The Puppet Crown [103]
brusquely; "you're half fainting."
"You are very handy, Carewe," said von Mitter gratefully, and he climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.
Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed him into the pole.
Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to him. . . .
"Ho, there! the prisoner!" cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs, and he sank to a sitting posture.
Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road. Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to sink; but he hung on to the horse.
"Hurry!" cried Maurice; "I've hit him and we'll find him along the road somewhere."
They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle, and they clattered off toward the city.
CHAPTER XX
THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber. Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in the service of the late king and the king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.
"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."
No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.
"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, he takes
"You are very handy, Carewe," said von Mitter gratefully, and he climbed in beside the maid, who, her fright gone, gave way to womanly instincts. She took her kerchief and wiped the Lieutenant's cheek, pressing his hand in hers the while.
Maurice and Scharfenstein worked away at the traces, and dragged the dead horse to the side of the road. Scharfenstein brought around von Mitter's horse, took oft the furnishings, and backed him into the pole.
Meanwhile the man lying by the water's edge showed signs of returning life. He turned his head cautiously. His enemies were a dozen yards away from him. Slowly he rolled over on his stomach, thence to his knees. They were paying no attention to him. . . .
"Ho, there! the prisoner!" cried von Mitter, tumbling out of the carriage. He tried to stand up, but a numbness seized his legs, and he sank to a sitting posture.
Maurice and Scharfenstein turned too late. Johann had mounted on Scharfenstein's horse, and was flying away down the road. Maurice coolly leveled his revolver and sent two bullets after him. The second one caused Johann to straighten stiffly, then to sink; but he hung on to the horse.
"Hurry!" cried Maurice; "I've hit him and we'll find him along the road somewhere."
They lifted von Mitter into the carriage, wheeled it about, and Scharfenstein mounted the box. Maurice sprang into his saddle, and they clattered off toward the city.
CHAPTER XX
THE LAST STAND OF A BAD SERVANT
The cuirassiers stationed in the guardroom of the royal palace walked gently on the tiling, when occasion required them to walk, and when they entered or left the room, they were particularly careful to avoid the chink of the spur or the clank of the saber. Although the royal bedchamber was many doors removed, the Captain had issued a warning against any unnecessary noise. A loud laugh, or the falling of a saber carelessly rested, drew upon the unlucky offender the scowling eyes of the commander, who reclined in front of the medieval fireplace, in which a solitary log burned, and brooded over past and present. The high revels in the guardroom were no more, the cuirassiers were no longer made up of the young nobles of the kingdom; they were now merely watch dogs.
Twenty years ago the commander had come from Dresden as an instructor in arms, and after the first year had watched over the royal household, in the service of the late king and the king who lay dying. He had come of good family, but others had come oof better, and had carried of court honors, though his post in early days had been envied by many. He was above all else a soldier, the embodiment of patience and integrity, and he scorned to murmur because fortune had passed over his head. As he sucked at his pipe, he recalled the days of Albrecht and his opera singers, the court scandals, and his own constant employment as messenger in the king's love intrigues.
Albrecht had died a widower and childless, and with him had died the flower of court life. The courtiers and sycophants had flocked to the standard of the duke, and had remained there, primarily because Leopold of Osia promised a sedate and exemplary life. Sometimes the Captain shook his head, as if communing with some unpleasant thought. On each side of him sat a soldier, also smoking and ruminating.
At the mess table a dozen or so whiled away the time at cards. The wavering lights of the candle and hearth cast warring shadows on the wall and floor, and the gun and saber racks twinkled. If the players spoke, it was in tones inaudible to the Captain's ears.
"Our bread and butter," said the Captain softly, "are likely to take unto themselves the proverbial wings and fly away."
No one replied. The Captain was a man who frequently spoke his thoughts aloud, and required no one to reply to his disjointed utterances.
"A soldier of fortune," he went on, "pins his faith and zeal to standards which to-day rise and to-morrow fall. Unfortunately, he takes