None of us know beforehand how we shall act in moments of stress and fear. Bernal, when he saw embodied before him the danger to which he had looked forward, lost his self-control, and turned round to the King with a nervous movement, as if he would catch hold of him to restrain him from hasty action. But Maximilian, after the first natural start of astonishment, stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed steadily on this man who had suddenly come forward to threaten his life, gazing at him with more of curiosity than dread.
The intruder stepped a pace nearer, keeping his weapon pointed at the King, while his finger rested against the trigger. Nevertheless, he did not at once fire. To kill in cold blood is hard. And the republican, on his part, was not free from some natural feeling of curiosity as he looked for the first time on this scion of a race against which he had sworn vows of hatred.
“Have you anything to say before I fire?” he asked, unconsciously seeking to gain time to strengthen his resolve.
Maximilian drew himself up with a proud gesture. The softer side of his character seemed to have suddenly died out. In the presence of this enemy he was every inch a king.
“Why have you come here?” he demanded, as haughtily as if he had been surrounded by his guards, and the man before him had been a defenceless prisoner. “What is it that you want?”
“You see plainly enough. I am here to kill you.”
Bernal could not restrain a stifled cry. Maximilian lifted his hand rebukingly to enjoin silence, without removing his eyes from the enemy’s face.
“Why do you wish to take my life?” he asked, in a firm voice.
Johann had to pause and collect his thoughts before he could answer. He felt ever so slightly disconcerted. The situation was altogether unlike what he had anticipated. He had come there breathing wrath against one whom he pictured as a Heliogabalus, dissolved in vice and luxury, and he had steeled himself beforehand against threats or bribes or prayers for mercy; and now, here he was face to face with a pale, thoughtful-eyed young man, whose principal feeling seemed to be wonder, tempered with indignation, at his presence.
“Because you are a king,” he said at length, speaking slowly, and trying to rouse his dormant anger as he went along. “You hold the supreme power in the country. For ten years you have reigned over Franconia; and how have you used your power? For the gratification of your own selfish pleasures. While the poor starve in your capital, you waste millions in luxury. You build new palaces; you lavish favours on artists and musicians”—he glanced involuntarily at Bernal as he spoke—“your whole time is given up to enjoyment, and you have never given a moment’s thought to the welfare of the millions whom you call your subjects. You value operas more than the lives of men.”