"What, then? Speak, Nicholas. There are
thoughts behind. Who but I should know them?"

"When I rule Theos," he answered, slowly, "it shall be even as the
Dukes of Reist have ruled it before me, with a sceptre in their hands,
and a sword upon their knees. That time is not yet, Marie, but it may
come. I think that you and I will see it."

"Why not now?" she cried. "The people would accept you on any terms.
The Republic has fallen. You shall be their King."

He shook his head.

"The time is not yet," he repeated. "Marie, believe me, I know my
people. In their blood lingers still some taint of the democratic
fever. You must learn, little sister, as I have learned it, the legend
on our walls and shield, the motto of our race, 'Slowly, but ever
forward.'"

"But the people," she cried. "What will you say to them? It is you
whom they want. Their throats are hoarse with shouting."

He threw open the great windows, and a roar of welcome from below rose
high above the storm.

"You shall hear what I will say to them, Marie," he answered. "Come
out by my side."

CHAPTER II

Almost as the man stepped out on to the massive stone balcony of his
house, the wind dropped, and a red flaring sun dipped behind the
towering mountains which guarded the city westwards and eastwards. A
roar of greeting welcomed his appearance, and while he waited for
silence his eyes rested fondly upon the long line of iron-bound hills,
stern and silent guardians of the city of his birth. For a moment he
forgot his ambitions and the long unswerving pursuit of his great
desire. The love of his country was born in the man--the better part
of him was steeped in patriotic fervour. And most of all, he loved
this ancient city amongst the hills, the capital of the State, where
many generations of his family had lived and died. Dear to him were
its squares and narrow streets, the ancient stone houses, the many
picturesque records of its great age ever, as it seemed to him,
frowning with a stern and magnificent serenity amongst the tawdry
evidences of later days and the irresistible march of modernity. The
wine-shops of a hundred years ago flourished still side by side with
the more pretentious _cafes_, half French, half Russian, which had
sprung up like mushrooms about the city. The country-made homespuns,
the glassware and metal work, heritage of generations of craftsmen,
survived still the hideous competition of cheap Lancashire productions
and Br