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.”