and your guards
may arrive before those cutthroats in the street decide to storm the
hotel."

"Sobieski--who is he?" asked Alec.

"A waiter in the restaurant. I have pledged you to buy him a cafe in
Warsaw if the troops come speedily."

"Make it a brewery, Alec," said Beaumanoir; "these bounders mean
business."

A constant fusillade of bullets was now tearing the windows to atoms,
and shattering the ceiling on the other side of the room. Lord Adalbert
was justified in offering liberal terms for relief.

The King, standing with one arm thrown round Joan's shoulders, felt the
tremors she strove vainly to repress. "Don't be afraid, sweetheart. They
cannot reach us here," he said. "I have one unknown protector, it seems,
and I feel sure that Felix is right about Bosko. The only drawback is
that our friendly waiter may find some difficulty in persuading the
officers on duty at Monsieur Nesimir's house that we are in danger. We
must risk that."

"Oh, to safeguard against delay, I told him to ask for the Prince," said
Felix.

"What Prince?"

"Your father, of course. Ha! Name of a good little gray man! You don't
know that Prince Michael and your mother are in Delgratz."

"Mark cock!" cried Beaumanoir, as a bullet flew breast high across the
room and imbedded itself in the inner wall. The heroes of the Seventh
Regiment were firing from the upper floors of the houses opposite.

Alec did not seem to heed. The look of blank amazement on his face
proved that he had ridden straight from the review ground to the
university, whereas a call at the President's house would have
enlightened him.

"It is true, dear," whispered Joan. "They came with us from Paris; in
the same train, that is. We all arrived at Delgratz this morning. Your
mother spoke to me on the platform at Vienna."

He smiled with something of the old careless humor of Paris days. "I
suppose everything is for the best," he said. "Nothing surprises me now,
not even this," and he nodded cheerfully toward the landing and stairs,
whence a rush of footsteps and clamor of voices were audible.

The handle of the door was wrenched violently, and shots were fired into
the lock and at the panels; but the wood was seasoned and stanch, and
nothing short of a rifle would drive a bullet through. The door creaked
and strained under the pressure of the mutineers' shoulders. Had it not
been reinforced by the solid sideboard and equally heavy table, it must
have given way.