At the hospital, Haeckel, the student, stood by his window, and little by little the veil lifted. His slow blood stirred first. The beating of drums, the shrieks of the crowd, the fires, all played their part. Another patient joined him, and together they looked out.
“Bad work!” said the other man.
“Aye!” said Haeckel. Then, speaking very slowly, and with difficulty, “I do not understand.”
“The King is dead.” The man watched him. He had been of interest to the ward.
“Aye,” observed, Haeckel, still uncomprehending. And then, “Dead—the King?”
“Dead. Hear the bell.”
“Then—” But he could not at once formulate the thought in his mind. Speech came hard. He was still in a cloud.
“They say,” said the other man, “that the Crown Prince is missing, that he has been stolen. The people are frenzied.”
He went on, dilating on the rumors. Still Haeckel labored. The King! The Crown Prince! There was something that he was to do. It was just beyond him, but he could not remember. Then, by accident, the other man touched the hidden spring of his memory.
“There are some who think that Mettlich—”