inced;
rather that, borne along by our passionate desire, we needed no
convincing at all. His excited appeal seemed to us an argument. At least
the danger to the queen, on which he dwelt, was real and true and great.

Then a sudden change came over him. He caught Rudolf's hand and spoke to
him again in a low, broken voice, an unwonted softness transforming his
harsh tones.

"Lad," he said, "don't say no. Here's the finest lady alive sick for her
lover, and the finest country in the world sick for its true king, and
the best friends--ay, by Heaven, the best friends--man ever had, sick to
call you master. I know nothing about your conscience; but this I know:
the king's dead, and the place is empty; and I don't see what Almighty
God sent you here for unless it was to fill it. Come, lad--for our love
and her honor! While he was alive I'd have killed you sooner than let
you take it. He's dead. Now--for our love and her honor, lad!"

I do not know what thoughts passed in Mr. Rassendyll's mind. His face
was set and rigid. He made no sign when Sapt finished, but stood as
he was, motionless, for a long while. Then he slowly bent his head and
looked down into the queen's eyes. For a while she sat looking back into
his. Then, carried away by the wild hope of immediate joy, and by her
love for him and her pride in the place he was offered, she sprang up
and threw herself at his feet, crying:

"Yes, yes! For my sake, Rudolf--for my sake!"

"Are you, too, against me, my queen?" he murmured caressing her ruddy
hair.

CHAPTER XX. THE DECISION OF HEAVEN

WE were half mad that night, Sapt and Bernenstein and I. The thing
seemed to have got into our blood and to have become part of ourselves.
For us it was inevitable--nay, it was done. Sapt busied himself in
preparing the account of the fire at the hunting-lodge; it was to be
communicated to the journals, and it told with much circumstantiality
how Rudolf Rassendyll had come to visit the king, with James his
servant, and, the king being summoned unexpectedly to the capital, had
been awaiting his Majesty's return when he met his fate. There was a
short history of Rudolf, a glancing reference to his family, a dignified
expression of condolence with his relatives, to whom the king was
sending messages of deepest regret by the hands of Mr. Rassendyll's
servant. At another table young Bernenstein was drawing up, under the
constable's direction, a narrative of Rupert of Hentzau's a