"I heard a song the other night at the Eden Theatre," went on Trafford. "I think it was called the 'Rothlied.' Its effect on the audience was remarkable. Old men became boys, women went fighting mad, and officers in uniforms swore death to all. _If we could get the 'Rothlied' going we'd have Father Bernhardt out of the Strafeburg in half an hour._" "Young man," said the stranger solemnly, "I'm not sure you're not a genius." "Neither am I," said Trafford modestly. "Look here--can you sing?" "I have a powerful baritone--and you?" "Have the voice of a crow," said Trafford. "Also I don't know the words, and I'm not very sure of the tune." The other repeated a few lines in Trafford's ear and hummed a few bars of the melody. "That's all right," said Trafford. "Now then, as loud as you can. One--two--three---- "Tremble tyrants, base and callous, Tremble at the people's cry, See the flaming star of freedom Rise blood-red in the sky." In a trice the song was taken up by those nearest the two agitators, and in an incredibly short time the whole square was resounding with the swinging chorus of the inflammatory melody. The thing succeeded beyond all expectation. A new temper seemed to come over the entire throng. Wet clothes were forgotten in an access of revolutionary ardour. Men who had seen red wounds and staring death forgot the chill remembrance in the burning music of the "Rothlied." Louder and louder it swelled, fiercer grew the gesticulations of the fermenting mob. The whole mass swayed and surged with the leaven of revived fanaticism. "We've got something to work on now," said Trafford gleefully. "Give me a pick-a-back, Herr Doctor, and I'll make a speech." The doctor bent his massive back, and Trafford climbed up on to the broad shoulders. "Into the thick of them, good doctor horse!" he cried, and the doctor struggled on manfully under his burden,--albeit he lost his high felt hat in the press, and the cold wind chilled the perspiration on his benevolent brow. And Trafford addressed the populace with fervid words and execrable grammar, and for some inexplicable reason his assurance and manifest energy won him a ready hearing and savage applause. "Form barricades!" he shouted at the conclusion of his wild address. "Why?" whispered the doctor. "Don't you know that there is no such thing as a revolution without barricades," replied the American, "they are a necessary part of the game. Form barricades, my brothers!" he repeated in louder tones. "With what?" demanded one. "With snow, son of a crossing-sweeper!" replied Trafford. "Work hard, brothers, and form a rampart breast high, and hold it against all comers." The tone of command and his imposing position on the big doctor's shoulders, won their way. The doctor, too, was recognised as a prominent burgher of "advanced" tendencies, and the crowd set to work with the utmost energy and determination.