Prince Otto Georg smiled grimly as he watched the operations from a point of vantage. “Never trust citizens to defend their town,” he said. “They surrendered Strasburg.”
The worst of the fighting was yet to come. From house to house and from street to street Prince Otto Georg’s soldiers made their way, with their ranks at one moment swelled by a band of welcoming sympathisers, at another thinned by a stream of fire from some public building turned into a fortress, and fiercely defended by desperate men, who had rushed from the river-face to make a last effort for their lives. While one party of the assailants was making for the palace, two others were gaining possession of the walls, and turning the guns there upon the quarters where the strongest resistance was experienced; and the Prince himself appeared to be ubiquitous, alike in keeping up communications with the strong force he had left to hold the gate, guarding against a flank attack by an overlooked force of the enemy, and moderating the fierceness of the strife by proclaiming, whenever he could get a hearing, quarter to those who were willing to lay down their arms. After all, the bulk of the townspeople were very glad to submit to the besiegers. The exactions of the rebels had not endeared them to any one within the walls, and there had been rumours of what was to happen to the faithless city on King Peter’s return which caused most people to tremble for their property, if not for their lives. Only the men of the city guard, knowing, as M. Drakovics had said, that they fought with ropes round their necks, persisted in maintaining the fight, making a stand at every available point, and at last crowding with their leaders into the palace for a final effort.
Even now, if it had been possible to move the great guns from the river batteries to the palace, and turn them against the town, the result of the day’s fighting might have been different; but time and appliances were alike wanting for this operation, and after a short resistance the wall of the garden was scaled, and the rebels made their last stand in the palace itself.
“Take them alive! Take them alive!” had been the reiterated order of Prince Otto Georg and M. Drakovics. “They know what has become of the King,” and the Carlinists, mad with rage and fight though they were, did their best to obey. When the stubborn contest ended at last, Ivan Sertchaieff, the Premier, lay dead on the grand staircase where Caerleon had been taken prisoner; his brother, less fortunate, was in the hands of the victors, and with him were Louis O’Malachy and about a score of others. The civilians of the party were committed to the custody of the police, who had been imprisoned in their barracks by the rebels, and had done good service by breaking out during the street-fighting and joining the Carlinists. A summary court-martial sat immediately, under the presidency of Prince Otto Georg, to try such of the prisoners as had belonged to the army, while M. Drakovics, who had fought his way in with the troops, searched the palace and interrogated the other captives as to the King’s whereabouts.
What the Prince was chiefly anxious to discover from the men before him was the extent to which the disaffection which had led to the rebellion had spread in the army and in the country, and also whether Scythia had committed herself to any definite encouragement of the scheme; but from General Sertchaieff he could gain nothing but a denial of the competency of the tribunal to try him, from Louis a declaration that he was a Scythian subject, and from the rest more or less vehement protestations of devotion to the house of Franza and of their readiness to die in its service. The competence of a court presided over by the Commander-in-Chief to try officers undoubtedly belonging to the army could not be seriously questioned, and the trial proceeded with due ceremony until it was interrupted by a tremendous uproar outside the hall. Prince Otto Georg ordered the sentries to clear the approaches to the court; but the moment that the door was opened a motley throng of Carlinists streamed in, with M. Drakovics, wrathful and agitated, at their head.
“What is the meaning of this unseemly proceeding?” inquired Prince Otto Georg. “I am surprised that you should so far forget the gravity of the occasion as to interrupt the trial.”
He was addressing himself to M. Drakovics; but his words were drowned by the excited crowd, who pressed about the prisoners with shouts and gestures of rage, and were only prevented from rushing upon them by the exertions of the guards.
“Where is the King?” they cried. “Give us back our Carlino!”
“Gentlemen,” said M. Drakovics, addressing the officers who formed the court, “I am grieved beyond measure to tell you that we have searched the palace and a great part of the city, but we can find no trace of our beloved sovereign.”
General Sertchaieff smiled sardonically. “It is scarcely likely that you will,” he said.