A DIVINITY SHAPES

It was pitch dark when he awoke.

"By heaven, it was a dream, after all," he murmured. "Well, thank God for that. She isn't in this damnable hole. And," with a quickening of the blood, "she hasn't said she was going to marry Vos Engo."

The sound of light breathing came to his ears. He sat up. His hands were free. It had not been a dream. She was lying over there asleep. The candle had burnt itself out, that was all. He crept softly across the floor; in the darkness he found her, and touched the garments she wore—and drew back enthralled. A strange joy filled him; she was his for the time being. They were equals in this direful, unlovely place; royal prejudice stood for nothing here. The mad desire to pick her up in his arms and hold her close came over him—only to perish as quickly as it flamed. What was he thinking of?

She stirred restlessly as he crept back to the door. The sharp, quick intake of her breath told him that she was awake. He stopped and utter silence fell upon the room.

A little moan escaped her lips: "Who is it? Why is it so dark? What—"

"It is I," he whispered eagerly. "King. Don't be afraid. The candle burnt out while we were asleep. I did not intend to sleep. I'm sorry. We can't have a light now until some one comes in the morning. Don't be afraid."

"I am afraid. Where are you?"

"Here!" He hastened to her side. As he came up she touched his face with her hand timorously. He caught the wayward fingers in his own and held them, drawing quite close to her. "It's all right," he said.

"Will they come soon?"

"I hope not—I mean, yes; it must be morning."

"I loathe the dark," she sighed. Presently her head dropped over against his shoulder and she was asleep again.

"I don't give a damn if they never come," thought Truxton King, intoxicated with bliss.

Afraid to move for fear of disturbing her, he sat there for an hour or more his back twisted and uncomfortable, but never so resolute. He would not have moved for all the world.

All this time his brain was working like mad in the new-found desire to perform miracles for the sake of this lovely, unattainable creature. Was there no way to foil these triumphant conspirators? He was forgetting the Prince, the horrors of the 26th; he was thinking only of saving this girl from the fate that Marlanx had in store for her. Vos Engo may have had the promise, but what could it profit him if Marlanx had the girl?

"I've got about as much chance as a snowball," he reflected, courage and decision growing stronger each moment. "I might just as well die one way as another. If I could only catch 'em napping for a minute, I might turn the trick. God, that would be—" he was lost in ecstatic contemplation of the glory that such an event would bring.

Footsteps in the outer room recalled him to the bitter reality of their position. He awoke her and whispered words of encouragement into her bewildered ears. Then he put on his coat and threw himself on the floor, first wrapping the rope about his wrists to deceive the guard.

A key turned in the padlock and the bolt was raised. Old man Spantz stood in the doorway, peering in at them. In surly tones Truxton replied to his sharp query, saying that the candle had gone out while he slept.

"It is noon," said the old man irascibly. Then he came in and lighted a candle.

"Noon of the 25th," said Truxton bitterly. "In twenty-four hours it will be all over, eh, Spantz?"

"At noon to-morrow," said Spantz grimly.

There were half a dozen men in the outer room, conversing in low, excited tones; the fervent gesticulations which usually marked their discussions were missing, proving the constraint that had descended upon them. One of them—it was Julius Spantz—brought in the food for the prisoners, setting it on the floor between them.

"It is usually the duty of our friend Julius to feed me," observed Truxton to his fellow-prisoner. "I dare say he won't mind if you relieve him of the task."

"She can feed you if she likes," growled Julius.

"Julius?" queried the girl from the Castle, peering at the man. "Not Julius Spantz, of the armoury?"

"The same," said Truxton. Julius laughed awkwardly and withdrew. "Son of our distinguished host here. Permit me to present Herr William—"

"Enough," snarled William Spantz, with a threatening movement toward King. His manner changed completely, however, when he turned to address the young lady. "I beg to inform you, madam, that your stay in this unwholesome place is to be brief. Pray endure it for the remainder of this day. To-night you will be removed to more pleasant quarters, that a friend has prepared for you. I may say to you, however, that it will he necessary to place a gag in your mouth before you depart. This is to be a critical night in our affairs." He lifted an inspired gaze heavenward. "Let me assure you, madam, that the two gentlemen who are to conduct you to the Count's—to your new quarters, are considerate, kindly men; you need feel no further alarm. I am requested to tell you this, so that you may rest easy for the balance of the day. As for you, my friend," turning to Truxton and smiling ironically, "I deeply deplore the fact that you are to remain. You may be lonesome in the dead hours, for, as you may imagine, we, your dearest friends, will be off about a certain business that is known to you, if I mistake not in believing that you have listened at the door these many nights. When we next gather in the room beyond, a new dispensation will have begun. You may be interested then to hear what we have to say—out there."

Truxton was silent for a moment, a sudden, swift thought flooding his brain. Controlling the quiver of anticipation in his voice, he took occasion to say:

"I only hope you'll not forget to come back. I should be lonesome, Spantz."

"Oh, we'll not forget you."

"I suppose not. By the way, would you mind telling me what has become of your niece?"

Spantz glared at him. "She does not meet with us now. My niece is consecrating her every thought to the task that lies before her. You will not see her again."

"It's an infernal shame, that's what it is," exclaimed King, "to put it all upon that poor girl! God, I'd give ten years of my life to lead her out of this devil's mess. She's too good for—for that. It's—"

"She will be out of it, as you say, to-morrow, my excellent Samaritan. She knows." There could be no mistake as to the meaning of the prophetic words.

With a profound bow to the lady and a leer for King, he departed, bolting the door behind him. Instantly King was at her side.

"An idea has come to me," he whispered eagerly. "I think I see a way. By George, if it should only happen as I hope it may!"

"Tell me!" she insisted.

"Not now. I must think it all out carefully. It won't do to get your hopes up and then fail."

Whatever the thought was that had come to him, it certainly had put new life and hope into him. She nibbled at the unwholesome food, never removing her eyes from his tall, restless figure as he paced the floor, his brows knit in thought. Finally he sat down beside her, calmly helping himself to a huge slice of bread and a boiled carrot.

"I've never liked carrots before. I love 'em now. I'm taking them for my complexion."

"Don't jest, Mr. King. What is it you intend to do? Please tell me. I must know. You heard what he said about taking me to the Count's. He meant Marlanx. I will die first."

"No. I will die first. By the way, I may as well tell you that I wasn't thinking altogether of how we are to escape. There was something else on my mind." He stopped and looked at her puzzled face. "Why should I save you from Marlanx just to have you hurry off and get married to Vos Engo? It's a mean thought, I know," hastily, "and unworthy of a typical hero, but, just the same, I hate to think of you marrying some one—else."

"Some one else?" she questioned, a pucker on her forehead.

"Oh, I know I wouldn't have a ghost of a chance, even if there wasn't a Vos Engo. It isn't that," he explained. "I recognise the—er—difference in our stations and—"

"Are you crazy, Mr. King?"

"Not now. I was a bit touched, I think, but I'm over it now. I dare say it was caused by excessive reading of improbable romances. Life rather takes it out of a fellow, don't you know. It's all simple enough in books, but in—"

"What has all this got to do with your plan to escape?"

"Nothing at all. It merely has to do with my ambition to become a true hero. You see, I'm an amateur hero. Of course, this is good practice for me; in time, I may become an expert and have no difficulty in winning a duchess or even a princess. Don't misunderstand me. I intend to do all I can toward rescuing you to-night. The point I'm trying to get at is this: don't you think it's pretty rough on a hero to save the girl for some other fellow to snap up and marry?"

"I think I begin to see," she said, a touch of pink coming into her cheeks.

"That's encouraging," he said, staring gloomily at the food he had put aside. "You are quite sure you promised Vos Engo that you'd marry him?"

"No. I did not promise him that I'd marry him," she said, leaning back and surveying him between narrowed lids.

"I beg your pardon. You said you had promised—"

"You did not allow me time to finish. I meant to say that I had promised to let him know in a day or two. That is all, Mr. King." There was a suspicious tremor in her voice and her gaze wavered beneath his unbelieving stare.

"What's that?" he demanded. "You—you don't mean to say that—Oh, Lord! I wonder! I wonder if I have a chance—just a ghost of a chance?" He leaned very close, incredulous, fascinated. "What is it that you are going to let him know? Yes or no?"

"That was the question I was considering when the brigands caught me," she answered, meeting his gaze fairly. "I haven't thought of it since."

"Of course, he is in your own class," said Truxton glumly.

She hesitated an instant, her face growing very serious. "Mr. King, has no one told you my name—who I am?" she asked.

"You are the Prince's aunt, that's all I know."

"No more his aunt in reality than Jack Tullis is his uncle. I thought you understood."

"Who are you, then?"

"I am Jack Tullis's sister, a New Yorker bred and born, and I live not more than two blocks from your—"

"For the love of—" he began blankly; then words failed him, which was just as well. He gulped twice, joy or unbelief choking him. The smile that crept into her face dazzled him; he stared at her in speechless amazement. "Then—then, you are not a duchess or a—" he began again.

"Not at all. A very plain New Yorker," she said, laughing aloud in sudden hysteria. For some reason she drew quickly away from him. "You are not disappointed, are you? Does it spoil your romance to—"

"Spoil it? Disappointed? No! By George, I—I can't believe that any such luck—no, no, I don't mean it just that way! Let me think it out. Let me get it through my head." He leaned back against the wall and devoured her with eager, disturbing eyes. "You are Tullis's sister? You live near—Oh, I say, this is glorious!" He arose and took a turn about the room. In some nervousness and uncertainty she also came to her feet, watching him wonderingly. He hurried back to her, a new light in his eyes. She was very desirable, this slender, uncertain person in the crumpled grey.

"Miss Tullis," he said, a thrill in his voice, "you are a princess, just the same. I never was so happy in my life as I am this minute. It isn't so black as it was. I thought I couldn't win you because you—"

"Win me?" she gasped, her lips parted in wonder.

"Precisely. Now I'm looking at it differently. I don't mind telling you that I'm in love with you—desperately in love. It's been so with me ever since that day in the Park. I loved you as a duchess or a princess, and without hope. Now, I—I—well, I'm going to hope. Perhaps Vos Engo has the better of me just now, but I'm in the lists with him—with all of them. If I get you out of this place—and myself as well—I want you to understand that from this very minute I am trying to win you if it lies in the power of any American to win a girl who has suitors among the nobility. Will—will you give me a chance—just a ghost of a chance? I'll try to do the rest."

"Are—are you really in earnest?" she murmured, composure flying to the winds.

"Yes; terribly so," he said gently. "I mean every word of it. I do love you."

"I—I cannot talk about it now, Mr. King," she fluttered, moving away from him in a sudden panic. Presently he went over to her. She was standing near the candle, staring down at the flame with a strangely preoccupied expression in her eyes.

"Forgive me," he said. "I was hasty, inconsiderate. I—"

"You quite took my breath away," she panted, looking up at him with a queer little smile.

"I know," he murmured.

Her troubled gaze resumed its sober contemplation of the flame.

"How was I to tell—" she began, but checked herself. "Please, Mr. King, you won't say anything more to me about—about it,—just now, will you? Shall we talk of our plans for to-night? Tell me about them."

He lowered his eyes, suddenly disheartened. "I only ask you to believe that I am desperately in earnest."

"I cannot comprehend how—I mean, it is so very wonderful. You don't think me unappreciative, or mean, do you?"

"Of course not. You are startled, that's all. I'm a blundering fool. Still, you must agree that I was frightfully bowled over when I found that you were not what I thought. I couldn't hold back, that's all. By Jove, isn't it wonderful? Here I've been looking all over the world for you, only to find that you've been living around the corner from me all these years! It's positively staggering! Why," with a sudden burst of his unquenchable buoyancy, "we might have been married two years ago and saved all this trouble. Just think of it!"

She smiled. "I do like you," she said warmly, giving him her hand. He kissed it gallantly and stepped back—resolutely.

"That's something," he said with his humblest, most conquering smile.

"You won't leave me to my fate because you think I'm going to marry—some one else?"

He grew very sober. "Miss Tullis, you and I have one chance in a thousand. You may as well know the truth."

"Oh, I can't bear the thought of that dreadful old man," she cried, abject distress in her eyes.

He gritted his teeth and turned away. She went back to the corner, dully rearranging the coat he had given her for comfort. She handled it with a tenderness that would have astonished the garment had it been capable of understanding. For a long time she watched him in silence as he paced to and fro like a caged lion. Twice she heard him mutter: "An American girl—good Lord," and she found herself smiling to herself—the strange, vagrant smile that comes of wonder and self-gratification.

Late in the afternoon—long hours in which they had spoken to each other with curious infrequency, each a prey to sombre thoughts—their door was unlocked and Anna Cromer appeared before them, accompanied by two of the men. Crisply she commanded the girl to come forth; she wanted to talk with her.

She was in the outer room for the better part of an hour, listening to Anna Cromer and Madame Drovnask, who dinned the praises of the great Count Marlanx into her ears until she was ready to scream. They bathed the girl's face and brushed her hair and freshened her garments. It occurred to her that she was being prepared for a visit of the redoubtable Marlanx himself, and put the question plainly.

"No," said Anna Cromer. "He's not coming here. You are going to him. He will not be Count Marlanx after to-morrow, but Citizen Marlanx—one of the people, one of us. Ah, he is a big man to do this."

Little did they know Marlanx!

"Julius and Peter will come for you to-night," said Madame Drovnask, with an evil, suggestive smile. "We will not be here to say farewell, but, my dear, you will be one of us before—well, before many days have passed."

Truxton was beginning to tremble with the fear that she would not be returned to their room, when the door was opened and she came in—most gladly, he could see. The two women bade him a cool, unmistakable Good-bye, and left him in charge of the men who had just come down from the shop above.

For half an hour Peter Brutus taunted him. It was all he could do to keep his hands wrapped in the rope behind his back; he was thankful when they returned him to his cell. The time was not ripe for the dash he was now determined to make.

"Get a little nap, if you can," he said to Loraine, when the door was locked behind him. "It won't be long before something happens. I've got a plan. You'll have your part to play. God grant that it may work out well for us. You—you might pray if—if—"

"Yes, I can pray," she said simply. "I'll do my part, Mr. King."

He waited a moment. "We've been neighbours in New York for years," he said. "Would you mind calling me Truxton,—and for Adele's sake, too?"

"It isn't hard to do, Truxton."

"Good!" he exclaimed.

She rebelled at the mere thought of sleep, but, unfastening her collar and removing the jabot, she made herself a comfortable cushion of his coat and sat back in her corner, strangely confident that this strong, eager American would deliver her from the Philistines—this fighting American with the ten days' growth of beard on his erstwhile merry face.

Sometime in the tense, suffocating hours of the night they heard the sounds of many footsteps shuffling about the outer room; there were hoarse, guttural, subdued good-byes and well-wishes, the creaking of heavy doors and the dropping of bolts. Eventually King, who had been listening alertly, realised that but two of the men remained in the room—Peter Brutus and Julius Spantz.

An hour crept by, and another, seemingly interminable King was fairly groaning under the suspense. The time was slowly, too slowly approaching when he was to attempt the most desperate act in all this sanguinary tragedy—the last act for him, no doubt, but the one in which he was to see himself glorified.

There remained the chance—the slim chance that only Providence considers. He had prayed for strength and cunning; she had prayed for divine intervention. But, after all, Luck was to be the referee.

He had told her of his plan; she knew the part she was to play. And if all went well—ah, then! He took a strange lesson in the language of Graustark: one sentence, that was all. She had whispered the translation to him and he had grimly repeated it, over and over again. "She has fainted, damn her!" It was to be their "Open Sesame"—if all went well!

Suddenly he started to his feet, his jaws set, his eyes gleaming. The telegraph instrument was clicking in the outer room!

He had wrapped his handkerchief about his big right hand, producing a sort of cushion to deaden the sound of a blow with the fist and to protect his knuckles; for all his strength was to go into that one mighty blow. If both men came into the room, his chance was smaller; but, in either event, the first blow was to be a mighty one.

Taking his position near the girl, who was crouching in real dismay, he leaned against the wall, his hands behind him, every muscle strained and taut.

The door opened and Julius Spantz, bewhiskered and awkward, entered. He wore a raincoat and storm hat, and carried a rope in one of his hands. He stopped just inside the door to survey the picture.

"Time you were asleep," he said stupidly, addressing King.

"I'd put you to sleep, Julius, if Miss Tullis could have managed to untie these infernal bonds," said Truxton, with pleasant daring.

"I don't tie lovers' knots," grinned Julius, pleased with his own wit. "Come, madam, I must ask you to stand up. Will you put your own handkerchief in your mouth, or must I use force—ah, that's good! I'm sorry, but I must wrap this cloth about—"

He did not complete the sentence, for he had come within range. The whole weight of Truxton King's body was behind the terrific blow that landed on the man's jaw. Loraine suppressed the scream that rose to her white lips. Julius Spantz's knees crumpled; he lunged against the wall and was sliding down when King caught him in his arms. The man was stunned beyond all power of immediate action. It was the work of an instant to snatch the revolver from his coat pocket.

"Guard the door!" whispered King to the girl, pressing the revolver into her hand. "And shoot if you have to!"

A handkerchief was stuffed into the unconscious man's mouth; the long coat and boots were jerked from his limp body before his hands and feet were bound with the rope he carried; the bushy whiskers and wig were removed from his head and transferred in a flash to that of the American. Then the boots, coat and hat found a new wearer.

Peter Brutus was standing in the stairway, leading to the sewer, listening eagerly for sounds from either side.

"Hurry up, Julius," he called imperatively. "They are below with the boat. They have given the signal."

The new Julius uttered a single sentence; that was all. If Peter heard the noise attending the disposal of his comrade, he was justified in believing that the girl had offered some resistance. When a tall, grunting man emerged from the inner room, bearing the limp figure of a girl in a frayed raincoat, he did not wait to ask questions, but rushed over and locked the cell-door. Then he led the way down the narrow stairway, lighting the passage with a candle. His only reply to King's guttural remark in the Graustark language was:

"Don't speak, you fool! Not a word until we reach the river."

Down the steps they went to the opening in the wall of the sewer. There, before the bolts were drawn by Brutus, a series of raps were exchanged by men outside and the one who held the keys within.

A moment later, the girl was being lowered through the hole into rough, eager arms. Brutus and his companion dropped through, the secret block of masonry was closed, and off through the shallow waters of the sewer glided the party riverward in the noiseless boat that had come up to ferry them.

There were three men in the boat, not counting Truxton King.

ON THE RIVER

No word was spoken during this cautious, extraordinary voyage underground. The boat drifted slowly through the narrow channel, unlighted and practically unguided. Two of the men sat at the rowlocks, but the oars rested idly in the boat. With their hands they kept the craft from scraping against the walls.

The pseudo-Julius supported his charge in the stern of the boat; Peter Brutus sat in the bow, a revolver in his hand, his gaze bent upon the opaqueness ahead. A whispered word of encouragement now and then passed from the lips of the hopeful American into the ear of the almost pulseless girl, who lay up against his knee.

"We'll do it—sure!" he whispered once, ever so softly.

"Yes," she scarcely, breathed, but he heard and was thrilled. The rope had dropped from her arms; she had taken the handkerchief from her mouth at his whispered command.

At last the boat crept out into the rainy, starless night. He drew the skirts of his own mackintosh over her shoulders and head. A subdued command came from the man in the bow; the oars slipped into the deep, black waters of the river; without a splash or a perceptible sound the little craft scudded toward midstream. The night was so inky black that one could not see his hand before his face.

At least two of the occupants opened up their throats and lungs and gulped in the wet, fresh air. Never had anything been so glorious to Truxton King as these first tremendous inhalations of pure, free air. She felt his muscles expand; his whole body grew stronger and more vital. Her heart was pounding violently against his leg; he could feel its throbs, he could hear the quick, eager panting of her breath.

It was now that he began to wonder, to calculate against the plans of their silent escort. Whither were they bound? When would his chance come to strike the final, surprising blow? Only the greatest effort at self-control kept him from ruining everything by premature action; his exultation was getting the better of him. Coolness and patience were greater assets now than strength and daring.

The boat turned in mid-stream and shot swiftly up the river, past the black fortress with its scattered sentry lights, where slept a garrison in sweet ignorance of the tragedy that was to come upon them when the sun was high. The lights of the city itself soon peeped down into the rain-swept waters; music from the distant cafés came faintly to the ears of the midnight voyagers. A safe haven at their very elbows, and yet unattainable.

The occasional creak of an oar, a whispered oath of dismay, the heavy breathing of toilers, the soft blowing of the mist-that was all; no other sound on the broad, still river. It was, indeed, a night fit for the undertaking at hand.

Truxton began to chafe under the strain. His uneasiness was increased by the certain conviction that before long they would be beyond the city, the walls of which were gradually slipping past He could not even so much as guess at their destination. There was also the likelihood of encountering reinforcements, sent out to meet the boatmen, or for protection at the time of landing. A hundred doubts and misgivings assailed him. To suddenly open fire on the rascals went against the grain. A dashing, running fight on shore was more to his liking. An ill-timed move would foil them even as success was in their grasp.

He considered their chances if he were to overturn the frail boat and strike out for shore in the darkness. This project he gave up at once: he did not know the waters nor the banks between which they glided. They were past the walls now and rowing less stealthily. Before long they would be in a position to speak aloud; it would be awkward for him. The situation was rapidly growing more and more desperate; the time was near at hand when the final effort would have to be exerted. He slipped the revolver from his pocket; somehow he was unable to keep his teeth from chattering; but it was through excitement, not fear.

Suddenly the boat turned to the right and shot toward the unseen bank. They were perhaps half a mile above the city wall. Truxton's mind was working like a trip-hammer. He was recalling a certain nomad settlement north of the city, the quarters of fishermen, poachers and horse-traders: a squalid, unclean community that lay under the walls between the northern gates and the river. These people, he was not slow to surmise, were undoubtedly hand in glove with Marlanx, if not so surely connected with the misguided Committee of Ten. This being the eve of the great uprising, it was not unlikely that a secret host lay here awake and ready for the foul observance of the coming holiday; here, at least, chafed an eager, vicious, law-hating community of mendicants and outcasts.

He had little time to speculate on the attitude of the denizens of this unwholesome place. The prow of the boat grated on the pebbly bank, and Peter Brutus leaped over the edge into the shallow water.

"Come on, Julius—hand her over to me!" he cried, making his way to the stern.

As he leaned over the side to seize the girl in his arms, Truxton King brought the butt of the heavy revolver down upon his skull. Brutus dropped across the gunwale with a groan, dead to all that was to happen in the next half hour or more.

King was anxious to avoid the hullaballoo that shooting was sure to create on shore. Action had been forced upon him rather precipitously, but he was ready. Leaning forward, he had the two amazed oarsmen covered with the weapon.

"Hands up! Quick!" he cried. Two pairs of hands went up, together with strange oaths. Truxton's eyes had grown used to the darkness; he could see the men quite plainly. "What are you doing?" he demanded of Loraine, who, behind him, was fumbling in the garments of the unconscious Brutus.

"Getting his revolver," she replied, with a quaver in her voice.

"Good!" he said exultantly. "Let's think a minute," he went on. "We don't dare turn these fellows loose, even if we disarm them. They'll have a crowd after us in two minutes." Still, keeping the men covered, he cudgelled his brain for the means of disposing of them. "I have it. We must disarm them, tie them up and set 'em adrift. Do you mind getting out into the water? It's ankle deep, that's all. I'll keep them covered while you take their guns."

"Nice way to treat a friend," growled one of the men.

"A friend? By George, it's my Newport acquaintance. Well, this is a pleasure! I suppose you know that I'll shoot if you resist. Better take it quietly."

"Oh, you'll shoot, all right," said the other. "I told them damn fools that a Yankee'd get the better of 'em, even if they ran a steam roller over him two or three times. Say, you're a pippin! I'd like to take off my hat to you."

"Don't bother. I acknowledge the tribute."

Loraine Tullis was in the water by this time. With nervous haste she obeyed King's instructions; the big revolvers were passed back to him.

"I've changed my mind," said Truxton' suddenly. "We'll keep the boat. Get in, Miss Tullis. There! Now, push off, Newport."

"What the devil—" began Newport, but King silenced him. The boat slowly drifted out into the current.

"Now, row!" he commanded. With his free hand he reached back and dragged the limp Brutus into the boat. "'Gad, I believe he's dead," he muttered.

For five minutes the surly oarsmen pulled away, headed in the direction from which they came.

"Can you swim?" demanded King.

"Not a stroke," gasped Newport. "Good Lord, pal, you're not going to dump us overboard. It's ten feet deep along here."

"Pull on your left, hard. That's right. I'm going to land you on the opposite shore-and then bid you a cheerful good-night."

Two minutes later they ran up under the western bank of the stream, which at this point was fully three hundred yards wide. The nearest bridge was a mile and a half away and habitations were scarce, as he well knew. Under cover of the deadly revolver, the two men dropped into the water, which was above their waists; the limp form of Peter Brutus was pulled out and transferred to the shoulders of his companions.

"Good-night," called out Truxton King cheerily. He had grasped the oars; the little boat leaped off into the night, leaving the cursing desperadoes waist-deep in the chilly waters.

"See you later," sang out Newport, with sudden humour.

"We'll go south," said Truxton King to the girl who sat in the stern, clutching the sides of the boat with tense fingers. "I don't know just where we'll land, but it won't be up in Devil's Patch, you may rest assured of that. Pardon me if I do not indulge in small talk and bonmots; I'm going to be otherwise employed for some time, Miss Tullis. Do you know the river very well?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I only know that the barge docks are below here somewhere. I'm sure we can get into the city if we can find the docks. Let me take the oars, too, Mr. King. I can row."

"No. Please sit where you are and keep your eyes ahead. Can you see where we're going?"

"I can see the lights. We're in mid-stream, I think. It's so very dark and the wind is coming up in a gale. It's—it's going to storm. Don't you think we'd better try for a landing along the walls? They say the river is very treacherous." She was trembling like a leaf.

"I'll row over to the east side, but I don't like to get too close to the walls. Some one may have heard the shouts of our friends back there."

Not another word passed between them for ten or twelve minutes. She peered anxiously ahead, looking for signs of the barge dock, which lay somewhere along this section of the city wall. In time, of course, the marooned desperadoes might be expected to find a way to pursue them, or, at least, to alarm watchful confederates on the city side of the river. It was a tense, anxious quarter of an hour for the liberated pair. So near to absolute safety, and yet so utterly in the dark as to what the next moment, might develop—weal or woe.

At least the sound of rapidly working rowlocks came to the girl's ears. They were slipping along in the dense blackness beneath the walls, making as little noise as possible and constantly on the lookout for the long, low dock.

"They're after us," grated Truxton, in desperation. "They've got word to friends one way or another. By Jove! I'm nearly fagged, too. I can't pull much farther. Hello! What's this?"

The side of the boat caromed off' a solid object in the water, almost spilling them into the wind-blown river.

"The docks!" she whispered. "We struck a small scow, I think. Can you find your way in among the coal barges?"

He paddled along slowly, feeling his way, scraping alongside the big barges which delivered coal from the distant mines to the docks along the river front. At last he found an opening and pushed through. A moment later they were riding under the stern of a broad, cargoless barge, plumb up against the water-lapped piles of the dock.

Standing in the bow of the boat he managed to pull himself up over the slippery edge. It was the work of a second to draw her up after him. With an oar which he had thought to remove beforehand, he gave the boat a mighty shove, sending it out into the stream once more.

Then, hand in hand, they edged slowly, carefully along the gravel-strewn dock, between vast piles of lumber and steep walls of coal. It was only necessary to find the railway company's runways leading into the yards above; in time of peace there was little likelihood that the entrances to the dock would be closed, even at night.

Loud curses came up from the river, proclaiming the fact that the pursuers had found the empty boat. Afterwards they were to learn that "Newport's" shouts had brought a boatload of men from the opposite bank, headed by the innkeeper, in whose place Loraine was to have encountered Marlanx later on, if plans had not miscarried. She was to have remained in this outside inn until after the sacking of the city on the following day. The girl translated one remark that came up to them from the boatload of pursuers:

"The old man is waiting back there. He'll kill the lot of us if we don't bring the girl."

By this time King had located the open space which undoubtedly afforded room for the transfer of cargoes from the dock to the company's yards inside the walls. Without hesitation he drew her after him up this wide, sinister roadway. They stumbled on over the rails of the "dummy track," collided with collier trucks, slipped on the soggy chutes, but all the while forged ahead toward the gates that so surely lay above them.

The pursuers were trying for a landing, noisily, even boisterously. It struck Truxton as queer that these men were not afraid of alarming the watchmen on the docks or the man at the gate above. Suddenly it came to him that there would be no one there to oppose the landing of the miscreants. No doubt hundreds of men already had stolen through these gates during the night, secreting themselves in the fastnesses of the city, ready for the morrow's fray. It is no small wonder that he shuddered at the thought of it.

There was no one on the wharf—at least, no one in sight. They rushed up the narrow railway chutes and through one of the numerous gateways that opened out upon the barge docks. No one opposed them; no one was standing guard. From behind came the sound of rushing footsteps. Lightning flashed in the sky and the rumble of thunder broke over the desolate night.

"They'll see us by the lightning," gasped Truxton, almost ready to drop from faintness and exhaustion. He was astounded, even alarmed, to find that his strength had been so gravely depleted by confinement and lack of nourishment.

They were inside the city walls. Ahead of them, in that labyrinth of filthy streets lay the way to the distant square. His arm was now about her waist, for she was half-fainting; he could hear her gasping and moaning softly, inarticulate cries of despair. Switch-lights blinked in the distance. Off to the right of them windows showed lights; the clang of a locomotive bell came to them as from a great distance.

Their progress was abruptly halted by the appearance of a man ahead, standing like a statue in the middle of the network of tracks. They stumbled toward him, not knowing whether he was friend or foe. One look into their faces, aided by the flare of a yardman's lantern, and the fellow turned tail and fled, shouting as he did so.

Following a vivid flash of lightning, two shots were fired by the men who were now plunging up through the gates, a hundred yards or more away. The same flash of lightning showed to King the narrow, muddy street that stretched ahead of them, lined with low, ugly houses of a nondescript character. Instead of doing the obvious thing, he turned sharply to the left, between the lines of freight cars. Their progress was slow; both were ready to drop; the way was dark and unknown to them.

At last they came to the end of their rope: they were literally up against the great city wall! They had reached the limits of the railway yards and were blocked on all sides by they knew not how many rows of cars. Somewhere off to the right there were streets and houses and people, but they did not have the strength to try to reach them.

A car door stood open in front of them. He waited for a second flash of lightning to reveal to him the nature of its interior. It was quite empty. Without hesitation he clambered in and pulled her up after him. They fell over, completely fagged.

A few minutes later the storm broke. He managed to close the door against the driving torrents.

She was sobbing plaintively, poor, wet, bedraggled sweetheart—he called her that, although she did not hear him.

"We've fooled them," he managed to whisper, close to her ear. "They won't look here. You're safe, Loraine. 'Gad, I'd like to see any one get you away from me now."

She pressed his arm, that was all. He found himself wondering what answer she would give to Vos Engo when he took her to him to-morrow. To-morrow! This was the 26th! Would there be a to-morrow for any of them—for Vos Engo, for Tullis, for the Prince? For her?

"There will be time to warn them in the morning," he thought, dulled by fatigue. "We can't go on now."

"Truxton," he heard her saying, tremulously, "do you think we can do anything for them—the Prince and those who are with him? How can we lie here when there is so much to be done?"

"When the storm abates—when we are rested—we will try to get away from here. Those devils know that I will give the alarm. They will have hundreds of men watching to head us off. It means everything to them. You see, I know their plans. But, Loraine, dear little girl, brave as you are and willing as I am, we can't go on until we've pulled ourselves together. We're safe here for awhile. Later on, we'll try to steal up to the city. They will be watching every approach to the Castle and to the Tower, hoping to stop me in time. We must out-fox them again. It will be harder, too, little girl. But, if I don't do any more, I pledge you that I'll save you from Marlanx."

"Oh, I know you will. You must, Truxton."

"I'd—I'd like to be sure that I am also saving you from Vos Engo. I hate to think of you throwing yourself away on one of these blithering, fortune-hunting noblemen." She pressed his arm again. "By Jove, it's great fun being a hero, after all—and it isn't so difficult, if the girl helps you as you helped me. It's too bad I couldn't do it all by myself. I have always counted on rescuing you from an Ogre's castle or something of that sort. It's rather commonplace as it is, don't you think?"

"I don't—know what—you're talking about," she murmured. Then she was fast asleep.

The storm raged; savage bursts of wind rocked the little freight car; the rain hissed viciously against their frail hotel; thunder roared and lightning rent sky and earth. The weary night-farers slept with pandemonium dinning in their ears.

He sat with his back against the side of the car, a, pistol in one hand, the other lying tenderly upon the drenched hair of the girl whose head rested upon his leg. She had slipped down from his shoulder; he did not have the desire or the energy to prevent it. At his side lay the discarded whiskers. Manfully as he had fought against the impelling desire to sleep, he could not beat it off. His last waking thought was of the effort he must make to reach Dangloss with the warning.

Then the storm abated; the soft drip of rain from the eaves of the car beat a monotonous tattoo in the pools below; the raw winds from the mountains blew stealthily in the wake of the tornado, picking up the waste that had been left behind only to cast it aside with a moan of derision.

Something stirred in the far end of the car. A still, small noise as of something alive that moved with the utmost wariness. A heavy, breathing body crept stealthily across the intervening space; so quietly that a mouse could have made but little less noise.

Then it stopped; there was not a sound inside the car except the deep, regular breathing of Truxton King. The girl's respiration was so faint that one might have thought she did not breathe at all. Again the sly, cautious movement of a heavy body; the creaking of a joint or two, the sound of a creature rising from a crouching position to the upright; then the gentle rubbing of cloth, the fumbling of fingers in a stubborn pocket.

An instant later the bluish flame of a sulphur match struggled for life, growing stronger and brighter in the hand of a man who stood above the sleepers.

THE GIRL IN THE RED CLOAK

Inside of an hour after the return of the frightened, quivering groom who had escaped from the brigands in the hills, Jack Tullis was granted permission by the war department to take a hundred picked men with him in the effort to overtake and capture the abductors of his sister. The dazed groom's story hardly had been told to the horrified brother before he was engaged in telephoning to General Braze and Baron Dangloss. A hurried consultation followed. Other affairs that had been troubling the authorities for days were forgotten in the face of this distressing catastrophe; there was no time to be lost if the desperadoes were to be headed before they succeeded in reaching the Dawsbergen passes with their lovely captive. Once there, it would be like hunting a needle in a haystack; they could elude pursuit for days among the wild crags of upper Dawsbergen, where none but outlaws lived, and fierce beasts thrived.

Unluckily for the dearest hopes of the rescuing party, the miserable groom did not reach the city until almost noon of the day following the abduction. He had lost his way and had wandered all night in the forests. When Miss Tullis failed to return at nightfall, her brother, having in mind the mysterious disappearance of Truxton King and the flight of Countess Ingomede, was preparing to set forth in search of her. A telephone message from Ganlook, fifteen miles north of the city, came at seven o'clock, just as he was leaving the Castle. The speaker purported to be the Countess Prandeville, a very estimable chatelaine who ruled socially over the grim old village of Ganlook. She informed Tullis that his sister was with her for the night, having arrived in the afternoon with a "frightful headache." She would look after the dear child, of whom she was very fond, and would send her down in the morning, when she would surely be herself again. Greatly relieved, Tullis gave up his plan to ride off in quest of her; he knew the amiable Countess, and felt that his sister was in good hands.

It was not until the return of the groom that he recalled the fact that the voice on the telephone was not quite like that of the Countess. He had been cleverly hoodwinked. Baron Dangloss, obtaining connection with the Prandeville household in Ganlook, at once discovered that Loraine had not been in the chateau in many days.

The fierce, cock-robin baron was sadly upset. Three prominent persons had been stolen from beneath his nose, so to speak. He was beside himself with rage and dismay. This last outrage was the climax. The old man adored the sister of Jack Tullis; he was heartbroken and crushed by the news of the catastrophe. For a while he worked as if in a daze; only the fierce spurring of Jack Tullis and Vos Engo, who believed himself to be an accepted suitor, awoke him from an unusual state of lethargy. It is even said that the baron shed tears without blowing his nose to discredit the emotion.

The city was soon to know of the fresh outrage at the hands of the bandits in the hills. Great excitement prevailed; there were many sincere lamentations, for the beautiful American girl was a great favourite—especially with those excellent persons who conducted bazaars in the main avenues. Loraine, being an American, did not hesitate to visit the shops in person: something that the native ladies never thought of doing. Hundreds of honest citizens volunteered to join in a search of the hills, but the distinction was denied them.

The war department issued official notice to all merchants that their places of business must be decorated properly against the holiday that would occur on the morrow. Shops were to be closed for two hours at midday, during the ceremonies attending the unveiling of the Yetive monument in the Plaza. The merchants might well give their time to decorating their shops; the soldiers could do all the searching and all the fighting that was necessary. Strict orders, backed by method, were issued to the effect that no one was to pass through the gates during the day, except by special permission from General Braze.

Count Vos Engo was eager to accompany the expedition to Dawsbergen in search of his wayward lady-love. Tullis, who liked the gay young nobleman despite the reputation he had managed to live down, was willing that he should be the one to lead the troops, but Colonel Quinnox flatly refused to consider it.

"To-morrow's celebration in the city will demand the attendance of every noble officer in the guard," he said. "I cannot allow you to go, Count Vos Engo. Your place is here, beside the Prince. Line officers may take charge of this expedition to the hills; they will be amply able to manage the chase. I am sorry that it happens so. The Royal Guard, to a man, must ride with the Prince to-morrow."

Captain Haas, of the dragoons, was put in charge of the relief party, much to the disgust of Vos Engo; and at two o'clock in the afternoon they were ready to ride away. The party was armed and equipped for a bitter chase. Word had been sent to Serros, the capital of Dawsbergen, asking the assistance of Prince Dantan in the effort to overtake the abductors. A detachment, it was announced in reply, was to start from Serros during the afternoon, bound for the eastern passes.

Baron Dangloss rode to the southern gate with the white-faced, suffering Tullis. "We will undoubtedly receive a communication from the rascals this afternoon or to-morrow," he said gloomily. "They will not be slow to make a formal demand for ransom, knowing that you and your sister are possessed of unlimited wealth. When this communication arrives it may give us a clue to their whereabouts; certainly as to their methods. If it should be necessary, Tullis, to apprise you of the nature of this demand, I, myself, will ride post haste to St. Michael's Pass, which you are bound to reach to-morrow after your circuit of the upper gaps. It is possible, you see, that an open attack on these fellows may result in her—er—well, to be frank—her murder. Damn them, they'd do it, you know. My place to-morrow is here in the city. There may be disturbances. Nothing serious, of course, but I am uneasy. There are many strangers in the city and more are coming for the holiday. The presence of the Prince at the unveiling of the statue of his mother—God bless her soul!—is a tremendous magnet. I would that you could be here to-morrow, John Tullis; at Prince Robin's side, so to speak."

"Poor little chap! He was terribly cut up when I told him I was going. He wanted to come. Had his little sword out, and all that. Said the celebration could be postponed or go hang, either one. Look after him closely to-morrow, Dangloss. I'd shoot myself if anything were to happen to him. Marlanx is in the air; I feel him, I give you my word, I do! I've been depressed for days. As sure as there's a sun up yonder, that old scoundrel is planning something desperate. Don't forget that we've already learned a few things regarding his designs." He waited a moment before uttering his gravest fear. "Don't give him a chance to strike at the Prince."

"He wouldn't dare to do that!"

"He'd dare anything, from what I've heard of him."

"You hate him because—"

"Go on! Yes, I hate him because he has made her unhappy. Hello, who's this?"

A man who had ridden up to the gates, his horse covered with foam, was demanding admission. The warders halted him unceremoniously as Dangloss rode forward. They found that he was one of the foremen in the employ of the railway construction company. He brought the disquieting news that another strike had been declared, that the men were ugly and determined to tear up the track already laid unless their demands were considered, and, furthermore, that there had been severe fighting between the two factions engaged on the work. He urgently implored Dangloss to send troops out to hold the rioters in check. Many of the men were demanding their pay so that they might give up their jobs and return to their own lands.

"What is your name?" demanded the harassed minister of police.

"Polson," replied the foreman. He lied, for he was no other than John Cromer, the unsavoury husband of Anna Cromer, of the Committee of Ten.

"Come with me," said Dangloss. "We will go to General Braze. Good-bye and good luck, Tullis."

The little baron rode back into the city, accompanied by the shifty-eyed Cromer, while John Tullis sped off to the south, riding swiftly by the side of the stern-faced Captain Haas, an eager company of dragoons behind, a mountain guide in front.

At that very moment, Loraine Tullis was comparing notes with Truxton King in the room beneath the armourer's shop; Count Marlanx was hiding in the trader's inn outside the northern gates; the abductors themselves were scattered about the city, laughing triumphantly over the success of the ruse that had drawn the well-feared American away on a wild-goose chase to the distant passes of Dawsbergen. More than that: at five o'clock in the afternoon a second detachment of soldiers left the city for the scene of the riots in the construction camps, twenty miles away.

Surely the well-laid plans of the Iron Count were being skilfully carried out!

All afternoon and evening men straggled in from the hills and surrounding country, apparently loth to miss the early excitement attending the ceremonies on the following day. Sullen strikers from the camps came down, cursing the company but drinking noisy toasts to the railroad and its future. The city by night swarmed with revelling thousands; the bands were playing, the crowds were singing, and mobs were drinking and carousing in the lower end. The cold, drizzling rain that began to blow across the city at ten o'clock did little toward checking the hilarity of the revellers. Honest citizens went to bed early, leaving the streets to the strangers from the hills and the river-lands. Not one dreamed of the ugly tragedy that was drawing to a climax as he slept the sleep of the just, the secure, the conscience-free.

At three o'clock in the morning word flew from brothel to brothel, from lodging house to lodging house, in all parts of the slumbering city; a thousand men crept out into the streets after the storm, all animated by one impulse, all obeying a single fierce injunction.

They were to find and kill a tall American! They were to keep him or his companion from getting in touch with the police authorities, or with the Royal Castle, no matter what the cost!

The streets were soon alive with these alert, skulking minions. Every approach to the points of danger was guarded by desperate, heavily armed scoundrels who would not have hesitated an instant if it came to their hands to kill Truxton King, the man with all their dearest secrets in his grasp. In dark doorways lounged these apparently couchless strangers; in areaways and alleys, on doorsteps they found shelter; in the main streets and the side streets they roamed. All the time they had an eager, evil eye out for a tall American and a slender girl!

Dangloss's lynx-eyed constabulary kept close watch over these restless, homeless strangers, constantly ordering them to disperse, or to "move on," or to "find a bed, not a doorstep." The commands were always obeyed; churlishly, perhaps, in many instances, but never with physical resistance.

At five o'clock, a stealthy whisper went the rounds, reaching the ear of every vagabond and cutthroat engaged in the untiring vigil. Like smoke they faded away. The silent watch was over.

The word had sped to every corner of the town that it was no longer necessary to maintain the watch for Truxton King. He was no longer in a position to give them trouble or uneasiness!

The twenty-sixth dawned bright and cool after the savage storm from the north. Brisk breezes floated down from the mountain peaks; an unreluctant sun smiled his cheeriest from his seat behind the hills, warmly awaiting the hour when he could peep above them for a look into the gala nest of humanity on the western slope. Everywhere there was activity, life, gladness and good humour.

Gaudy decorations which had been torn away by the storm were cheerfully replaced; workmen refurbished the public stands and the Royal box in the Plaza; bands paraded the avenues or gave concerts in Regengetz Circus; troops of mounted soldiers and constabulary patroled the streets. There was nothing to indicate to the municipality that the vilest conspiracy of the age—of any age—was gripping its tentacles about the city of Edelweiss, the smiling, happy city of mountain and valley. No one could have suspected guile in the laughter and badinage that masked the manner of the men who were there to spread disaster in the bunting-clad thoroughfares.

"I don't like the looks of things," said Baron Dangloss, time and again. His men were never so alert as to-day and never so deceived.

"There can't be trouble of any sort," mused Colonel Quinnox. "These fellows are ugly, 'tis true, but they are not prepared for a demonstration. They are unarmed. What could they do against the troops, even though they are considerably depleted?"

"Colonel, we'll yet see the day when Graustark regrets the economy that has cut our little army to almost nothing. What have we now, all told? Three hundred men in the Royal Guard. Less than six hundred in the fortress. I have a hundred policemen. There you are. To-day there are nearly two hundred soldiers off in the mountains on nasty business of one sort or another. 'Gad, if these ruffians from the railroad possessed no more than pistols they could give us a merry fight. There must be a thousand of them. I don't like it. We'll have trouble before the day's over."

"General Braze says his regulars can put down any sort of an uprising in the city," protested Quinnox. "In case of war, you know we have the twenty thousand reserves, half of whom were regulars until two years ago."

"Perfectly true. Quinnox, it's your duty to take care of the Prince. You've done so in your family for fifteen generations. See to it that Prince Robin is well looked after to-day, that's all."

"Trust me for that, Baron," said Quinnox with his truest smile. Even Marlanx knew that he would have to kill a Quinnox before a Graustark ruler could be reached.

By eleven o'clock the streets in the neighbourhood of the Plaza were packed with people. All along Castle Avenue, up which the Prince was to drive in the coach of State, hung the proud, adoring burghers and their families: like geese to flock, like sheep to scatter. At twelve the Castle gates were to be thrown open for the brilliant cavalcade that was to pass between these cheering rows of people. In less than a quarter of an hour afterward, the Prince and his court, the noble ladies and gentlemen of Graustark, with the distinguished visitors from other lands, would pass into the great square through Regengetz Circus.

At the corner below the crowded Castle Café, in the north side of the square, which was now patroled by brilliant dragoons, two men met and exchanged the compliments of the day. One of them had just come up on horseback. He dismounted, leaving the animal in charge of an urchin who saw a gavvo in sight. This man was young and rather dashing in appearance. The other was older and plainly a citizen of some consequence.

"Well?" said the latter impatiently, after they had passed the time of day for the benefit of the nearest on-lookers. The younger man, slapping his riding boot with his crop, led the way to the steps of a house across the sidewalk. Both had shot a swift, wary glance at one of the upper windows.

"Everything is ready. There will be no hitch," said the horseman in low tones.

"You have seen Spantz?"

"Sh! No names. Yes. The girl is ready."

"And the fortress?"

"Fifty men are in the houses opposite and others will go there—later on."

"We must keep the reserves out of the fortress. It would mean destruction if they got to the gun-rooms and the ammunition houses."

"Is he here?" with a motion toward the upper window.

"Yes. He came disguised as an old market woman, just after daybreak."

"Well, here's his horse," said the other, "but he'll have to change his dress. It isn't a side saddle." The young villain laughed silently.

"Go up now to the square, Peter. Your place is there."

If one had taken the time to observe, he might have seen that the young man wore his hat well forward, and that his face was unnaturally white. We, who suspect him of being Peter Brutus, have reason to believe that there was an ugly cut on the top of his head and that it gave him exceeding pain.

Shortly after half past eleven o'clock certain groups of men usurped the positions in front of certain buildings on the south side of the square. A score here, a half score there, others below them. They favoured the shops operated by the friends of the Committee of Ten; they were the men who were to take possession of the rifles that lay hidden behind counters and walls. Here, there, everywhere, all about the city, other instructed men were waiting for the signal that was to tell them to hustle deadly firearms from the beds of green-laden market wagons. It was all arranged with deadly precision. There could be no blunder. The Iron Count and his deputies had seen to that.

Men were stationed in the proper places to cut all telephone and telegraph wires leading out of the city. Others were designated to hold the gates against fugitives who might seek to reach the troops in the hills.

Marlanx's instructions were plain, unmistakable. Only soldiers and policemen were to be shot; members of the royal household were already doomed, including the ministry and the nobles who rode with the royal carriage.

The Committee of Ten had said that there would not be another ministry, never another Graustark nobility; only the Party of Equals. The Iron Count had smiled to himself and let them believe all that they preached in secret conclave. But he knew that there would be another ministry, a new nobility and a new ruler, and that there would be no Committee of Ten!

Two thousand crafty mercenaries, skilled rioters and fighters from all parts of the world stood ready in the glad streets of Edelweiss to leap as one man to the standard of the Iron Count the instant he appeared in the square after the throwing of the bomb. A well-organised, carefully instructed army of no mean dimensions, in the uniform of the lout and vagabond, would rise like a flash of light before the dazzled, panic-stricken populace, and Marlanx would be master. Without the call of drum or bugle his sinister soldiers of fortune would leap into positions assigned them; in orderly, determined company front, led by chosen officers, they would sweep the square, the Circus and the avenues, up-town to the Castle, down-town to the fortress and the railway station, everywhere establishing the pennant of the man who had been banished.

The present dynasty was to end at one o'clock! So said Marlanx! How could Dangloss or Braze or Quinnox say him nay? They would be dead or in irons before the first shock of disaster had ceased to thrill. The others? Pah! They were as chaff to the Iron Count.

The calm that precedes the storm fell upon the waiting throng; an ominous silence spread from one end of the avenue to the other. For a second only it lasted. The hush of death could not have been quieter nor more impressive. Even as people looked at each other in wonder, the tumult came to its own again. Afterward a whole populace was to recall this strange, depressing second of utter stillness; to the end of time that sudden pall was spoken of with bated breath and in awe.

Then, from the distant Castle came the sound of shouts, crawling up the long line of spectators for the full length of the avenue to the eager throng in Regengetz Circus, swelling and growing louder as the news came that the Prince had ridden forth from the gates. Necks were craned, rapt eyes peered down the tree-topped boulevard, glad voices cried out tidings to those in the background. The Prince was coming!

Bonny, adorable Prince Robin!

Down the broad avenue came the Royal Military Band, heading the brilliant procession. Banners were flying; gold and silver standards gleamed in the van of the noble cavalcade; brilliantly uniformed cuirassiers and dragoons on gaily caparisoned horses formed a gilded phalanx that filled the distant end of the street, slowly creeping down upon the waiting thousands, drawing nearer and nearer to the spot of doom.

A stately, noble, inspiring procession it was that swept toward the Plaza. The love of the people for their little Prince welled up and overflowed in great waves of acclamation. Pomp and display, gold and fine raiment were but the creation of man; Prince Robin was, to them, the choicest creation of God. He was their Prince!

On came the splendid phalanx of guardsmen, followed by rigid infantrymen in measured tread; the clattering of horses' hoofs, the beat of drums, the clanking of scabbards and the jangling of royal banners, rising even above the hum of eager voices. The great coach of gold, with its half score of horses, rolled sombrely beneath nature's canopy of green, surrounded on all sides by proud members of the Royal Guard. Word came down the line that the Prince sat alone in the rear seat of the great coach, facing the Prime Minister and Countess Halfont. Two carriages from the royal stables preceded the Prince's coach. In the first was the Duke of Perse and three fellow-members of the Cabinet; the second contained Baron Dangloss and General Braze. After the Prince came a score or more of rich equipages filled with the beauty, the nobility, the splendour of this rich little court.

The curtains in a house at the corner of the square parted gently. A hawk-faced old man peered out upon the joyous crowd. His black eyes swept the scene. A grim smile crept into his face. He dropped the curtains and walked away from the window, tossing a cigarette into a grate on the opposite side of the room. Then he looked at his watch.

All of the bands in the square had ceased playing when the Castle gates were opened for the royal procession: only the distant, rythmic beat of a lively march came up from the avenue to the ears of this baleful old man in the second-story front room of the home of apothecary Boltz.

At the extreme outer side of Regengetz Circus a small group of men and women stood, white-faced and immovable, steadfastly holding a position in the front rank of spectators. Shrinking back among this determined coterie was the slender, shuddering figure of Olga Platanova, haggard-faced, but with the light of desperation in her eyes.

As the procession drew nearer, the companions of this wretched girl slunk away from her side, losing themselves in the crowd, leaving her to do her work while they sought distant spots of safety. Olga Platanova, her arms folded beneath the long red cloak she wore, remained where they had placed her and—waited!