"Herr Trafford," said the latter, "when I said you must not go, I meant to couch a command in terms of courtesy. The streets of Weidenbruck are in a dangerous state to-night, and as the person responsible for the public safety I really cannot sanction your departure from the Neptunburg." Trafford glanced round him. On either side were flunkeys in powdered wigs, knee breeches, and yellow coats. Between him and the street he desired to gain was--an elderly Jew. "Is your command based solely on a concern for my personal safety?" he asked. "Solely," was Meyer's sarcastic reply. "Then I shall disregard it," said Trafford, producing his gun and flourishing it about in reckless fashion, "for I am quite capable of protecting myself, dear General, I assure you." Meyer flinched violently as the muzzle of the deadly weapon was pointed in all directions, and most frequently at his own person. For a half-moment he hesitated; he had been playing a game of bluff, but he had not appreciated the bluffing capabilities of his opponent. He might call the guard, but he had a nerve-destroying idea that if he did so the mad American would have an accident with the revolver and shoot him through the leg. His half-moment's hesitation was fatal to his scheme for retaining Trafford in the Neptunburg. The latter brushed past him, threw back the bolt, and with a "Good-night, Saunders. Good-night, General," vanished into the street. Having gained the open, Trafford's first steps were directed hastily to the scene of the late contest between the mob and the soldiers. The roadway was strangely empty,--as though some dominant attraction had lured away all such as could walk or run,--leaving only those whom the recent fracas had robbed of their limbs' use. It was these latter to whom Trafford paid instant and anxious attention. One by one he bent over the prostrate forms with peering eyes and a nameless dread in his heart. There were about a dozen, some dead, some dying, some merely incapacitated.