Their voices, lowered at first, rose acrimoniously; almost they penetrated to the silent room beyond. On to the discussion came Nikky Larisch, covered with dust and spotted with froth from his horse. He entered without ceremony, his boyish face drawn and white, his cap gone, his eyes staring.
“The Chancellor?” he said.
Some one pointed to the room beyond.
Nikky hesitated. Then, being young and dramatic, even in tragedy, he unbuckled his sword-belt and took it off, placing it on a table.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have come to surrender myself.”
The Council stared.
“For what reason?” demanded Marschall coldly.
“I believe it is called high treason.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It is because of my negligence that this thing has happened. He was in my charge, and I left him.”
No one said anything. The Council looked at a loss, rather like a flock of sheep confronting some strange animal.
“I would have shot myself,” said Nikky Larisch, “but it was too easy.”