But then came the second Sunday after Pentecost, the fatal, unfortunate twelfth of June!
On the thirteenth of June, terrible news reached Litomyšl.
“A revolution has broken out in Prague; the ancient city is at stake. In the terrible disorder the lawless rabble plunder and destroy, all is a hub-bub of confusion, and there is lack of means and force to restore order and discipline.”
Similar news, full of frightful details, spread over the town. On the Bleachery a large crowd of citizens came together, especially the guardsmen and the sharpshooters. It was rumored that help from the country had been sent to succor threatened Prague, and after a prolonged debate they also decided to relieve the capital. Before this was to be done, however, a few of the more prominent citizens were sent to the nearest railroad station to find out how matters stood, and to learn if from other cities relief was also sent to Prague. They left in the evening and were to come back by morning.
Before the crowd dispersed from Bleachery, however, two philosophers, after hearing the most important deliberations, quietly left the place. They walked, engaged in a serious conversation. In front of Miss Elis’ home they shook hands; Vavřena then turned his steps toward the castle, and Frýbort went home. He found Miss Elis frightened and anxious, and Márinka with her. Both now pelted the philosopher with their questions. Fear seized them when they saw Frýbort, although not dejected, was unusually serious. When he finished his story, Miss Elis grew pale, and Márinka burst out crying. She wept long and spoke convulsively:
“You do not love me—you can not leave me so lightly. . .”
But Frýbort drew her toward him, comforted her as well as he could, showing her that it was his sacred duty, and that he had promised Vavřena to do so.
Even Miss Elis attempted to restrain him; but her arguments as to what he alone could do there, what his father would say, together with Márinka’s expostulations, availed nothing.
In the castle park, Lenka stood with Vavřena. He was telling her something softly and in a low voice. The poor girl grew pale as he spoke, and when her lover finished, she was silent, gazing on the ground. She was calm as a statue, but it was a statue of grief.
Her handsome face showed signs of painful, inward struggle. Then looking up to him with her large, tearful eyes, she extended her hand.
“You can not act otherwise; it is your duty—go — —.”
Her voice shook, and instantly she ceased, laid her head on his shoulder, and wept.
It was a sad evening, a sad night! For hours a light was seen in Miss Elis’ rooms. After midnight the house door creaked, and two men came out. Up stairs in their respective rooms, Márinka wept and Miss Elis prayed. Lenka also kept vigil; before her lay a book, in which a prayer for the country was inscribed in her uncle’s handwriting.
Early in the morning, when it was still gray, the citizen’s deputation returned in haste to tell what it saw.and heard at the rairoad station. It did not notice the two young men who quickly walked in the direction from which it had come. As the committee neared the town, it met squads of guardsmen and sharpshooters, who, without waiting for information, decided to leave at once for Prague. At Babka’s Inn stood wagons, full of food supplies and of all other necessities of this small, citizen army. The information which the committee brought did not turn them back, but confirmed the rumors that the National Defense Guards of the Bohemian cities were marching to relieve Prague. So they, too, set out. ***
At that time Mr. Roubínek also was arming himself with his ancient cutlass to go to the rescue of mother Prague. Žižka and Emperor Joseph, according to him, were patriots, but they surely did not put on their swords in this manner. Mr. Roubínek was pale and frightened, and it took him a long time to buckle the belt. His dejection was increased by the grief of his wife and daughter.
Oh, Count George had no heart! Having heard that Prague was in a state of anarchy, that the goods and lives of her citizens were in jeopardy, and that the guard of Litomyšl as well as of other towns was marching to relieve the capital, he commanded his castle defenders to arm themselves quickly, and get ready for the march to the capital.
“Oh, thou king Herod! Thou wert no more cruel than this, when thou didst command that the babes of Bethlehem, both black and white, be utterly destroyed!”
The registrar, a virtuous citizen, an official, to whom all unrest and disorder was horrifying, that he should seize arms against some rabble, that he should fire into them. . .! And if those rebels catch him, how will they treat him? They will hang him to a lamp-post, they will rip him to pieces! What crime had he committed that he, the quietest, most orderly citizen, should spill human blood? Oh, thou quiet parlor, thou comfortable easy chair, and thou, O king Herod, good bye! Perhaps he will see thee no more, never again rest himself on thy soft seat, thou easy chair, never take his comfort in thee!
He embraced his wife and daughter, pale and with eyes full of tears, and stumbled down the stairs, his cutlass rattling on the steps.
In the yard, the castle guard of Count George stood at attention. All officials were armed ani ready to march. Their wives, children, and acquaintances stood around.
Then the count came, perhaps to give the command. But he stopped with the chief of-
