him.
And that was Albrecht in there, in that box. It seemed to Wéry
an obscenity that Albrecht, of all men, should be the one they
used to make their point. The living man had been worth so
much. Why should his remains be surrounded with this mock
pomp and the artificial extravagances of grief?
The coffin moved, at the pace of the holy, and paused at the
water's edge. There were men standing in the barge, reaching to
lift it down. There it went, safely, silently onto the deck. The
shadows of the quay seemed to push slowly out into the river as
the barge parted from the bank. A streak of water opened
between it and the quay, and the barge was out into the stream,
drifting down towards the bridges. On the wharf the mob
crowded to the very edge.
'Adelsheim!' called several voices. 'God bless Adelsheim!'
But further back, at the edges of the crowd, others called,
'Down with the Warmongers!'And,'Give us back our children!'
They were following the barge along the bank. Some were
running ahead to the Old Bridge to take up position there. Feet
sounded, hurrying down the cobbles, coming closer. The clamour
of the crowd was growing.
In a moment they would think of the New Bridge, too.
The barge emerged silently from the middle arch of the Old
Bridge, folding its oars for long seconds to pass between the
pillars of stone. Above it men crowded and yelled at the parapet.
One had climbed up and was standing balanced there, waving his
arms like a mad black clown. The barge came on. Feet were
running again on the waterside, keeping pace with it, down
towards the New Bridge where the officers waited.
'Bishop! Hey, Bishop! Give us back our children!'
'They're coming!' gasped Heiss.
'Stand fast,' said Balcke.
Wéry clenched his teeth. There were figures at the end of the
bridge, approaching.
'You!' cried a drunken voice suddenly. 'You there! What are
you doing?'
'Steady,' said Balcke.
Balcke and Fernhausen were at the parapet, ignoring the mob.
They had thrown their coats back, and their white uniforms
gleamed clearly in the dusk. The barge was coming on, holding
its position to shoot the second bridge. Wéry could see the shapes
upon it – the steersman, standing clear at the stern; the heads and
shoulders of oarsmen; a small group of people in the centre of the
barge, around a long shape that must have been the coffin itself.
'Now,' said Balcke, and lifted his hand in a slow salute.
Fernhausen bent outwards over the parapet. What seemed to be
a large glove or gauntlet dangled from his fingers.
'You!' yelled the drunken voice, approaching along the bridge.
'You! Stand! And say your business!'
'They are – ah – rather close,' murmured Uhnen in his ear.
'Shouldn't we . . . ?'
'Wait,' said Wéry, tightly. His eyes were on the river, but his ears
were following the footfalls coming along the bridge. Not yet,
not yet. The longer they could delay it . . .
'Hey! You!' said the voice, a few paces from his ear.
'Wéry!' hissed Uhnen. 'Shouldn't we . . . ?'
'Yes. Now.'
Hand to hilt. Metal rasping in the night. The curved blade,
heavy before him, pointed along the bridge at the shadow-men
advancing!
'Stay back, there!' he cried.
'Stay back!' echoed Uhnen, also with his sword drawn.
'Ho there! Help here! Help!' The voice was louder still, full of
rage and the lust for a fight. More feet came running. As yet there
were only a handful of men on the bridge, but in a moment . . .
'The infantry will retire,' said Balcke calmly. Fernhausen was
already turning away from the parapet. His hands were empty.
Whatever he was holding had been dropped into the barge, still
passing under the arch. Balcke placed his arm on Heiss's shoulder
and began to lumber back towards the Saint Emil side.
Damn! thought Wéry. That leg!
He should have thought of it. That leg, and the swift-footed
mob on their heels! Why hadn't he foreseen this?
How the devil were they going to get out of here?
Von Uhnen was gone. Wéry was on his own. The
And that was Albrecht in there, in that box. It seemed to Wéry
an obscenity that Albrecht, of all men, should be the one they
used to make their point. The living man had been worth so
much. Why should his remains be surrounded with this mock
pomp and the artificial extravagances of grief?
The coffin moved, at the pace of the holy, and paused at the
water's edge. There were men standing in the barge, reaching to
lift it down. There it went, safely, silently onto the deck. The
shadows of the quay seemed to push slowly out into the river as
the barge parted from the bank. A streak of water opened
between it and the quay, and the barge was out into the stream,
drifting down towards the bridges. On the wharf the mob
crowded to the very edge.
'Adelsheim!' called several voices. 'God bless Adelsheim!'
But further back, at the edges of the crowd, others called,
'Down with the Warmongers!'And,'Give us back our children!'
They were following the barge along the bank. Some were
running ahead to the Old Bridge to take up position there. Feet
sounded, hurrying down the cobbles, coming closer. The clamour
of the crowd was growing.
In a moment they would think of the New Bridge, too.
The barge emerged silently from the middle arch of the Old
Bridge, folding its oars for long seconds to pass between the
pillars of stone. Above it men crowded and yelled at the parapet.
One had climbed up and was standing balanced there, waving his
arms like a mad black clown. The barge came on. Feet were
running again on the waterside, keeping pace with it, down
towards the New Bridge where the officers waited.
'Bishop! Hey, Bishop! Give us back our children!'
'They're coming!' gasped Heiss.
'Stand fast,' said Balcke.
Wéry clenched his teeth. There were figures at the end of the
bridge, approaching.
'You!' cried a drunken voice suddenly. 'You there! What are
you doing?'
'Steady,' said Balcke.
Balcke and Fernhausen were at the parapet, ignoring the mob.
They had thrown their coats back, and their white uniforms
gleamed clearly in the dusk. The barge was coming on, holding
its position to shoot the second bridge. Wéry could see the shapes
upon it – the steersman, standing clear at the stern; the heads and
shoulders of oarsmen; a small group of people in the centre of the
barge, around a long shape that must have been the coffin itself.
'Now,' said Balcke, and lifted his hand in a slow salute.
Fernhausen bent outwards over the parapet. What seemed to be
a large glove or gauntlet dangled from his fingers.
'You!' yelled the drunken voice, approaching along the bridge.
'You! Stand! And say your business!'
'They are – ah – rather close,' murmured Uhnen in his ear.
'Shouldn't we . . . ?'
'Wait,' said Wéry, tightly. His eyes were on the river, but his ears
were following the footfalls coming along the bridge. Not yet,
not yet. The longer they could delay it . . .
'Hey! You!' said the voice, a few paces from his ear.
'Wéry!' hissed Uhnen. 'Shouldn't we . . . ?'
'Yes. Now.'
Hand to hilt. Metal rasping in the night. The curved blade,
heavy before him, pointed along the bridge at the shadow-men
advancing!
'Stay back, there!' he cried.
'Stay back!' echoed Uhnen, also with his sword drawn.
'Ho there! Help here! Help!' The voice was louder still, full of
rage and the lust for a fight. More feet came running. As yet there
were only a handful of men on the bridge, but in a moment . . .
'The infantry will retire,' said Balcke calmly. Fernhausen was
already turning away from the parapet. His hands were empty.
Whatever he was holding had been dropped into the barge, still
passing under the arch. Balcke placed his arm on Heiss's shoulder
and began to lumber back towards the Saint Emil side.
Damn! thought Wéry. That leg!
He should have thought of it. That leg, and the swift-footed
mob on their heels! Why hadn't he foreseen this?
How the devil were they going to get out of here?
Von Uhnen was gone. Wéry was on his own. The
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