenue of one hundred thousand kronen per annum from the royal treasury."

"The proposition is dazzlingly attractive," returned Saunders. "But I regret that I must refuse. My orders leave me no alternative."

"Nonsense!" said Trafford warmly: "Here are we, two Anglo-Saxons in the middle of a host of benighted foreigners ready to fly at each others' throats! What nobler or more dignified proceeding than to make terms over their heads, prevent bloodshed, establish peace, and inaugurate an era of good-will and prosperity?"

"A most ennobling idea," agreed Saunders, "and one which can easily be carried out by your renouncing your schemes of robbery and usurpation. If you agree to lay down your arms, and throw yourself on the mercy of my royal master, I will use my influence with him--which is considerable--to grant a full amnesty to all traitors, rebels, and discontents, including yourself."

"Enough jesting!" cried Trafford. "Gloria owns nine-tenths of the country, and we have a sufficient force with us to take Weissheim two or three times over. I want to save life--she wants to save life. We have no time to waste. Will you surrender--yes or no?"

"No!"

Trafford stretched out his hand blindly in the direction of his friend.

"Good-bye!" he said soberly. "In ten minutes we shall be potting at each other. I hope it won't be our misfortune to hit each other."

"Good-bye!" replied Saunders, gripping his enemy's hand with a strong pressure. "I share your wish to the full. I regret that circumstances do not find us on the same side, but the fault is none of my making."

There was a momentary silence and in that silence was audible a peculiar humming, grinding roar, the penetrating music of granite bowls gliding over thick ice.

"What's that?" asked Trafford.

"Curling," replied Saunders. "A match on Major Flannel's rink."

"Where's that?" As much of Trafford's face as was visible under the bandage looked thoughtful.

"Two hundred yards above us in a hollow near the start of the bob-run. Why?"

"Nothing," said Trafford. "Only they ought to be warned that they are playing a dangerous game. A chance shot might convert a pleasant pastime into a black tragedy."

"I sent to warn them half an hour ago," replied Saunders, "but the sole reply was that they were having a most interesting match, and that they hoped I should have equally good sport."

Trafford laughed and gave his friend a final hand-grip.

"Good-bye, again," he said. "I respect your decision to stick to your post--but it is a pity,--a great pity."