The Puppet Crown [130]
of human feet, the striking of hoofs and the wheels of cannon. It marked the progress of an army. To the great surprise of the Marshal, the prince and the staff, they had pushed thus far during the afternoon without seeing a sign of the enemy. Was Madame asleep? Was she so confident her projects were unknown that she had chosen night as the time of her attack? Night, indeed, when the strength of her forces would be a matter of conjecture to the assaulted, who at the suddenness of her approach would succumb to panic! The prince was jubilant and hopeful. He had no doubt that they would arrive at the pass just as Madame was issuing forth. This meant an easy victory, for once the guns covered the narrow pass, though Madame's army were ten times as strong, its defeat was certain. A small force might hold it in check for hours.
A squadron of cuirassiers had been sent forward to reconnoiter, and as yet none had returned with alarms. The road had many windings, and was billowed frequently with hills, and ran through small forests. Only the vast blue bulk of the mountains remained ever in view.
"We shall drink at the Red Chateau to-night," said the prince, gaily, to Maurice.
"That we shall," replied Maurice; "and the best in the cellars."
Only the Marshal said nothing; he knew what war was. In his youth he had served in Transylvania, and he was not minded to laugh and jest. Then, too, there was injustice on both sides. Poor devil! as his thoughts recurred to the king. Touched for the moment by the wings of ambition, which is at best a white vulture, he had usurped another's throne, and to this end! But he was less answerable than the archbishop, who had urged him.
Occasionally he glanced back at the native troops, the foot, the horse, the artillery, and scowled. From these his glance wandered to the cold, impassive face of General Kronau, who rode at his side, and he rubbed his nose. Kronau had been a favorite of Albrecht's . . . How would he act? In truth, the Marshal's thoughts were not altogether pleasant. Some of these men surrounding him, exchanging persiflage, might never witness another sunset. For, while the world would look upon this encounter as one looks upon a comedy, for some it would serve as tragedy. Often he lent his ear to the gay banter of the young American, and watched the careless smile on his face. What was he doing here? Why was he risking his life for no cause whatever, an alien, in natural sympathy neither with the kingdom nor with the duchy? A sad, grim smile parted his lips.
"O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!" he murmured.
Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration--the soldier's exhilaration--quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed. Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.
He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before. Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright, resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation, no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.
The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to
A squadron of cuirassiers had been sent forward to reconnoiter, and as yet none had returned with alarms. The road had many windings, and was billowed frequently with hills, and ran through small forests. Only the vast blue bulk of the mountains remained ever in view.
"We shall drink at the Red Chateau to-night," said the prince, gaily, to Maurice.
"That we shall," replied Maurice; "and the best in the cellars."
Only the Marshal said nothing; he knew what war was. In his youth he had served in Transylvania, and he was not minded to laugh and jest. Then, too, there was injustice on both sides. Poor devil! as his thoughts recurred to the king. Touched for the moment by the wings of ambition, which is at best a white vulture, he had usurped another's throne, and to this end! But he was less answerable than the archbishop, who had urged him.
Occasionally he glanced back at the native troops, the foot, the horse, the artillery, and scowled. From these his glance wandered to the cold, impassive face of General Kronau, who rode at his side, and he rubbed his nose. Kronau had been a favorite of Albrecht's . . . How would he act? In truth, the Marshal's thoughts were not altogether pleasant. Some of these men surrounding him, exchanging persiflage, might never witness another sunset. For, while the world would look upon this encounter as one looks upon a comedy, for some it would serve as tragedy. Often he lent his ear to the gay banter of the young American, and watched the careless smile on his face. What was he doing here? Why was he risking his life for no cause whatever, an alien, in natural sympathy neither with the kingdom nor with the duchy? A sad, grim smile parted his lips.
"O, the urbanity of the young and the brave!" he murmured.
Maurice felt the old familiar exhilaration--the soldier's exhilaration--quicken the beat of his pulse. He did not ask himself why he was here; he knew why. A delightful flower had sprung up in his heart, and fate had nipped it. Whither this new adventure would lead him he cared not. From now on life for him must be renewed by continual change and excitement. Since no one depended on him, his life was his to dispose of as he willed. Friends? He laughed. He knew the world too well. He himself was his best friend, for he had always been true to himself.
He might be shot, but he had faced that possibility before. Besides, to-day's experience would be new to him. He had never witnessed a battle in the open, man to man, in bright, resplendent uniforms. A ragged, dusty troop of brown-skinned men in faded blue, with free and easy hats, irregular of formation, no glory, no brilliancy, skirmishing with outlawed white men and cunning Indians, that was the extent of his knowledge by experience. True, these self-same men in dingy blue fought with a daring such as few soldiers living possessed; but they lacked the ideal picturesqueness which made this army so attractive.
The sharp edges of his recent fatigue were not yet dulled, but his cuirass sat lightly upon him, the sound of the dangling saber at his side smote pleasantly his ear, and the black Mecklenberg under him was strong and active. To return to