‘It is Korner!’ the people cried.  ’It is young Korner, the poet!  Ah, he will sing, he will sing.’

And he sang!  It was soft, at first, and dreamy, telling of old Germany, the mother of nations, of the rich, warm plains, and the grey cities, and the fame of dead heroes.  But then verse after verse rang like a trumpet-call.  It was of the Germany of now, the Germany which had been taken unawares and overthrown, but which was up again, and snapping the bonds upon her giant limbs.  What was life that one should covet it?  What was glorious death that one should shun it?  The mother, the great mother, was calling.  Her sigh was in the night wind.  She was crying to her own children for help.  Would they come?  Would they come?  Would they come?

Ah, that terrible song, the spirit face and the ringing voice!  Where were I, and France, and the Emperor?  They did not shout, these people—­they howled.  They were up on the chairs and the tables.  They were raving, sobbing, the tears running down their faces.  Korner had sprung from the chair, and his comrades were round him with their sabres in the air.  A flush had come into the pale face of the Prince, and he rose from his throne.

‘Colonel Gerard,’ said he, ’you have heard the answer which you are to carry to your Emperor.  The die is cast, my children.  Your Prince and you must stand or fall together.’

He bowed to show that all was over, and the people with a shout made for the door to carry the tidings into the town.  For my own part, I had done all that a brave man might, and so I was not sorry to be carried out amid the stream.  Why should I linger in the palace?  I had had my answer and must carry it, such as it was.  I wished neither to see Hof nor its people again until I entered it at the head of a vanguard.  I turned from the throng, then, and walked silently and sadly in the direction in which they had led the mare.

It was dark down there by the stables, and I was peering round for the hostler, when suddenly my two arms were seized from behind.  There were hands at my wrists and at my throat, and I felt the cold muzzle of a pistol under my ear.

‘Keep your lips closed, you French dog,’ whispered a fierce voice.  ’We have him, captain.’

‘Have you the bridle?’

‘Here it is.’

‘Sling it over his head.’

I felt the cold coil of leather tighten round my neck.  An hostler with a stable lantern had come out and was gazing upon the scene.  In its dim light I saw stern faces breaking everywhere through the gloom, with the black caps and dark cloaks of the night-riders.

‘What would you do with him, captain?’ cried a voice.

‘Hang him at the palace gate.’

‘An ambassador?’

‘An ambassador without papers.’

‘But the Prince?’

’Tut, man, do you not see that the Prince will then be committed to our side?  He will be beyond all hope of forgiveness.  At present he may swing round tomorrow as he has done before.  He may eat his words, but a dead hussar is more than he can explain.’