The Red, White, and Green Part 3

Rakoczy soon disappeared. Stephen was yards in front, separated from me by hundreds of yelling madmen. I was panting and breathless, and felt as if some one had beaten me well with a stout stick.

A man just before me--a small, pale man with wide-open, frightened eyes--went down, and was lost in the crowd; it was like dropping a pin.

Had his life been worth the value of the universe, no one could have saved him; as it was, he simply dropped, like a stone into the water, and the crowd pressed over him.

To add to the uproar, the tocsin sounded, and everywhere it seemed as if the soldiers were discharging their muskets.

In one street people were busy erecting a barricade. The head of the crowd, seeing this, wished to turn back; they might as well have tried to turn the stars in their course.

The street was narrow and sloping; unfortunately, we shot into it from the higher end, and there was no stopping.

Those in front raised a cry of despair as they were hurled against the half-built barricade, the workers on the other side of which ran into the houses, while the living torrent swept on.

Crash went the structure--logs of wood, bodies of carts, stuffed sacks, piles of stones, and human beings all mingled together! I caught a brief glimpse of Stephen wedged into the corner of a doorway, looking as if he would be squeezed to death, but there was no helping him.

I was off my feet, supported only by the bodies of my nearest companions, one of whom moaned in pain.

Through the _debris_ we were hurled, swept round the corner to the left, and dropped, panting and bruised and battered, in the Place of St.

Stephen.

CHAPTER II.

_A SOLDIER OF THE RIGHT SORT._

I stood for several minutes between the palace and the great church trying to draw some breath into my lungs, for the pressure of the crowd had left me like a squeezed lemon.

To search for the missing Rakoczy was useless labour, but it might be possible to return to the narrow street where I had last seen my brother.

I soon discovered, however, that the short delay had put that also out of the question. The people were pouring into the Place; and, though the terrible stress had been lessened, I was still a prisoner, blocked in on all sides by the tumultuous throng.

The huge bell in the tower of St. Stephen's clanged out its brazen peals of warning and menace, and a sharp musketry fire told me that fierce fighting was going on in the very shadow of the sacred edifice.

A handful of loyal National Guards, faithful to their oaths, and led by a brave commander, were, like good men and true, sacrificing their lives in the performance of duty.

Of course, the contest was a hopeless one; but the men stood their ground bravely, and I guessed from the savage cries of the rioters that the faithful few were selling their lives dearly.

From where I stood nothing could be seen save the heads of the populace; but the surging of the crowd backward and forward showed how the fight progressed.

Clang! clang! pealed the great bell, swinging high in the air, while below the whirr and rattle of musketry mingled with the frantic shouts of the people.

A louder yell than usual proclaimed that something decisive had occurred, and soon the news spread to the very outermost of the packed onlookers.

"Now they have them! Into the church! Follow them up! Well done, brave Nationals! Well done, students! Now we'll see who's to be master!"

It was even so. The gallant band, overwhelmed by numbers, had fallen back foot by foot, until the insurgents by one wild rush had forced them into the cathedral, where their leader was slain on the high altar itself.

All this I learned only from the conversation of the people, being unable to see anything for myself.

But from what happened next I might easily have known the end had come.

From the middle of the throng a cry rose, and the mult.i.tude in their thousands took it up, shouting wildly, "Latour! Death to Latour!"

This way and that they rushed, some to the south, some to the north of the Place, seeking any outlet which would lead them to the hotel of the minister of war.

In an instant I was caught up and hurried off out of the Place, across a wide street, then into a network of narrow ones, until I was stopped with the rest in front of the hotel where lived Count Latour.

Was he still there? There had been ample time for escape, and I hoped against hope that he had taken advantage of it; but, remembering the calm, proud face of the man, I had my doubts.

The gates were closed; the soldiers, scanty in numbers but well disciplined, stood at their posts, eyeing the frenzied mob with contempt.

Some of the students at once opened fire; the soldiers replied, and, the target being so broad, every bullet lodged somewhere.

Inside the building Count Latour was holding a council of war, and the members, fearful lest in the growing excitement the monarchy itself should be swept away, prevailed on him to issue the order to cease firing.

This of course paralyzed the action of the loyal troops, both at the hotel and at the barracks, while the spirits of the rebels were proportionately raised.

From the conversation of those near me, I gathered that their surprise was equal to their delight, but they gave no thought to the humanity of those in power.

The fearful cry, "Death to Latour!" was again raised. The gates were threatened. The soldiers, prevented from firing by the order of the council, were unable to act. Fresh bodies of rioters came swarming from various directions. The pressure grew terrible; the gates--I suppose, as I could see nothing--gave way; the courtyard was filled with the noisy, shouting, bloodthirsty pack; the doors of the great building were smashed like gla.s.s; and the crowd, screaming and struggling, surged up the broad staircase.

At the first rush some were thrown violently against the outer walls; others, by no power of their own, were carried into the interior of the building, and fate so willed that I belonged to the latter portion. The name of the gallant old count was on the lips of every one, as if he were responsible for all the ills in the world, so easy is it to inflame the pa.s.sions of a mob which does not think for itself.

It was on the first landing that we received a slight check.

A few National Guards, still loyal to their pledges, attempted to stem the human torrent. Their success was only momentary, and they were borne back, but not dispersed.

Here the crowd broke up, some running one way, some another, but all intent on killing Count Latour.

I followed the Nationals, thinking they would most likely retire in the direction of the council chamber.

This they did, and that apartment was speedily filled. I caught a glimpse of Latour, round whom the handful of loyalists pressed. His face was pale; otherwise he showed no sign of fear, but gazed calmly on the throng of butchers. Once he made an attempt to speak, but his words were drowned in the tumult.

"Kill Latour!" was the savage cry. Beyond that one scarcely heard anything.

However, the brave Nationals resolved to make a fight of it, and by a stroke of great good fortune I managed to join them.

"Long live Latour! Long live the gallant count!" I cried, with all the strength of my lungs, and his defenders echoed the cry.

But the others drowned our shouts with "Kill Latour!" and one man, towering above the rest, sprang at the count with uplifted axe.

It was the burly ruffian who had walked with us a short time in the morning, and at sight of me his face grew black as a thunder-cloud.

"Traitor!" he shouted, and, swinging round, aimed his axe full at my head.