I.
THE cause of the uproar proved to be simple enough.
Emerging into the Bischofsplatz, from the street that I had followed, I found a great crowd gathered before the Marmorhof, shouting, “Death to Conrad!” and “Where is Mathilde?” with all the force of its collective lungs. The Marmorhof was the residence of Prince Conrad, brother to the reigning Grand Duke Otto—reigning, indeed, but now very old and ill, and like to die. The legitimate successor to the throne would have been Otto’s grand-daughter, Mathilde, the only surviving child of his eldest son, Franz-Victor, who had been dead these ten years. But the Grand Duke’s brother, Conrad, was covetous of her rights; covetous, and, as her friends alleged, unscrupulous. For a long while, it was said, Mathilde had been in terror of her life. Conrad was unscrupulous, and, were she but out of the way, Conrad would come to reign. Rumour, indeed, whispered that he had made three actual attempts to compass her death: two by poison, one by the dagger, each, thanks to some miracle, unsuccessful. But, a fortnight since, upon the first supervention of fatal symptoms in the malady of poor old Otto, Mathilde had mysteriously disappeared. Her whereabouts unknown, all X———was in commotion.
“She has fled and is in hiding,” surmised some people, “to escape the designs of her wicked uncle.”
“No,” retorted others, “but he, the wicked uncle himself, has kidnapped and sequestered her, perhaps even made away with her. Who can tell?”
As an inquiring stranger, the situation interested me, and, from the top of a convenient doorstep, I gazed now upon this deep-voiced Teutonic mob with a good deal of curiosity.
It must have numbered upwards of a thousand individuals, compact in its centre and near the palace, but scattering towards its edges; a sea of faces, of pale, frowning faces; a surging, troubled sea. Young men’s faces for the most part; many of them beardless. “Students from the University,” I guessed.
My own station was at the outskirts of the assemblage, the station of a casual spectator. Sharing my door-step with me were a couple of sharp-faced priests, two or three prettyish young girls—bareheaded, presumably escaped from some of the neighbouring shops—and a young man with a pointed black beard, rather long black hair, and a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat, who somehow looked as if he might be a member of that guild to which I myself belonged, the ancient and questionable company of artists.
To him I addressed myself for information.... “Students, I suppose?”
“Yes, their leaders are students. The students and the artisans of the town are of the princess’s party. The army, the clergy, and the country folk are for the prince.” He had discerned from my accent that I was a foreigner: whence, doubtless, the fulness of his answer.
“It seems a harmless mob enough,” I suggested. “They make a lot of noise, to be sure; but that breaks no bones.”
“There’s just the point,” said he. “The princess’s friends fight only with their throats. Otherwise the present complication might never have arisen.”
Meanwhile the multitude continued to shout its loudest; and for Conrad, on the whole, the quarter-hour must have been a bad one.
Presently, however, the call of a bugle wound in the distance, and drew nearer and nearer, till the bugler in person appeared, gorgeous in uniform, mounted upon a white horse, advancing slowly up the Bischofsplatz, towards the crowd, trumpeting with all his might.
“What is the meaning of that?” I asked.
“A signal to disperse,” answered my companion. “He looks like a major-general, doesn’t he? But he’s only a trumpet-sergeant, and he’s followed at a hundred yards by a battalion of infantry. His trumpet-blast is by way of warning. Disperse! Or, if you tarry, beware the soldiery!”
“His warning does not seem to pass unheeded,” I remarked.
“Oh, they’re a chicken-hearted lot, these friends of the princess,” he assented contemptuously.
Already the mob had begun to melt. In a few minutes only a few stragglers in knots here and there were left, amongst them my acquaintance and myself.
He was a handsome young fellow, with a thin dark face, bright brown eyes, and a voice so soft that if I had heard without seeing him, I should almost have supposed the speaker to be a woman.
“We, too, had better be off,” said he.
“And prove ourselves also chicken-hearted?” queried I.
“Oh, discretion is the better part of valour,” he returned.
“But I should like to see the arrival of the military,” I submitted.
“Ha! Like or not, I’m afraid you’ll have to now,” he cried. “Here they come.”
With a murmurous tramp, tramp, they were pouring into the Bischofsplatz from the side streets leading to it.
“We must take to our heels, said my young man.
“We were merely on-lookers,” said I.
“Conscious innocence,” laughed he. “Nevertheless, we had better run for it.”
And, with our fellow loiterers, we began ignominiously to run away. But before we had run far we were stopped by the voice of an officer.
“Halt! Halt! Halt, or we fire!”
As one man we halted. The officer rode up to us, and, with true military taciturnity, vouchsafed not a word either in question or explanation, but formed us in ranks of four abreast, and surrounded us with his men. Then he gave the command to march. We were, perhaps, two dozen captives, all told, and a good quarter of our number were women.
“What are we in for now?” I wondered aloud.
“Disgrace, decapitation, deprivation of civil rights, or, say, a night in the Castle of St. Michael, at the very least,” replied my friend, shrugging his shoulders.
“Ah, that will be romantic,” said I, feeling like one launched upon a life of adventure.