so many
years, the war hospital, the King by his bed, young then and a very king
in looks, pinning on the breast of his muslin shirt the decoration for
bravery.

He sat silent while the concierge cleared the table, and put the dishes
in a pan for his niece to wash. And throughout the evening he said
little. At something before midnight he and his host were to set out
on a grave matter, nothing less than to visit the Committee of Ten, and
impart the old soldier's discovery. In the interval he sat waiting, and
nursing his grievances to keep them warm.

Men came and went. From beneath the floor came, at intervals, a regular
thudding which he had never heard before, and which he now learned was a
press.

"These are days of publicity," explained the concierge. "Men are
influenced much by the printed word. Already our bulletins flood the
country. On the day of the Carnival the city will flame with them,
printed in red. They will appear, as if by magic power, everywhere."

"A call to arms?"

"A call to liberty," evaded the concierge.

Not in months had he taken such pleasure in a recruit. He swaggered
about the room, recounting in boastful tones his influence with the
Committee of Ten.

"And with reason," he boasted, pausing before the old soldier. "I have
served them well; here in this house is sufficient ammunition to fight a
great battle. You, now, you know something of ammunition. You have lived
here for a long time. Yet no portion of this house has been closed to
you. Where, at a guess, is it concealed?"

"It is in this house?"

"So I tell you. Now, where?"

"In the cellar, perhaps."

"Come, I will show you." He led old Adelbert by the elbow to a window
overlooking the yard. Just such an enclosure as each of the neighboring
houses possessed, and surrounded by a high fence. Here was a rabbit
hutch, built of old boards, and familiar enough to the veteran's eyes;
and a dovecote, which loomed now but a deeper shadow among shadows.

"Carrier-pigeons," explained the concierge. "You have seen them often,
but you suspected nothing, eh? They are my telegraph. Now, look again,
comrade. What else?"

"Barrels," said old Adelbert, squinting. "The winter's refuse from the
building. A--a most untidy spot."

His soldierly soul had revolted for months at the litter under his
window. And somewhere, in the disorder, lay his broken sword. His sword
broken, and he-- "Truly untidy," observed the concierge complacently. "A