And the soldiers who had cringed back into ranks at Einarson’s command when he stood tall and domineering above them, did what could have been expected when he was tossed down to them.
They tore him apart—actually—piece by piece. They dropped their guns and fought to get at him. Those farther away climbed over those nearer, smothering them, trampling them. They surged back and forth in front of the steps, an insane pack of men turned wolves, savagely struggling to destroy a man who must have died before he had been down half a minute.
I put the girl’s hand off my arm and went to face Djudakovich.
“Muravia’s yours,” I said. “I don’t want anything but our draft and train. Here’s the abdication.”
Romaine swiftly translated my words and then Djudakovich’s:
“The train is ready now. The draft will be delivered there. Do you wish to go over for Grantham?”
“No. Send him down. How do I find the train?”
“I’ll take you,” she said. “We’ll go through the building and out a side door.”
One of Djudakovich’s detectives sat at the wheel of a car in front of the hotel. Romaine and I got in it. Across the plaza tumult was still boiling. Neither of us said anything while the car whisked us through darkening streets. She sat as far from me as the width of the rear seat would let her.
Presently she asked very softly:
“And now you despise me?”