Another burst of cheering—and again that conscience-smitten silence.
Markart had found a seat, near the door and a good way from the redoubtable Mistitch and his companions. He looked at his watch—it was nearly ten; in half an hour General Stenovics would be leaving the Palace, and it was meet that he should know of all this as soon as possible. Markart made up his mind that he would slip away soon; but still the interest of the scene, the fascination of this prelude—such it seemed to him—held his steps bound.
Suddenly a young man of aristocratic appearance rose from a table at the end of the room, where he had been seated in company with a pretty and smartly dressed girl. A graceful gesture excused him to his fair companion, and he threaded his way deftly between the jostling tables to where Mistitch sat. He wore Court dress and a decoration. Markart recognized in the young man Baron von Hollbrandt, junior Secretary of the German Legation in Slavna.
Hollbrandt bowed to Mistitch, with whom he was acquainted, then bent over the giant's burly back and whispered in his ear.
"Take a friend's advice, Captain," he said. "I've been at the Palace, and I know the Prince had permission to withdraw at half-past nine. He was to return to Slavna then—to duty. Come, go back. You've had your spree."
"By the Lord, I'm obliged to you!" cried Mistitch. "Lads, we're obliged to Baron von Hollbrandt! Could you tell me the street he means to come by? Because"—he rose to his feet again—"we'll go and meet him!"
Half the hall heard him, and the speech was soon passed on to any out of hearing. A sparse cheer sputtered here and there, but most were silent. Rastatz gasped again, while Sterkoff frowned and squinted villanously. Hollbrandt whispered once more, then stood erect, shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and walked back to his pretty friend. He sat down and squeezed her hand in apology; the pair broke into laughter a moment later. Baron von Hollbrandt felt that he at least had done his duty.
The three had drunk and drunk; Rastatz was silly, Sterkoff vicious, the giant Mistitch jovially and cruelly reckless, exalted not only by liquor but with the sense of the part he played. Suddenly from behind the glass screen rose a mighty roar:
"Long live Mistitch! Down with tyrants! Long live Captain Hercules!"
It was fuel to the flames. Mistitch drained his glass and hurled it on the floor.