e princess was busy up to the last minute. She had not seen her
future husband since his return from Blentz, for he, too, had been
busy. Twice he had sent word to her, but on both occasions had
regretted that he could not come personally because of the pressure
of state matters and the preparations for the ceremony that was to
take place in the cathedral in so short a time.

At last the hour arrived. The cathedral was filled to overflowing.
After the custom of Lutha, the bride had walked alone up the broad
center aisle to the foot of the chancel. Guardsmen lining the way on
either hand stood rigidly at salute until she stopped at the end of
the soft, rose-strewn carpet and turned to await the coming of the
king.

Presently the doors at the opposite end of the cathedral opened.
There was a fanfare of trumpets, and up the center aisle toward the
waiting girl walked the royal groom. It seemed ages to the princess
since she had seen her lover. Her eyes devoured him as he approached
her. She noticed that he limped, and wondered; but for a moment the
fact carried no special suggestion to her brain.

The people had risen as the king entered. Again, the pieces of the
guardsmen had snapped to present; but silence, intense and utter,
reigned over the vast assembly. The only movement was the measured
stride of the king as he advanced to claim his bride.

At the head of each line of guardsmen, nearest the chancel and upon
either side of the bridal party, the ranks were formed of
commissioned officers. Butzow was among them. He, too, out of the
corner of his eye watched the advancing figure. Suddenly he noted
the limp, and gave a little involuntary gasp. He looked at the
Princess Emma, and saw her eyes suddenly widen with consternation.

Slowly at first, and then in a sudden tidal wave of memory, Butzow's
story of the fight in the courtyard at Blentz came back to her.

"I saw but little of Mr. Custer," he had said. "He was slightly
wounded in the left leg. The king was wounded in the breast." But
Lieutenant Butzow had not known the true identity of either.

The real Leopold it was who had been wounded in the left leg, and
the man who was approaching her up the broad cathedral aisle was
limping noticeably--and favoring his left leg. The man to whom she
was to be married was not Barney Custer--he was Leopold of Lutha!

A hundred mad schemes rioted through her brain. The wedding must
not go on! But how was she to avert it