"Enough jesting!" cried Trafford. "Gloria owns nine-tenths of the country, and we have a sufficient force with us to take Weissheim two or three times over. I want to save life--she wants to save life. We have no time to waste. Will you surrender--yes or no?" "No!" Trafford stretched out his hand blindly in the direction of his friend. "Good-bye!" he said soberly. "In ten minutes we shall be potting at each other. I hope it won't be our misfortune to hit each other." "Good-bye!" replied Saunders, gripping his enemy's hand with a strong pressure. "I share your wish to the full. I regret that circumstances do not find us on the same side, but the fault is none of my making." There was a momentary silence and in that silence was audible a peculiar humming, grinding roar, the penetrating music of granite bowls gliding over thick ice. "What's that?" asked Trafford. "Curling," replied Saunders. "A match on Major Flannel's rink." "Where's that?" As much of Trafford's face as was visible under the bandage looked thoughtful. "Two hundred yards above us in a hollow near the start of the bob-run. Why?" "Nothing," said Trafford. "Only they ought to be warned that they are playing a dangerous game. A chance shot might convert a pleasant pastime into a black tragedy." "I sent to warn them half an hour ago," replied Saunders, "but the sole reply was that they were having a most interesting match, and that they hoped I should have equally good sport." Trafford laughed and gave his friend a final hand-grip. "Good-bye, again," he said. "I respect your decision to stick to your post--but it is a pity,--a great pity." CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN TRAFFORD AND THE TRENCH Bernhardt himself was directing the movement against the Marienkastel. He dominated the whole force as completely as though he had been trained to the art of war instead of the services of the Church. All felt that success depended on one man, and that man was the keen-eyed enigma who seemed to blend a strain of genius with the taint of madness in his seething brain. "Their answer?" he demanded of Trafford, on the latter's return from his fruitless parley. "See us d----d first," replied the American. "Ha! That sounds like Saunders," said Bernhardt with a laugh. "It _was_ Saunders. I'm sorry we couldn't come to terms, but my friend is a pig-headed gentleman, and he won't shift till we poke our rifles through the castle windows." "Dear Saunders!" exclaimed Bernhardt. "How like him to give us a good fight! We'll rush a couple of hundred men up for a frontal attack, and see what happens. Let it be the Guards under Captain Zacchari. Give the order now, if you please."