shed his chair back.

Other bells had taken it up, and now the whole city seemed alive with
bells--bells that swung sadly from side to side, as if they said over
and over: "Alas, alas!"

Something like panic seized Ferdinand William Otto. Some calamity had
happened. Some one was perhaps his grandfather.

He turned an appealing face to Mrs. Thorpe. "I must go," he said: "I do
not wish to appear rude, but something is wrong. The bells--"

Pepy had beet listening, too. Her broad face worked. "They mean but
one thing," she said slowly. "I have heard it said many times. When St.
Stefan's tolls life that, the King is dead!"

"No! No!" cried Ferdinand William Otto and ran madly out of the door.

CHAPTER XXXVII. LONG LIVE THE KING!

While the birthday supper was at its height, in the bureau of the
concierge sat old Adelbert, heavy and despairing. That very day had he
learned to what use the Committee would put the information he had given
them, and his old heart was dead within him. One may not be loyal for
seventy years, and then easily become a traitor.

He had surveyed stonily the costume in which the little Prince was to be
taken away. He had watched while the boxes of ammunition were uncovered
in their barrels, he had seen the cobbler's shop become a seething hive
of activity, where all day men had come and gone. He had heard the press
beneath his feet fall silent because its work was done, and at dusk he
had with his own eyes beheld men who carried forth, under their arms,
blazing placards for the walls of the town.

Then, at seven o'clock, something had happened.

The concierge's niece had gone, leaving the supper ready cooked on the
back of the stove. Old Adelbert sat alone, and watched the red bars of
the stove fade to black. By that time it was done, and he was of the
damned. The Crown Prince, who was of an age with the American lad
upstairs, the Crown Prince was in the hands of his enemies. He, old
Adelbert, had done it.

And now it was forever too late. Terrible thoughts filled his mind. He
could not live thus, yet he could not die. The daughter must have the
pension. He must live, a traitor, he on whose breast the King himself
had pinned a decoration.

He wore his new uniform, in honor of the day. Suddenly he felt that he
could not wear it any longer. He had no right to any uniform. He who had
sold his country was of no country.

He went slowly out and up the staircase, dragging his wooden le