the extended hands. He
pushed his way savagely through the crowd; he came up with her as she
reached the side of the coach, and with a shout of encouragement grasped
her in his arms.

"Aunt Loraine! Aunt Loraine!" He now heard the name the boy cried with
all his little heart.

Two officers struck at the uncouth, desperate American as he lifted the
girl from the ground and deliberately tossed her into the coach.

"Turn back!" he shouted. A horseman rode him down. He looked up as the
plunging animal's hoofs clattered about his head. Vos Engo, with drawn
sword, was crowding up to the carriage door, shouting words of rejoicing
at sight of the girl he loved.

Somehow he managed to crawl from under the hoofs and wheels, not without
thumps and bruises, and made his way to the sidewalk. The coach had
swung around and the horses were being lashed into a gallop for the
Castle gates.

He caught a glimpse of her, holding the Prince in her arms, her white,
agonised face turned toward the mob. Distinctly he heard her cry:

"Save him! Save Truxton King!"

From the sidewalks swarmed well-armed hordes of desperadoes, firing
wildly into the ranks of devoted guardsmen grouped in the avenue to
cover the flight of their royal charge. Truxton fled from the danger
zone as fast as his legs would carry him. Bullets were striking all
about him. Later on he was to remember his swollen, bitterly painful
ankle; but there was no thought of it now. He had played football with
this same ankle in worse condition than it was now--and he had played
for the fun of it, too.

He realised that his life was worth absolutely nothing if he fell into
the hands of the enemy. His only chance lay in falling in with some
sane, loyal citizen who could be prevailed upon to hide him until the
worst was over. There seemed no possibility of getting inside the Castle
grounds. He had done his duty and--he laughed bitterly as he thought of
it--he had been ridden down by the men he came to save.

Some one was shouting his name behind in the scurrying crowd. He turned
for a single glance backward. Little Mr. Hobbs, pale as a ghost, his cap
gone, his clothing torn, was panting at his elbow.

"God save us!" gasped Hobbs. "Are you alive or am I seeing all the
bloody ghosts in the world?"

"I'm alive all right," cried King. "Where can we go? Be quick, Hobbs!
Think! Don't sputter like that. I want to be personally conducted, and
damned quick at that."

"Before God