CHAPTER V.
The inn at which Jonathan Edwards Bennett, some weeks before the present crisis, had learned that King Rudolph XII. was afflicted with rheumatism, had become the centre of high pressure for politics and poker. “Destroy the inns and wine-shops in your domain, and you will never be bothered by conspiracies,” a diplomatist and scholar had once written to a former king of Hesse-Heilfels. “I prefer my inns and my rebels to the loss of the former,” the conservative Schwartzburger had answered. It is highly probable that the king in this instance displayed more wisdom than the diplomatist.
The ancient hostelry to which reference was made in a former chapter presented a picture of unwonted gayety on the moonlit night that had brought so many adventures to the distraught American at the castle. The wine that has made the Schwartzburger vineyards famous the world over has served to give to the inhabitants of Hesse-Heilfels a vivacity that is not generally characteristic of the German nation.
It is not too much to say, in illustration of the foregoing proposition, that King Rudolph’s subjects were the only people in the empire who would have become fascinated by the game of draw poker at what might be termed “one fell swoop.” Beneath their phlegmatic exterior, the inhabitants of Hesse-Heilfels conceal temperaments highly impressionable and excitable.
“Give me one card, Heinrich,” cried a short, fat, red-faced man, glancing slyly at the dealer and solemnly placing his discard on the table.
“Mein Gott, that looks as if he was drawing to a flush,” exclaimed one of the opponents, throwing away his hand and gazing ruefully at his lost “ante.”
Grouped around the four players in a rear room on the ground floor of the inn were ten or twelve men, varying in years from youth to old age. Their garb was picturesque and many-hued. Green or brown caps, velveteen coats, and low shoes combined to make their costumes pleasing to the eye of an observer sensitive to artistic effects. The eighteenth century in costume had met the nineteenth century at poker, and the outcome was a scene worthy the brush of a Dutch painter.
“Bring wine,” cried one of the discouraged gamblers, who had lost steadily for an hour or more. “This is the devil’s game! Here, you smug-faced Wilhelm! Repeat a paternoster over my chips. It will break the spell Satan has cast upon my luck.”
“Heinrich wins again!” murmured the group of onlookers. “It is marvellous.”
“Ach, Heinrich,” exclaimed a large-eyed, tow-headed youth, “have you been taking private lessons at the castle?”
A general laugh followed this sally, and the game went on. Suddenly a rich voice arose from a corner of the room that lay concealed in shadow. “Hush, it is Carl! Let’s hear his new song!” cried the group surrounding the gamblers. The four players withdrew the chips they had placed in the centre of the table and suspended their game for a while. No sound interfered with the thrilling effect of the baritone’s clear, full tones.
I.
A king in his castle was gay one day,
And he called for his poker chips.
And he cried: “Ach Gott, for a brave jack-pot,
With the red wine at my lips.”
II.
And he played for stakes with a wight that night
Who came from the world below.
And the king at nine was touched by wine,
While the game was getting slow.
III.
“I’ll bet my soul,” cried the king, to bring
The fever he longed for back,
And a wicked smile he showed the while
As he shuffled the potent pack.
IV.
“Your soul I’ll win, but not, by Gott,
On the turn of a fickle card!”
And the devil laughed, as the wine he quaffed,
And called the king his “pard.”
V.
From nine to twelve, not long in song,
Was enough for the devil’s game;
And the king was lost, as the cards he tossed
In the face of the imp to blame.
The applause that awarded the singer’s effort was neither loud nor enthusiastic. This open commission of the crime of lese majesté in a public inn sent a thrill of astonishment through the crowd, and with one impulse the poker players threw down their cards and arose from the table.
“White livers!” cried the voice of the singer. “Are you afraid of shadows?” Carl, the famous baritone, stepped forward into the centre of the room. He was not only the best singer and the most accomplished musician, but also the handsomest man in Hesse-Heilfels. “Gamblers, wine-bibbers, cowards! I blush for my country when I look at you!”
Carl Eingen was the only man in Hesse-Heilfels who would have dared to utter such words to these men, flushed as they were with wine. But his influence over them was strong, and they gazed upon his clear-cut, impassioned face with affection and admiration. He looked every inch a leader as he stood there bareheaded, his dark, curly hair adding to the beauty of his well-shaped head and pale, strong countenance.
“What have you done?” he went on sternly. “You have allowed a stranger from across the sea to become the head and front of this ancient realm. You sit here, playing the game he taught your king, while your country goes to ruin and the castle upon yonder hill becomes a plague-spot that throws a blight upon a whole people. Are you men—or simply wine-vats? Where is the manhood that made your ancestors great in war and men of force in peace? You have heard that in every inn, in every house in Hesse-Heilfels our countrymen, gone mad over a foolish game of chance, spend their days and nights playing poker. You have heard that chaos reigns at the castle, that the kingdom is placed in peril by a ruler who has become the tool of an adventurer, a man who has no claim upon the king, no right to our regard. Again I ask you, are you men? Think not that the people have no rights. The King of Hesse-Heilfels is absolute in power, but I say to you, my friends, that he forfeits his divine right when he gives that power to a trickster, to a man of alien blood who loves us not. Do you weigh my words? Tell me, my countrymen, do I not speak the truth?”
“Ja wohl, Carl!” cried one of his hearers. “You are right. We will do as you direct, eh, my friends?”
A murmur of assent arose from the awed and penitent throng. One of the poker players seized the cards and chips that lay upon the table and hurled them passionately through the open window.
“Lead on, Carl,” he cried. “We’ll follow you to the death.”
“Lead on, Carl. You’ll find that we are men,” shouted another.
“Down with the Yankee!” cried a third.
“Wilhelm for king!” came from the rear of the room.
“Ja! Ja! Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” arose the cry as the crowd poured from the hot and smoke-choked room into the cool, soft night outside, where the light of the gentle moon threw its silvery glory upon a scene well fitted to rouse in the hearts of men a love of fatherland.
Carl Eingen hurried to the front, and turning toward his overwrought followers, said sternly:
“No noise! Remain as silent as the night. We cannot overthrow a dynasty by childish chatter. The man who utters a sound is a traitor to Wilhelm, the rightful King of Hesse-Heilfels.”
“Tell me, Carl, what is your plan?” asked one of the revolutionists, pushing his way through the throng to the leader’s side. “You can’t depose a king with a few half-drunken men.”
Carl Eingen gazed searchingly at the pale, drawn face of the speaker.
“Have no fear, Conrad,” he said, convinced that he addressed a man not stirred by the fumes of wine. “The guards at the palace are on our side. From every part of the kingdom our friends are hurrying toward the castle. This is no midsummer night’s madness, Conrad. It is simply a very small part of a deep-laid scheme, conducted possibly from Berlin and approved by one who is greater than the king of Hesse-Heilfels. These men with us I shall use for a special purpose. The brunt of this business is borne by others, but to me has been entrusted the capture of Herr Bennett, the Yankee. I saw that I could carry my point with our friends here if I said the right word at the right time. Their enthusiasm, however, is spasmodic, and their lukewarmness, their dread of the awful punishment that might come to them, will return to them anon. But there is inspiration in sharp work. We must give them no time to think, Conrad! Just whisper to Heinrich that it is our purpose to capture the Yankee in his bed. It will revive their waning spirits and act like wine upon their blood.”
A hoarse murmur of approval again arose from the hurrying throng as they learned the special object of their expedition. Then in absolute silence they stole beneath the trees of the park toward the castle.
“There,” said Carl Eingen, taking Conrad by the arm and pointing to a balcony that jutted out from one of the corner towers of the castle, “there is where the Yankee sleeps.”
“I think I see some one moving up there,” whispered Conrad excitedly. On the instant the figure of the dwarf, an uncanny shape seemingly begotten of the madness of their rebellious dreams, appeared upon the stone coping of the balcony.
“It’s Cousin Fritz,” exclaimed Conrad hoarsely. “Is he in your secret? See how he waves his cap.”
“Back, men!” cried Carl excitedly. “Get into the shadow of the trees. No, Conrad, that madcap dwarf is loyal to Rudolph, but he knows our plans. In trying to win his support I fear we have allowed him to learn too much of our design. He may be crazy, but he’s very clever. Confound such blundering! We should have captured Cousin Fritz and locked him up to-day. He knows every nook and corner of the castle, and is an ally worth a thousand men with guns. But come, let us move! We’ll find friends and counsellors across the park. Silence, there! Forward, men, and make no noise—on the peril of your lives.”