The All-Story, March 1914 — page 157: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

630 his searf-pin—the last valuable hetr- loom he possessed — and then knew partly why that farewell visit. That night Celestine Vauregarde made one of a jolly party at a certain balhaus in the Schellinggasse, danced on a table-top, and. in the maudlin Jater evening, exhibited Count Flo- renz’s pin, kissing it frequently and repeating for the benefit of the Cook tourist whom she was prepared to pluck : “ Alas! Yes, this was his — that adorable, naughty Count von Regen- stein’s. How the dear boy loves me. even now, in the shadow of death! See, mein herr! Only to-night he sent for me to visit him in the cruel prison. where he embraced me and said: ‘ Ce- lestine Vauregarde, take this, my sole remaining possession otf worth, and cherish it in memory of one who dies for love of you.’ Yes. yes, another bock, kellner. Do you never drink wine, vecin herr?” Count Florenz’s trial was largely at- tended. The court-room was packed to suffocation, and curious crowds blocked trafhe outside in the streets for blocks round the building. Womea made up a large percentage of the throng—women of widely variant sta- tions in Iife. Middle-aged hausfraus of eminent respectability brought their children and knitting in a strange, morbid de- sire to glean crumbs of weird scandal from a life outside their pale. It was remarked that there were as many titled as plebeian names represented in the spectators that day. When milord was led into the court- room a murmur swept over the assem- blage that was like an autumn wind among fallen leaves. Necks were craned, fingers pointed, and some peo- ple even stood up to see him the better. Milford held himself straight and proudly. His glance was the very es- sence of indifference. Itven the sight of friendly, familiar faces. like those of the old Baron von Munsterburg or Max Sigismund, the tmpetuous lord of THE ALL-STORY MAGAZINE. a Loewenhofen, failed to elicit any vis- ible emotion in him, When one little golden-haired mil-. liner’s apprentice threw a rose down to him from the gallery, milord stooped, fastened it in his coat-lapel, and bowed to her gravely. Then he sat down. the president's gavel pound- ed for order, and the trial proceeded. Tt was a delicate matter, this trying of so highborn a culprit as Florenz von Regenstein. The Herr President did not like it. Neither did the twelve sworn juryimen, most of whom were simple tradespeople with a living to make and anxious to stand well with the wealthy classes from whom big profits came. Juryman No. 1, who was a fashion- able tailor, caught the baleful glare oi the Count von Loewenhofen’s eyes upon him and shivered with premeoni- tions of many a good patron lost. Juryman No. 4 was a master-jeweler and could only think : “T£ I vote to convict this man it is more than Itkely that old Count Felix over there will make his wiie go else- where to select that diamond tiara about which she spoke to me the other day. I must be careful not to preju- dice these high folk against me.” And so 1t was with almost the entire jury. Alercenary considerations kept them from all desire of advising cap- ital punishment. The Herr President was anxious to stand well with Von Munsterburg, who was upper execu- tive in the House of Magnates, as well as the prisoner’s friend. He addressed the court— particularly the state's prosecutor — counseling moderation, sanity. “Though this, our glorious empire, is, under his imperial majesty’s sanc- tion, constitutionally ruled, yet certain- ly it behooves us not to disregard the traditions of an ancient naime such as that of the noble prisoner, whose an- cestors, as we all know, were a bulwark in defense of our homes as far back ‘as the days when Barbarossa led his cohorts against,” et ceserg,-ch etre. a CO)