“Marshal,” began General Kronau, “I respect your age and valiant services. That is why we have come thirteen miles. You may keep your sword, and also Monsieur the prince. For the present you are prisoners.”
For a moment the Marshal was stupefied. His secret fears had been realized. Suddenly a hoarse oath issued from his lips, he dragged his saber from the scabbard, raised it and made a terrible sweep at the General. But the stroke fell on a dozen intervening blades, and the Marshal's arms were held and forced to his sides.
“Kronau... you?” he roared. “Betrayed! You despicable coward and traitor! You—” But speech forsook him, and he would have fallen from the horse but for those who held his arms.
“Traitor?” echoed Kronau, coolly. “To what and to whom? I am serving my true and legitimate sovereign. I am also serving humanity, since this battle is to be bloodless. It is you who are the traitor. You swore allegiance to the duke, and that allegiance is the inheritance of the daughter. How have you kept your oath?”
But the Marshal was incapable of answer. One looking at him would have said that he was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy.
“I admit,” went on the General, not wholly unembarrassed, “that the part I play is not an agreeable one to me, but it is preferable to the needless loss of human life. The duchess was to have entered Bleiberg at night, to save us this present dishonor, if you persist in calling it such. But his Highness, who is young, and Monseigneur the archbishop, who dreams of Richelieu, made it impossible. No harm is intended to any one.”
The prince, white and shivering as if with ague, broke his sword on the pommel of the saddle and hurled the pieces at Kronau, who permitted them to strike him.
“God's witness,” the prince cried furiously, “but your victory shall be short-lived. I have an army, trusty to the last sword, and you shall feel the length of its arm within forty-eight hours.”
“Perhaps,” said Kronau, shrugging.
“It is already on the way.”