o the cathedral, forward!"

"It is closed, and will remain so to-day, for the bishop. . . ."

"Then burst the doors! We'll show them who has the power here."

"Are you out of your senses? The Holy Church!"

"Forward, I say! Let him who is no cowardly wight, follow me!"

Ulrich drew the commander's baton from his belt and rushed forward, as if
he were leading a storming-party; but Ortis cried: "We will not fight
against St. Martin!" and a murmur of applause greeted him.

Ulrich checked his pace, and gnashing his teeth, exclaimed: "Will not?
Will not?" Then gazing around the circle of comrades, who surrounded him
on all sides, he asked: "Has no one courage to help me to my rights?
Ortis, de Vego, Diego, will you follow me, yes or no?"

"No, not against the Church!"

"Then I command you," shouted the Eletto, furiously. "Obey, Lieutenant de
Vega, forward with your company, and burst the cathedral doors."

But no one obeyed, and Ortis ordered: "Back, every man of you! Saint
Martin is my patron saint; let all who value their souls refuse to attack
the church and defend it with me."

The blood rushed to Ulrich's brain, and incapable of longer self-control,
he threw his baton into the ranks of the mutineers, shrieking: "I hurl it
at your feet; whoever picks it up can keep it!"

The soldiers hesitated; but Ortis repeated his "Back!" Other officers
gave the same order, and their men obeyed. The street grew empty, and the
Eletto's mother was only followed by a few of her son's friends; no
priest led the procession. In the cemetery Ulrich threw three handfuls of
earth into the open grave, then with drooping head returned home.

How dreary, how desolate the bright, flower-decked room seemed now, for
the first time the Eletto felt really deserted. No tears came to relieve
his grief, for the insult offered him that day aroused his wrath, and he
cherished it as if it were a consolation.

He had thrown power aside with the staff of command. Power! It too was
potter's trash, which a stone might shatter, a flower in full bloom,
whose leaves drop apart if touched by the finger! It was no noble metal,
only yellow mica!

The knocker on the door never stopped rapping. One officer after another
came to soothe him, but he would not even admit his lieutenant.

He rejoiced over his hasty deed. Fortune, he thought, cannot be escaped,
art cannot be thrown aside; fame may be trampled under foot, yet still
pursue us.

Power has this