The Puppet Crown [138]
room. I shall last till Madame comes. Let her find me there. . . . The brandy!"
Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.
"The throne room?" repeated von Mitter, surprised at this strange request. "Well, why not? For what is a throne when there is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of them! Quick! help me with him, Max!" for Maurice was reaching blindly toward him.
The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room, and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There they left him.
"Bad!" said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor. "And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon. I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom--it must have been a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us. But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his life."
"But how comes he into all this?" asked Scharfenstein, perplexedly.
"It is not for me or you to question, Max," said von Mitter, looking down. He had his own opinion, but he was not minded to disclose it.
"What are you going to do?"
"Perform my duty until the end," sourly. "Go you and help against the students, who have not manliness enough even to respect the dead. The cowardly servants are all gone; save the king's valet. There are only seven of us in all. I will seek the king's physician; the dead are dead, so let us concern ourselves with the living;" and he limped off toward the private apartments.
Scharfenstein hurried away to the square.
In the royal bedchamber a girl murmured over a cold hand. "God pity me; I am all, all alone!"
The archbishop was kneeling at the foot of the bed. In his heart was the bitterness of loss and defeat. His dreams of greatness for this clay! The worldly pomp which was to have attended it! Life was but a warm breath on the mirror of eternity; for one the mirror was clear again.
The square soon grew quiet; the students and the cuirassiers had met for the last time. In the throne room shadows and silence prevailed. Maurice lay upon the cushions, the hilt of the saber still in his hand. Consciousness had returned, a clear, penetrating consciousness. At the foot of the throne, he thought, and, mayhap, close to one not visible to the human eye! What a checkerboard he had moved upon, and now the checkmate! So long as the pain did not diminish, he was content; a sudden ease was what he dreaded. Life was struggling to retain its hold. He did not wish to die; he was young; there were long years to come; the world was beautiful, and to love was the glory over it all. He wondered if Beauvais still lay in the road where he had left him. Again he could see that red saber swinging high; and he shivered.
Half an hour passed, then came the distant murmur of voices, which expanded into tumult. The victorious army, the brave and gallant army, had entered the city, and was streaming toward the palaces. Huzzas rose amid the blaring of bugles. The timorous came forth and added to the noise. The conquerors trooped into the palace, and Madame the duchess looked with shining eyes at the throne of her forefathers.
CHAPTER XXVII
WORMWOOD AND LEES
Madame, like a statue of expectancy, riveted her gaze on the throne. Hers at last! Her dreams were realized. She was no longer a duchess by patent; she was a queen by right of inheritance; she was now to be a power among the great. The kingdom of her forefathers was hers. She had reached the goal without bloodshed; she had been patient, and this was her reward. The blaze of her ambition dimmed all other stars. Her bosom heaved, triumph
Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.
"The throne room?" repeated von Mitter, surprised at this strange request. "Well, why not? For what is a throne when there is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of them! Quick! help me with him, Max!" for Maurice was reaching blindly toward him.
The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room, and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There they left him.
"Bad!" said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor. "And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon. I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom--it must have been a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us. But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his life."
"But how comes he into all this?" asked Scharfenstein, perplexedly.
"It is not for me or you to question, Max," said von Mitter, looking down. He had his own opinion, but he was not minded to disclose it.
"What are you going to do?"
"Perform my duty until the end," sourly. "Go you and help against the students, who have not manliness enough even to respect the dead. The cowardly servants are all gone; save the king's valet. There are only seven of us in all. I will seek the king's physician; the dead are dead, so let us concern ourselves with the living;" and he limped off toward the private apartments.
Scharfenstein hurried away to the square.
In the royal bedchamber a girl murmured over a cold hand. "God pity me; I am all, all alone!"
The archbishop was kneeling at the foot of the bed. In his heart was the bitterness of loss and defeat. His dreams of greatness for this clay! The worldly pomp which was to have attended it! Life was but a warm breath on the mirror of eternity; for one the mirror was clear again.
The square soon grew quiet; the students and the cuirassiers had met for the last time. In the throne room shadows and silence prevailed. Maurice lay upon the cushions, the hilt of the saber still in his hand. Consciousness had returned, a clear, penetrating consciousness. At the foot of the throne, he thought, and, mayhap, close to one not visible to the human eye! What a checkerboard he had moved upon, and now the checkmate! So long as the pain did not diminish, he was content; a sudden ease was what he dreaded. Life was struggling to retain its hold. He did not wish to die; he was young; there were long years to come; the world was beautiful, and to love was the glory over it all. He wondered if Beauvais still lay in the road where he had left him. Again he could see that red saber swinging high; and he shivered.
Half an hour passed, then came the distant murmur of voices, which expanded into tumult. The victorious army, the brave and gallant army, had entered the city, and was streaming toward the palaces. Huzzas rose amid the blaring of bugles. The timorous came forth and added to the noise. The conquerors trooped into the palace, and Madame the duchess looked with shining eyes at the throne of her forefathers.
CHAPTER XXVII
WORMWOOD AND LEES
Madame, like a statue of expectancy, riveted her gaze on the throne. Hers at last! Her dreams were realized. She was no longer a duchess by patent; she was a queen by right of inheritance; she was now to be a power among the great. The kingdom of her forefathers was hers. She had reached the goal without bloodshed; she had been patient, and this was her reward. The blaze of her ambition dimmed all other stars. Her bosom heaved, triumph