CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

TRAFFORD AND THE TRENCH

Bernhardt himself was directing the movement against the Marienkastel. He dominated the whole force as completely as though he had been trained to the art of war instead of the services of the Church. All felt that success depended on one man, and that man was the keen-eyed enigma who seemed to blend a strain of genius with the taint of madness in his seething brain.

"Their answer?" he demanded of Trafford, on the latter's return from his fruitless parley.

"See us d----d first," replied the American.

"Ha! That sounds like Saunders," said Bernhardt with a laugh.

"It _was_ Saunders. I'm sorry we couldn't come to terms, but my friend is a pig-headed gentleman, and he won't shift till we poke our rifles through the castle windows."

"Dear Saunders!" exclaimed Bernhardt. "How like him to give us a good fight! We'll rush a couple of hundred men up for a frontal attack, and see what happens. Let it be the Guards under Captain Zacchari. Give the order now, if you please."

The charge sounded, and the men advanced in open order, only to be met with a withering fire from the advance guard entrenched in the bob-sleigh run. A good few dropped, and Bernhardt having learned what he required, gave the command to halt. The men accordingly flung themselves prone in the deep snow, occasionally sniping as a head showed itself above the ice bank of the toboggan track.

"We must enfilade that trench," said Bernhardt to Trafford, who had joined him. "How long will it take to get our guns up to the top of the run?"

"Two hours, if the enemy don't interfere. Two years, if they do. It's a steep bit of hill, and this sun is making the snow soft on the surface."

"True," agreed Bernhardt. "Then we must advance all along the line. It will be costly, but we'll give them a hot time when we get to close quarters."

"We shall lose at least a hundred men," objected Trafford.

"More, I think," said Bernhardt coolly; "but we shall take the Marienkastel."

"I've got an idea," said Trafford musingly.

"Out with it!"

"Give me twenty men and twenty minutes, and I'll turn those fellows out of the bob-run--or my name's not George Trafford."

"Choose your men and choose your moment," he said, flashing a glance at his companion, "but remember that time presses."

"I am ready now," said Trafford, his face alight with enthusiasm. "Any twenty men will do, provided they are good ski-ers and know which end of a rifle goes off."

Bernhardt gave the order for twenty men of the Guides to attach themselves under Trafford.

"When you hear a bugle-call push on with all your strength," said the latter; "and if you take Saunders prisoner deal gently with him."

Making a detour in order to take all available cover, Trafford led his men towards the starting point of the bob-sleigh run. His movement,--hidden by the configuration of the ground,--was unnoted by the garrison, nor did he meet with any opposition on his way. The hum of the curling-stones led him on, and as he drew nearer the stentorian shouts of the "skippers," as they sung out encouragement to the different members of their sides. When he reached the top of the hill where the run commenced he found himself looking down on to a frozen pond, whereon a number of sunburnt men were plying brooms in front of a slithering curling-stone.

"Sweep, boys, sweep!" yelled out Major Flannel. "Bring it all the way! It'll be a 'Jimmy Hobbs' when it stops. Up besoms, lads! It's drawn the port! Thank you, Hobbs--it's a beauty--right on the pot