Carts drawn
by dogs, laden donkeys, French limousines, victorias,
wheelbarrows--every conceivable wheeled vehicle and beast of
burden--were jammed in a seemingly inextricable tangle in the mad
rush for safety.
Rumor passed back and forth through the fleeing thousands. Now came
word that Fort No. 2 had been silenced by the Austrian guns.
Immediately followed news that the Luthanian line was falling back
upon the city. Fear turned to panic. Men fought to outdistance their
neighbors.
A shell burst upon a roof-top in an adjoining square.
Women fainted and were trampled. Hoarse shouts of anger mingled
with screams of terror, and then into the midst of it from
Margaretha Street rode a man on horseback. Behind him were a score
of officers. A trumpeter raised his instrument to his lips, and
above the din of the fleeing multitude rose the sharp, triple call
that announces the coming of the king. The mob halted and turned.
Looking down upon them from his saddle was Leopold of Lutha. His
palm was raised for silence and there was a smile upon his lips.
Quite suddenly, and as by a miracle, fear left them. They made a
line for him and his staff to ride through. One of the officers
turned in his saddle to address a civilian friend in an automobile.
"His majesty is riding to the firing line," he said and he raised
his voice that many might hear. Quickly the word passed from mouth
to mouth, and as Barney Custer, of Beatrice, passed along Margaretha
Street he was followed by a mad din of cheering that drowned the
booming of the distant cannon and the bursting of the shells above
the city.
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