Trafford laughed recklessly. The situation was mending with extraordinary rapidity. There was talk now of charges, instead of returning home, and the touching confidence of the Princess in his generalship put the coping stone on his exhilaration.
"Will you do exactly what I tell you?" he asked of the Princess.
"Absolutely," was the sweet reply.
"If the people don't recognise you as the Princess," he went on, "they must recognise you as the Schöne Fräulein Schmitt, of the Eden Theatre. From my point of vantage on this good gentleman's shoulders I see a sleigh not far from us, with a couple of horses, blocked in the crowd. Let us annex it in the name of beautiful Miss Smith."
At Trafford's command the doctor bore him through the surging, singing press towards the sleigh, the Princess following closely in their wake. It was a public vehicle of the cab type, and the driver stood at the horse's head, wondering resignedly when it would be possible to get out of his present impasse.
"Hi! coachman," sung out Trafford; "are you engaged?"
"Engaged! Excellency, I've been here three hours in the midst of these excited gentlemen, and I daren't move, for the temper of the people is none too pleasant to risk an accident."
"That's all right," said Trafford. "I'll charter your cab for the evening. Here's a twenty krone piece." So saying, Trafford leaped on the box-seat and bade Doctor Matti and the Princess enter the vehicle. With a crack of the whip, and a cry of "Make way there for the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt! Way for the singer of the 'Rothlied!'" he forced a slow and dangerous progress through the close-packed multitude. His objective was the neck of the Königstrasse, and somehow he arrived there without injuring life or limb. Between the cordon of infantry and the mob was an open space, up and down which a number of officers walked with drawn swords and a palpable air of nervousness. The crowd was still singing the incendiary song, and the rank and file of the soldiers looked obviously bored with their duties, and longing to join in the chorus. Trafford drew up on the verge of the open space.
"Silence, my friends!" he called out to the crowd, rising to his feet on the box. "Silence for the Schöne Fräulein Schmitt, of the Eden Theatre!"
The Princess rose at his gesture of command. Her face was pale, and her twitching hands betokened intense nervousness, but there was a twinkle in her eye that showed that she added humour to the proverbial courage of her race. And in the intense silence of appreciation her sweet young soprano rang out free and fresh into the cold night air. Confidence came to her with each additional line of the song. The occasion,—which had begun by almost overwhelming her,—served now but to stimulate her highest powers. She put fire into her melody; she added gestures appropriate and warlike; she became not merely a singer, but Bellona herself, young and beautiful and ardent.