A sentiment so antagonistic to the one so late issuing from the lips of the troopers, produced among them an instantaneous commotion. The soldiers, seated under the tree, started to their feet; while the officers faced in the direction whence the voice had come—their eyes angrily flashing under the umbrils of their helmets.
He, who had so daringly declared himself, was not concealed. A horseman, of elegant appearance, had just ridden up, and halted in the middle of the road; where the landlord—apparently without orders, and as if accustomed to the service,—was helping him to a goblet of wine. It was this horseman who had called out: “The People!”
In the enthusiasm of their loyalty, his arrival had either not been observed by the troopers,—or at all events no notice had been taken of it,—until the emphatic pronunciation fell upon their ears like the bursting of a bomb. Then all eyes were instantly turned towards him.
As he gave utterance to the phrase, he was in the act of raising the wine cup to his lips. Without appearing to notice the effect which his speech had produced, he coolly quaffed off the wine; and with like sang froid, returned the empty goblet to the giver.
The defiant insolence of the act had so taken the troopers by surprise, that they stood in their places—just as they had started up—silent, and apparently stupefied. Even the officers, after hurrying forward, remained speechless for several seconds—as if under the influence of an angry amazement. The only sounds for a while heard were the voices of the spectators—tapsters, stable-helpers, and other idlers—who had clustered in front of the inn—and who now formed an assemblage, as large as the troop itself. Despite the presence of the armed representatives of royalty, the sentiment of these was unmistakeably the same, as that to which the strange horseman had given voice; and they were emphatically complimenting themselves, when they clinked their pewter pots, and in chorus, proclaimed: “The People!”
Most of them, but the moment before, and with equal enthusiasm, had drunk “the King;” but in this sudden change of sentiment they only resembled most politicians of modern times, who have been dignified with the name of “Statesmen!”
But even among these tapsters and stable-helpers, there were some who had refrained from being forced into a lip loyalty; and who echoed the second sentiment with a fervent spirit, and a full knowledge of its everlasting antagonism to the first.
When the ultimate syllable of this sacred phrase had died upon the ear of the assembled crowd, it was succeeded by a silence ominous and expectant. Two individuals commanded the attention of all—the captain of the cuirassiers, and the horseman who had halted upon the road: the toaster of the “king,” and the proposer of the “people.”
The soldier should speak first. It was to him that the challenge—if such he chose to consider it—had been flung forth.
Had it been a rustic who had uttered it—one of the assembled crowd—even a freehold farmer of puritanic pretensions—the cuirassier captain would have answered him on the instant, perhaps with steel added to the persuasion of his tongue. But a cavalier, of broad bands, and gold spurs buckled over Spanish leather boots—astride a noble steed—with a long rapier hanging handy anent his hip—was an individual not to be ridden over in such haste, and one, whose “argument” called for consideration.