"Providence upheld the ruling dynasty with a firm hand," Saunders went on to explain, "and the rebellious family, the Schattenbergs, were pretty well wiped out in the process. Two alone survived:—Prince Stephan,—who was too young to participate in the trouble, and who subsequently died of diphtheria at Weissheim,—and the Princess Gloria,—a girl of one-and-twenty, who escaped over the Austrian frontier."
"And what is she doing?" inquired Trafford with some approach to curiosity.
"No one exactly knows. Unless she has altered in three years, she is a beautiful young woman. She lives in the public imagination partly because she is a possible alternative to King Karl, who has the demerit of being a respectable middle-aged man. If,—as is rumoured,—she is in alliance with Father Bernhardt, there will certainly be trouble, for the ex-priest is a man of energy and resource. Moreover, he was once a religious man, and believed himself damned when he ran away with King Karl's fickle consort; and a man who is looking forward to eternal damnation is as dangerous in his way as a Moslem fanatic seeking Paradise."
Trafford said nothing, but breathed a silent prayer that the renegade priest might indeed be in Grimland. For Trafford was one of those curiously constituted people—rarer now than they used to be—who value excitement without counting the cost. At Oxford he had always regarded Saunders with a deep, if unmalicious envy. The Englishman had captured the highest honours, had won his cricket blue, performing prodigies at Lord's before enthusiastic men and women; and, later, had played a conspicuous, almost heroic, part in the Grimland troubles of 1904. On the other hand, he, Trafford—Nervy Trafford—had to be content both at Harvard and Oxford with only limited athletic successes, these being achieved by sheer pluck and infectious energy. But men had always loved him, for he could sing a rousing song, dance a spirited war-dance, and kindle bonfires in unexpected places with the most expensive furniture. In a word, his was an ardent, effervescent nature, and now that the tragedy of a tumultuous but misplaced passion had robbed life of its normal interest and savour, his ideas of a diverting holiday were of a distinctly reckless nature.
Wandering down the Bahnhofstrasse they purchased a few picture-postcards at a stationer's, a meerschaum pipe at an elegant tobacconist's where they sold Hamburg cigars in Havana boxes, and finally halted before a big corner shop where all the paraphernalia appertaining to winter sports were displayed in interesting and attractive profusion.
"I thought you had a good pair of skates," said Saunders.
"So I have," returned the other. "But there are two styles of skating, the English and the continental; and I am one of those rarely gifted Americans who can skate both styles equally well,—a fact I intend to take advantage of at this competition. But I need a different pair of skates for each style."
"Do you think you're really any good?" asked Saunders, smiling. He was accustomed to refer to his own abilities in eulogistic terms, but was not used to his companion doing so.
"If you were to ask that question in Onondaga, New York, U.S.A.,—where I was born and bred,—they'd laugh at you," was Trafford's serious reply.
"All right, let's go in and buy something from Frau Krabb," said Saunders, leading the way into the shop.