King?"
said he; and Sapt's laugh left his opinion of my motives undisturbed.

"You should always trust a man," observed Sapt, fitting the key in the
lock, "just as far as you must."

We went in and reached the dressing-room. Flinging open the door, we saw
Fritz von Tarlenheim stretched, fully dressed, on the sofa. He seemed to
have been sleeping, but our entry woke him. He leapt to his feet, gave
one glance at me, and with a joyful cry, threw himself on his knees
before me.

"Thank God, sire! thank God, you're safe!" he cried, stretching his hand
up to catch hold of mine.

I confess that I was moved. This King, whatever his faults, made people
love him. For a moment I could not bear to speak or break the poor
fellow's illusion. But tough old Sapt had no such feeling. He slapped
his hand on his thigh delightedly.

"Bravo, lad!" cried he. "We shall do!"

Fritz looked up in bewilderment. I held out my hand.

"You're wounded, sire!" he exclaimed.

"It's only a scratch," said I, "but--" I paused.

He rose to his feet with a bewildered air. Holding my hand, he looked
me up and down, and down and up. Then suddenly he dropped my hand and
reeled back.

"Where's the King? Where's the King?" he cried.

"Hush, you fool!" hissed Sapt. "Not so loud! Here's the King!"

A knock sounded on the door. Sapt seized me by the hand.

"Here, quick, to the bedroom! Off with your cap and boots. Get into bed.
Cover everything up."

I did as I was bid. A moment later Sapt looked in, nodded, grinned, and
introduced an extremely smart and deferential young gentleman, who came
up to my bedside, bowing again and again, and informed me that he was
of the household of the Princess Flavia, and that her Royal Highness
had sent him especially to enquire how the King's health was after the
fatigues which his Majesty had undergone yesterday.

"My best thanks, sir, to my cousin," said I; "and tell her Royal
Highness that I was never better in my life."

"The King," added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for
its own sake), "has slept without a break all night."

The young gentleman (he reminded me of "Osric" in Hamlet) bowed himself
out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim's pale face
recalled us to reality--though, in faith, the farce had to be reality
for us now.

"Is the King dead?" he whispered.

"Please God, no," said I. "But he's in the hands of Black Michael!"

CHAPTER 8

A Fair Cousin an