That other native, the Skraeling “Ole,” had also not been able to make his way back to the Grand Hotel Windsor-Lido by reason not of the congestion alone but because the Swing Bridge was blocked; he had been wandering hither and thither hoping to find a shallow place he might ford, when he heard an allarum of strange cries and the thudding of hooves. Neither he nor Roan Horse had ever seen each other before, needless to say; but there was an instant of recognition, a spark or perhaps even a flame passed between the shaman and the medicine-man. Roan Horse leaned from his saddle and reached out his arm, Eeiiuullaalaa jumped, seized, was lifted up, was sat down, and clutching his horse’s mane lightly, charged on with the others and added his Skraeling ulula- tion to their cries.
Round and round the old Dalmatian Palace they rode, and whenever a terrified face appeared over the parapet, they fired on it with whoops and yells. Major Dandy intended to turn his calliope so as to join the encircling pack, but the way thither had been rather rough and the tiller stuck ... and stuck... and so, with full force, the massy engine struck the wall right under King Magnus’ cell. The engine was not only massy, it was strong. It drew back, turned slowly and awkwardly, went farther back... and then rushed forward at full speed. It struck the gate and knocked it off its rusting hinges at just the moment when the cowboys and Indians came rounding the walls once again. And they poured into the fortress whose defenses had been breached.
Magnus heard and felt the concussion without knowing its cause; at once he attacked the door again: this time it gave way — he was free to go — — to go — where?
There was certain peril down below, he thought (incorrectly . .. but logically). And then he saw the umbrella he had impulsively taken from the lobby of his hotel suite, one of two. He didn’t know that he had clutched it tightly under his arm at the moment of his being assaulted; did not know that his captors, with coarse jests about brolly and bumbershoot, had heaved it into the cell with him; he might use it when the roof leaked, they sneered. “I shall climb to the parapet,” Magnus said, “and I shall jump, having first opened the umbrella, which shall slow my descent, as has been done from balloons with something like an umbrella, as I have seen in pictures;” he thought this very quickly, made his way to the parapet, and leaped up on it and stood there teetering and afraid to look down and tore off the tape keeping it furled — damned awkward clumsy umbrella, it hadn’t even a handle — and, flapping it madly to make it open, looked up and found that he was —
Frightful screams from inside the courtyard, the prisoners halfterrified of being scalped, and half-terrified of something worse: enter the Cornet Eszterhazy, veteran of two previous and rather longer campaigns; he drew his sword and announced that they were his and the Emperor’s prisoners: they at once surrendered, all of them. All of them, that is, except the Brigand Boustremovitch. He lay on his back, right where the keystone of the arch above the gate had in its falling caught him full upon the heart.
One of the prisoners was allowed to show where the barrels of wine were kept; and, as soon as they had finished tying up their captives, the captors began sampling the contents of the barrels. It was not bourbon, it was only the small local wine of the country and it would not travel far. But, then, of course, it was not being asked to.
After a rather wearing and roundabout route of travel, a certain group of foreigners had arrived in Bella earlier that day on one of the last trains to make it in. They had not, however, owing to unexpectedly unsettled conditions, been able to make it to their destination, namely in front of the Grand Hotel Windsor-Lido; they had not intended even to think of staying at the fashionable and expensive hotel. . . but they were absolutely determined to stay in front of it. Now, having been dismissed by the omnibus driver with a baffled shake of his hand and head at being unable to go anywhere that anyone wanted to go, they had — for lack of any notion of what to do — unfurled the banners they had brought with them, and simply commenced walking (being prudent, they had carefully noted the location and left one of their number in charge of the baggage). Scarcely had they marched a block or two when the sound of gunfire attracted their attention. And then they heard something which they could not believe they were hearing and next saw something which they could not believe they were seeing. It was at this point that Magnus, the sound of the anthem ringing in his ears, realized (a) that what he was waving was no umbrella but a very familiar flag; and (b) that down below, across the road, was a group of people looking up at him with open mouths and carrying two banners. One of the banners, a new one, read, Swearing Eternal Fealty to the House of Olaus-Olaus-Astridson-Katzenelenbogen-Ulf-and-Olaus, Froreland Demands a Separate Bureau of Weights and Measures. And the other, an old one barely legible, read, simply A Fourteenth Full-Bishop For Faithful Froreland.
The Street of Our Noble Ally the Grand Duke of Graustark (usually called Grau Street) was, for a miracle, only half- instead of entirely-filled; taking advantage of this, the driver half-rose from the wagon-seat and began to ply his whip — but the horse, instead of dashing onward at increased speed, came to an abrupt stop. An odd, gaunt, whiskery figure wearing a Norfolk jacket and jodhpur trousers, taking the animal by the head, cried, “Stop, stop! How dare you lash this poor old chap? I am Sebastian Allgoode-Freestinghaze, formerly of the Fifth Hyderabad Horse (Piggot’s Ponies), and now General Continental Agent for the RSPCA; I am obliged to remove the animal and lead him to our local contract livery stable and veterinary establishment, where he shall be able to receive the rest and medication so obviously requisite.” And whilst Col. Allgoode-Freestinghaze was saying all this, and saying it rather rapidly, as though well-accustomed to saying it, he was with even greater rapidity releasing the horse from the wagon. Having done so (and handed over to the dumb-struck trio on the wagon a card printed with his name and local address), he — and the horse — vanished around the corner.
It was too much for the driver. His nerves broke; and, leaping from the seat, he dashed madly away, screaming as he did so, “The Works! The Works!” At which almost every living soul on the Street of Our Noble Ally the grand Duke of Graustark (usually called Grau Street), screaming, “The Turks! The Turks!” fled precipitately; in a moment no one and no thing remained there except the wagon and the two other men. They had simultaneously decided to follow the example of their fellow conspirator and had, in fact, simultaneously leaped; there was one difficulty — the man on the left had leaped to the right and the man on the right had leaped to the left — the laws of physics being what they are, the two had collided: and it was while they were shouting and screaming and flailing at each other that the clock-works in the infernal machine made it go off.
“Bobbo! Bobbo!” cried the children in the Infirmary, clapping their hands, and using their Sovereign’s pet-name.
“Here’s the funny old pedlar with his itty-bitty wagon of nicknacks,” said His Royal and Imperial Majesty, wheeling it into the ward. “Who wants a posie? Posies cost one kiss. Mweh! Mweh! Who wants a little wooden cavalryman that moves its little wooden legs if you pull the little string? Costs one hand-shake. There you are, sir! Who wants some nice chewy Turkish Delight? Some nice chewy spice-drops, big as Bobbo’s thumb? Sweetmeats cost one hug. Oh! What a big squeeze! Whuh! Whuhl Who wants . . . ?”