But only for a moment.

Berlin suddenly burst into a blinding glare of light.  Unter den Linden from end to end—­excepting only the royal palaces—­with its long line of imposing public buildings, hotels, and shops, the Kaiser-Franz-Joseph-Platz, the Zeugplatz, the Lustgarten—­the Schlossplatz—­all the magnificent expanse from the Brandenburg gate to a quarter of a mile beyond the river Spree—­had been strung and looped with electric lights, and the scene looked as if touched with a royal fairy’s wand.  The side streets from the Royal Library and the old Kaiser Wilhelm palace as far as the Schlossbruecke, were also brilliantly illuminated.

And in all these streets and squares women stood in close ranks, silent, phlegmatic women, with pistols in their belts and rifles with fixed bayonets on their shoulders, the steel reflecting the terrific downpour of light with a steady and menacing glitter.  These women wore gray uniforms and there were shining Prussian helmets on their heads.

In every window was a double row of women, armed; and the housetops were crowded with them.  There were also machine guns on the roofs, pointing downward or toward the roof of the palace.

Mariette laughed.  “Theatric enough to please even his taste?  Our last tribute.  Let us hope he will enjoy it.”

A moment later the expected happened.  A window of the palace overlooking the great Schlossplatz opened and the Emperor stepped out into the narrow balcony.  His uniform was caked with dust and mud and his face was drawn with a mortal fatigue; but as he stood there scowling haughtily down upon that upturned sea of woman’s faces, the most singular vision that ever had greeted imperial eyes, he was an imposing figure enough to those who knew that he was the Kaiser Wilhelm II, King of Prussia and Alsace-Lorraine, and Emperor in Germany.

It was evident that he had no intention of speaking, but expected this grotesque mob to be overwhelmed by the imperial presence and dissolve.

Frau Kathie Meyers, with the figure of an Amazon and the voice of a megaphone, stepped forth from the ranks and lifted her placid red face to the balcony.

“You will abdicate, William Hohenzollern,” she announced in tones that rolled down toward the Brandenburg gate like the overtones of a Death Symphony at the Front.  “Germany is a Republic.  And the palace is mined.  If your soldiers fire one shot from the windows the palace goes up to meet the ghosts of every arsenal and every ammunition factory in what two days ago was the Empire of Germany.  Your armies are helpless.  You will remain a prisoner within your palace until we have decided whether to deliver you to Great Britain, incarcerate you in a fortress, or permit you to live in exile.  It will depend upon the behavior of the army when it returns.  If you attempt to leave the palace you will be shot.”

The Emperor stared down upon that mass of calm implacable faces, so unmistakably German; not brilliant nor beautiful, but persistent as death, and stamped with the watermark of kultur; stared for a long moment, his gray face twitching, the familiar gray blaze in his eyes.  But he turned without a word or even a disdainful gesture and reentered the palace, the window closing immediately behind him.