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“Oh, ay,” said Ulrik Frederik, yawning, “I can well
understand that it vexes you to have no part in it all. You
might find it irksome to sweat over your desk while the
fate of the realm is decided here on the ramparts. Look
you, you shall be in it! For—” He broke off and looked
at Daniel with suspicion. “There’s no foul play, sirrah?”
The little man stamped the ground in his rage and
gritted his teeth, his face pale as a whitewashed wall.
“Come, come,” Ulrik Frederik went on, “I trust you,
but you can scarce expect me to put faith in your word as
if ’t were that of a gentleman. And remember, ’t was your
own that scorned you first. Hush!”
From a bastion at East Gate boomed a shot, the first
that had been fired in this war. Ulrik Frederik drew
himself up, while the blood rushed to his face. He looked after
the white smoke with eager, fascinated eyes, and when
he spoke there was a strange tremor in his voice.
“Daniel,” he said, “toward noon you can report to me,
and think no more of what I said.”
Daniel looked admiringly after him, then sighed deeply,
sat down in the grass, and wept as an unhappy child weeps.
In the afternoon of the same day, a fitful wind blew
through the streets of the city, whirling up clouds of dust,
whittlings, and bits of straw, and carrying them hither and
thither. It tore the tiles from the roofs, drove the smoke
down the chimneys, and wrought sad havoc with the tradesmen’s
signs. The long, dull-blue pennants of the dyers were
flung out on the breeze and fell down again in spirals that
tightened around their quivering staffs. The turners’
spinning-wheels rocked and swayed; hairy tails flapped over
the doors of the furriers, and the resplendent glass suns
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