"But Wallenstein served the Emperor, amassed untold riches in his service. Does he owe no allegiance?"
"Not a jot! He is of the race of Achilles! He fights where his eagle mind dictates, not where some trembling Agamemnon bids. But why call him disloyal?"
"Your Highness! I yield to none in admiration of Wallenstein's genius, but at every turn of my road I have met evidences of his emissaries being in touch with your father's enemies. This could have been borne, if he had boldly gone into the quarrel on the side of Gustavus, but to stay skulking at Prague while he sent out his poisonous messages...."
"Sir! I like not your adjectives!" she said, quickening her pace in her anger.
"And then waiting the event," Nigel proceeded, "to send this to Gustavus, _if he should be victorious_."
Nigel thrust his hand into his tunic and brought out a packet.
"Read what is writ!" she said carelessly.
"These for Gustavus in the event of his gaining a complete victory over Count Tilly."
"Spare the commentary, Colonel Charteris! What lies within?"
"In substance it is an offer from Wallenstein, begging for a command from Gustavus of a pitiful twelve thousand men, and promising in return to drive the Emperor and every Habsburg out of Austria."
The eyes of the Archduchess flashed. Her colour rose. Her bosom heaved and fell.
She stretched forth her hand for the letter.
Nigel did not hesitate. He gave it. Was it not his to give, his only spoil of the battlefield?
She held out her hand again in token of dismissal. Nigel kissed it, gave one swift glance at her imperial face and went away to the ramparts.
The next few days passed at Halberstadt in transforming the mass of fugitives into the semblance of an army. Cavalry and infantry were re-mustered under their regimental standards, where a nucleus existed in the shape of an old regiment. Where there was none, a new one was formed. All found an entry on some roster. The defences of the city were improved in all possible ways and provisions were got in. The little general busied himself in sending messages to all the imperial garrisons within reach to concentrate at a spot named, by the river Weser, and it was from this source that he expected to collect another army rather than from any fresh enlistments. Tilly with a bite and a sup would gladly have passed on. He fretted under the inaction which his numerous wounds made absolutely necessary: the more so that as yet he had no certain knowledge of the trend of the plans of his great adversary. Sometimes he talked as though he had done with war. These were the days when his wounds did not look like healing. Nigel knew the old war-dog well enough to ask, "Who shall succeed?" That stiffened the Count von Tzerclaës quickly enough. He was one of those men who do not breed successors.