"Herr Krantz shall be rewarded," said Bernhardt. "His loyalty is well known and appreciated in the highest quarter. And as for these 'gentlemen,' as you call them," he went on, turning to the mob, "I've a good mind to give them an experience of a cavalry charge in a narrow lane."
The suggestion was taken literally by the mob, and something of a panic began in the neighbourhood of the steel-clad troopers. But Bernhardt checked the movement with a quick shout.
"Stop, you fools!" he cried, rising in his stirrups and letting his great voice ring out. "Stop, and listen to me before you go about your business—or your idling! What do you mean by this breach of the peace? Has there not been trouble enough in the city of late? Are you men or wolves, that you hunt a man through the streets, and pull down the doorway of a peaceful citizen?"
"He is a traitor!" cried one. "He freed Karl!" cried another, and a babel of tongues broke out in an eager flood of accusation.
For a moment Bernhardt let them speak. Then he raised his hand and won instant silence.
"He is not a traitor," he said with slow emphasis. "He rescued me from the Strafeburg. Was that the act of a traitor? Had it not been for this brave and resourceful American I should now be rotting in a dungeon, and you still beneath the yoke of Karl. It is true that Karl has fled to Weissheim, but that was a mistake due to no fault of Trafford's. And the fault, whosoever's it was, he will undo, for he accompanies me to Weissheim, sworn to win back the Marienkastel from the Queen's enemies."
The quiet force of his words carried conviction to his hearers. They feared the grim, black figure as a pack of dogs fears its master, but there was a certain canine affection in their debased regard. Bernhardt was a superior being, one whose word was law. They heard and believed, and even began to feel self-reproachful.
"For shame on you, men of Weidenbruck!" went on the ex-priest in upraised tones. "Shame on you, I say, compassing harm against the man who delivered you from tyranny! This loyal friend of mine, whose courage and craft you have just experienced to your own hurt, joins an expedition to Weissheim as my right-hand man. A foreigner, he endures hardships and dangers for your sake and that of your noble young Queen. 'Traitor,' you called him! Hero and liberator would be better titles, I think, for such as he. With his help there is no fear but that we shall capture Weissheim from our enemies, and bring back Karl a prisoner to the capital. What reward will you have then for Trafford, the deliverer? Will you hunt him through your streets like a mad dog? Or will you strew garlands in his path, acclaim him from your housetops—aye, and give him the highest in your land to wife!"
Assuredly if the power of words is a wonderful thing, the power of personality is infinitely greater. Bernhardt had spoken with a certain ready eloquence, a certain skill of pleading in his client's cause; but another might have spoken with twice his skill and twice his oratory, and have failed completely. It was not that he followed the temper of the mob and adapted himself to their moods; rather, he made their moods for them, and used them to his own sweet will. When he reasoned they followed and were convinced, when he lashed they cringed, when he reproached they suffered agonies of shame; and at the end he raised their enthusiasm for the object of their late malice, with the ease of a consummate master of men, and his last question was met with a ringing cry of "Long live the American! Long live Gloria of Grimland!" The ex-priest's smile was more of a sneer than anything—so cheap did he hold his triumph over the flaccid minds of the shifty horde; but his eye wandered to the roof where Trafford stood, shovel in hand, cheering himself and his secretly-married wife.
"We will escort you to your hotel," Bernhardt called out.