One or two significant additions had been made since the great dungeon had been converted to the dignity of a council-chamber. Down the length of the low-roofed hall, between the central aisle of piers supporting it, a long iron-bound oaken table filled up the major space. This was flanked by a number of leather-seated chairs belonging to a similar period, and of equal crudeness of manufacture.
Table and chairs formed the complete furnishing of this dreary apartment, whose only beauty lay in the simple antiquity of its architecture and the characteristic chiselling of the grey piers which supported its quartered roof. For the rest, in the dim recesses beyond the rays of the lamplight on the table, there were to be found the wrought-iron sconces upon the walls, which had once doubtless served to support the light of blazing torches. And further, still more remote from the light, lost in the dusky corners, were an array of instruments which had survived the years, and whose evil purpose there could be no mistaking.
At the head of this long table sat a man with almost snow-white hair and a moustache of similar color, carefully trained with a sharp, upward turning of the pointed ends. His was a handsome face of considerable refinement. But it was deeply lined, even beyond his years, and the thin lips, drooping markedly downwards at the corners of his mouth, gave his whole expression something of tragedy.
On his right, at the side of the table, the single lamp-light shining full upon his harsh features, sat Frederick von Berger, the absolute antithesis of the man at the head of the table. Here was cold strength and even ruthlessness, not one whit less than the harsh surroundings of the council-chamber in which he sat. The cold eyes of the man possessed not one single lurking shadow of warmth. He was perhaps forty-five, and the iron mould of his plain features, and the tremendous air of physical strength about his body, all added to the impression that here was the direct descendant, untempered with the blood of gentler races, of those savage forbears who had wrested place and power for themselves from amongst their people by the sheer weight of the sword.
These two men had remained seated in conference for some time. The manner of the man at the head of the table was silent, even morose. Frederick von Berger did most of the talking, and this fact, combined with his marked air of deference, gave some indication that his guest was some one of extremely unusual importance.
After a while Von Berger rose from his seat and was swallowed up in the shadowy remoteness of the room. His companion remained seated, leaning back in his chair, gazing after him with deep, cold, introspective eyes. His preoccupation was marked, and the drawn lines of his handsome face gave some clue to the importance, and even urgency, of his visit to these outlands of northern Prussia.
When Von Berger returned he was accompanied by another, who, as he came within the radiance of the lamp, revealed the angular, erect figure of the Captain-General of the great arsenal of Borga. The moment he came within view of the solitary figure at the head of the table he halted abruptly in perfect military salutation. His whole attitude underwent a marked and deferential change. His usual air of arrogant authority seemed to have dropped from him like a cloak. It was a perfect example of the effect of the Prussian system.
The man at the table nodded faintly. It was the signal Von Berger and his companion awaited. They approached. Von Berger took his original seat, but Von Salzinger remained standing.
Von Berger waited. Then the man at the head of the table bestirred himself.
"Go on," he said sharply. And at once the Prince turned upon the Captain-General.