aw the erectness of the small figure,
the steadiness of the blue eyes that had fought back their tears, the
honesty and fire and courage of this small boy who was their King.

Let such of the revolutionists as remained scream before the Parliament
House. Let the flames burn and the drums beat. The solid citizens, the
great mass of the people, looked up at the King and cheered mightily.
Revolution had that night received its death-blow, at the hands of a
child. The mob prepared to go home to bed.

While King Otto stood on the balcony, down below in the crowd an
American woman looked up, and suddenly caught her husband by the arm.

"Robert," she said, "Robert, it is Bobby's little friend!"

"Nonsense!" he retorted. "It's rather dramatic, isn't it? Nothing like
this at home! See, they've crowned him already."

But Bobby's mother looked with the clear eyes of most women, and all
mothers.

"They have not crowned him," she said, smiling, with tears in her eyes.
"The absurd little King! They have forgotten to take off his paper
crown!"

The dead King lay in state in the royal chapel. Tall candles burned at
his head and feet, set in long black standards. His uniform lay at his
feet, his cap, his sword. The flag of his country was draped across him.
He looked very rested.

In a small private chapel near by lay old Adelbert. They could not do
him too much honor. He, too, looked rested, and he, too, was covered by
the flag, and no one would have guessed that a part of him had died long
before, and lay buried on a battlefield. It was, unfortunately, his old
uniform that he wore. They had added his regimental flag to the national
one, and on it they had set his shabby cap. He, too, might have been a
king. There were candles at his head and feet, also; but, also, he had
now no sword.

Thus it happened that old Adelbert the traitor lay in state in the
Palace, and that monks, in long brown robes, knelt and prayed by him.
Perhaps he needed their prayers. But perhaps, in the great accounting,
things are balanced up, the good against the bad. In that ease, who
knows?

The Palace mourned and the Palace rejoiced. Haeckel had told what he
knew and the leaders of the Terrorists were in prison. Some, in high
places, would be hanged with a silken cord, as was their due. And others
would be aesthetically disposed of. The way was not yet clear ahead, but
the crisis was passed and safely.

Early in the evening, soon after he had appe