lbert stared around him hopelessly. It was done now. Nothing that
he could say or refuse to say would change that. He nodded.

When, soon after, a chart of the Palace was placed on a table, he
indicated the location of the door with a trembling forefinger. "It is
there," he said thickly. "And may God forgive me for the thing I have
done!"

CHAPTER XXX. KING KARL

"They love us dearly!" said King Karl.

The Chancellor, who sat beside him in the royal carriage, shrugged his
shoulders. "They have had little reason to love, in the past, Majesty,"
he said briefly.

Karl laughed, and watched the crowd. He and the Chancellor rode alone,
Karl's entourage, a very modest one, following in another carriage.
There was no military escort, no pomp. It had been felt unwise. Karl,
paying ostensibly a visit of sympathy, had come unofficially.

"But surely," he observed, as they passed between sullen lines of
people, mostly silent, but now and then giving way to a muttering that
sounded ominously like a snarl,--"surely I may make a visit of sympathy
without exciting their wrath!"

"They are children," said Mettlich contemptuously. "Let one growl, and
all growl. Let some one start a cheer, and they will cheer themselves
hoarse."

"Then let some one cheer, for God's sake!" said Karl, and turned his
mocking smile to the packed streets.

The Chancellor was not so calm as he appeared. He had lined the route
from the station to the Palace with his men; had prepared for every
contingency so far as he could without calling out the guard. As the
carriage, drawn by its four chestnut horses, moved slowly along the
streets, his eyes under their overhanging thatch were watching ahead,
searching the crowd for symptoms of unrest.

Anger he saw in plenty, and suspicion. Scowling faces and frowning
brows. But as yet there was no disorder. He sat with folded arms,
magnificent in his uniform beside Karl, who wore civilian dress and
looked less royal than perhaps he felt.

And Karl, too, watched the crowd, feeling its temper and feigning an
indifference he did not feel. Olga Loschek had been right. He did not
want trouble. More than that, he was of an age now to crave popularity.
Many of the measures which had made him beloved in his own land had no
higher purpose than this, the smiles of the crowd. So he watched and
talked of indifferent things.

"It is ten years since I have been here," he observed, "but there are
few changes."