# The Man on Horseback/Chapter 31
### CHAPTER XXXI
#### THE INSULT

In the morning the new battle standard of the Uhlans had been solemnly presented by the Emperor, accepted in the name of the regiment by the assembled officers in parade uniforms, after which special service, Doctor Emanuel Dryander in the pulpit, had been held at the Cathedral, across from the Schloss.
In the evening Prince Ludwig Karl, the honorary Chief of the regiment, was giving a supper to finish the celebration in his palace near Potsdam that overlooked the placid surface of the Havel Lake.
Tom had been officer of the day at stables and so it was late, nearly eleven o'clock, when he arrived. He walked briskly from the railway station to the palace that towered to the night sky in a baroque, hectic mass of Prussian Eighteenth Century rococo with here and there a reminder of the grim old mediæval stronghold from which it had emerged, which it had superseded—some huge, barred windows, looking incongruously frowning; an immense arch gaping across the blotched shadows of the inner courtyard; a mean, starved chapel, elbowing a great marble stable, and giving the impression of a huddled beggar; and, of course, the little black and white striped wooden houses of the sentinels.
Tom surrendered helmet and overcoat and entered the great ballroom, where the celebration was being held.
The room, its walls covered with paintings stolen by the Prince's father from French châteaux in the war of Eighteen Hundred and Seventy, its ceiling painted by Tiepolo, stolen during the same war and transported bodily, was immense; but not only the officers of the Uhlans, but also those of the other crack regiments stationed in Berlin, Potsdam, Spandau, and Köpenick, besides a great many high Government officials, had been invited, and so the room was well filled.
Supper was over but for an immense buffet running the length of one wall, where liveried servants ladled out the famous moselle and brandy punch of the Uhlans. The guests had split into numerous little groups, and Tom, with a smile and a nod here and there to friends and acquaintances, joined a knot of officers that had gathered around Colonel Heinrich Wedekind.
They had all been drinking heavily and they greeted Tom boisterously.
The Westerner shook hands and was about to raise the goblet of punch that little Ensign von Königsmark had brought him when a hand snatched the glass away and sent it crashing on the marble mosaic floor.
"You can't drink with us!" said a raucous voice.
Tom turned.
"What the devil …?"
He looked. The man who had snatched the glass away, who had spoken the words, was Baron Horst von Götz-Wrede.
Tom was slow at taking offense. His first thought was that the man must have been drinking. Then he reconsidered.
For the Baron was perfectly sober. In fact, had only just come in. The uhlanka was still on his head, the silver gray cape, lined with crimson, across his shoulders. The insult had been deliberate and for a cause.
The little Ensign had turned very pale. He liked the American.
"Baron " he stammered in his high, childish voice, "Baron von Götz-Wrede …"
Then the Colonel interfered:
"Gentlemen! I beg of you! Please—no private quarrel here, in the Prince's palace …"
Already some of the other groups had heard and seen. They rushed over to find out what had happened. Excited voices asked questions, to be answered by other questions.
"What's the matter?"
"Was ist denn los?"
"Aber, meine Herren," from a white mustached old Colonel, "was fällt Ihnen denn ein?"
Tom was the quietest of them all. He smiled at the little Ensign.
"Thanks, young fellow," he whispered. "You aren't such a bad little chap." Then, to the Baron, in an even voice: "Go ahead and explain—if you can!"
There was hushed silence, the tense silence of expectancy, of waiting for something.
Then the Baron's words, harsh, sibilant, snarling:
"Herr Leutnant Graves! You will remember that some time ago the German Government subsidized a line of fast steamships to run direct from Hamburg to Tacoma, coaling at Singapore and Hongkong."
"Sure," replied Tom, puzzled. "What's that to me—or to you?"
"The very first ship of this line, on its return trip to Hamburg, put into Hongkong to coal."
"Well?"
"The British authorities there, through some legal chicanery, have held up the ship. They refuse to give clearance papers. And—bei Gott!—it's the work of your English friend, Lord Vyvyan, and your own work, you damned Yankee traitor!"
There was another silence. The little Ensign clutched Tom's arm convulsively, but the latter shook him off. He stepped straight up to the Baron.
"Herr Hauptmann!" he drawled, icily, "I don't know what the devil you're talking about. I have nothing to do with your subsidized steamships nor with the harbor authorities of Hongkong. Also I don't give a damn about your calling me a Yankee. But I object to being called a traitor, see?"
And his fist suddenly clenched and crashed straight between the Baron's eyes, sending him reeling to the floor.
The next moment pandemonium broke loose.
Voices. Questions. Exclamations. Hands gesticulating. More officers running up and closing in. More questions. The Prince himself asking excitedly what had happened.
Only the little Ensign kept his equanimity. He took the Westerner by the arm and rushed him to the door.
"Go to your quarters, Graves," he said.
"What for? I won't run away. If he wants something from me …"
"Yes, yes. That's just it! You struck him! You gave him a deadly insult! You must go to your quarters at once! You must wait for his seconds!"
"Oh?" smiled Tom. "A duel is it?"
"Natürlich!"
By this time they had reached the street.
"I say, Graves," stammered von Königsmark. "You know—I like you"—he blushed like a girl—"may I be your …"
"My second? You bet your life, kid!"
And he shook the young ensign's hand.