, is scarce--very scarce."

Again the group laughed.

After a time he grasped the truth. There was such an order. The cause
was given as the King's illness.

"Since when," demanded old Adelbert angrily, "has the sound of his
soldiers' marching disturbed the King?"

"The sound of wooden legs annoys him," observed the mocking student,
lighting a cigarette. "He would hear only pleasant sounds, such as
the noise of tax-money pouring into his vaults. Me--I can think of a
pleasanter: the tolling of the cathedral bell, at a certain time, will
be music to my ears!"

Old Adelbert stood, staring blindly ahead. At last he went out into the
street, muttering. "They shame us before the people," he said thickly.

The order of the Council had indeed been issued, a painful business over
which Mettlich and the Council had pondered long. For, in the state of
things, it was deemed unwise to permit any gathering of the populace en
masse. Mobs lead to riots, and riots again to mobs. Five thousand armed
men, veterans, but many of them in their prime, were in themselves a
danger. And on these days of anniversary it had been the custom of the
University to march also, a guard of honor. Sedition was rife among the
students.

The order was finally issued...

Old Adelbert was not keen, but he did not lack understanding. And one
thing he knew, and knew well. The concierge, downstairs was no patriot.
Time had been when, over coffee and bread, he had tried to instill in
the old soldier his own discontent, his new theories of a land where
all were equal and no man king. He had hinted of many who believed as
he did. Only hints, because old Adelbert had raised a trembling hand and
proclaimed treason.

But now?

Late in the evening he made his resolve, and visited the bureau of the
concierge. He was away, however, and his niece spoke through the barred
window.

"Two days, or perhaps three," she said. "He is inspecting a farm in the
country, with a view to purchase."

The old soldier had walked by the Palace that night, and had again
shaken his fist at its looming shadow. "You will see," he said, "there
be other sounds more painful than the thump of a wooden leg."

He was ill that night. He tossed about in a fever. His body ached,
even the leg which so long ago had mouldered in its shallow grave on a
battle-field. For these things happen. By morning he was better, but
he was a different man. His eyes glowed. His body twitched. He was
st