"Hurrah for the beautiful Fräulein! Hurrah for freedom!" shouted the crowd.
"The chorus, now!" yelled Trafford, with a special appeal to the soldiers; and, as he had anticipated, the chorus was sung, not by the mob alone, but by the triple line of infantry holding the neck of the Königstrasse. Harsh commands were given by frantic officers, but to no avail. The music had got into the men's blood, and curses and entreaties, blows even, failed signally to check the tide of revolutionary song.
"Well sung, brothers!" cried out Trafford as the song died down. "Three cheers for the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt!"
Three cheers were given by all, and with especial heartiness by the soldiers.
"Now, listen to what I'm going to say," went on Trafford in stentorian tones. "The lady who just sang that song isn't the beautiful Fräulein Schmitt, for there is no such person. The beautiful Fräulein Schmitt is the most noble and high-born Princess Gloria von Schattenberg, whom you are going to set on the throne of Grimland. Behold your Queen who is to be!"
At these words a mighty shout rent the air. No one seemed to doubt the truth of the startling dénouement; the crowd was drunk with its own singing, drunk with the lust of anarchy, its reasoning faculties dulled in a wild orgy of rebellion. The form and features of the Princess Gloria were practically unknown in Weidenbruck, but all the Grimlander's innate love of change had grouped itself beneath the ægis of her name. For years she had been the official figure-head of the revolutionary party. Wild legends and poetic fantasies had been woven round her little-known existence. And now the present dramatic disclosure of her personality,—identified as it was with that of the popular Fräulein Schmitt, the singer of the all-pervading "Rothlied,"—kindled an enthusiasm no bonds could restrain.
"Long live the noble and high-born Princess!" shouted Trafford, but his voice was drowned in the wild confusion of cries that shook the air like thunder. The soldiers broke their ranks and mingled with the crowd; several of the officers joined the swelling stream of insurrection; a few,—neither wholly false nor wholly brave,—slunk off down the Königstrasse, pursued by the jeers of their late subordinates.
Trafford, with the instincts of a true leader, struck hard while the iron glowed.
"To the Strafeburg!" he cried.
"To the Strafeburg!" shouted a hundred responsive voices.