The yell of mingled rage and grief which arose from the people at these words rendered it impossible for the speaker to proceed with his oration for some minutes; but at last he succeeded in restoring comparative silence, broken only by the sobs of the women. What now remained for Thracia? he demanded. She had lost her place among the nations; she could not protect the stranger who had come at her call to assist her. But at least she could avenge his death, both on the traitors who had sprung from her own soil and on the perfidious nation which had stooped to use such instruments to further its shameful ends. With this object in view let her proceed without an hour’s delay to the election of another king, and who could be better fitted for the post than the illustrious Prince who had been raised up by Providence to help her in her utmost need, and who had striven side by side with her own sons for the rescue of Carlino? That Prince, he went on, checking by an imperative gesture the protest which Prince Otto Georg sprang forward to make, had shrunk once already from accepting the throne, owing to a sensitive modesty which did him all honour, but this was no time for holding back. Thracia appealed to him to accept the place left vacant by the man who had been moved by its very difficulties to undertake it,—would the German hang behind where the Englishman had pressed forward? Let the Prince make his decision, knowing, as he did, that his election would be hailed with delight by the country, and welcomed by all Europe with the exception of Scythia, and let him devote his life to the avenging of Caerleon’s murder.

Prince Otto Georg yielded. In after days he complained that he had been carried away by the fervid rhetoric of M. Drakovics and the frenzied enthusiasm of the people; but he accepted the throne in the excitement of the moment, although with a slight mental reservation respecting the last clause of the Premier’s invitation, and the proviso that his election should be approved by the Powers. About this condition there proved to be little difficulty. The Roumi envoy, who had been on his way to attend Caerleon’s coronation when the rebellion broke out, had discreetly remained upon the frontier in order to see to which side victory would ultimately incline, and the Premier hastened to obtain his good offices as an intermediary with Czarigrad. M. Drakovics had already closed the post-offices throughout the country in the name of the public safety, and forbidden the issue of passports to foreign newspaper correspondents, so that Thracian affairs were enveloped in the most profound mystery, while secret messages flashed about among the Powers. Prince Otto Georg’s elevation to the throne seemed to commend itself to every one as an excellent solution of the Thracian difficulty. Pannonia and the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau welcomed the election as a set-off to the rebuff sustained by their joint diplomacy in the matter of Princess Ottilie’s marriage, while the authorities of Prince Otto’s own country were not sorry to find in it a way of escape from the intricate international questions involved in his unauthorised connection with the suppression of the revolt. Even Scythia, whether because she judged it well to remain for a time in the background after the failure of the conspiracy, or because, having given in her approval to Prince Otto Georg’s candidature two years ago, she considered that it would appear inconsistent to draw back now, offered no objection to his accepting the crown, while bright visions of a Scythian princess seated beside him on the Thracian throne at some future date began to float before the eyes of the Pavelsburg authorities. M. Drakovics hurried back to Bellaviste in triumph, and the new King was crowned the very next day, with the regalia prepared for his murdered predecessor. The palace was still filled with the traces of the devastating fight which had been waged within its walls, and the chapel of St Peter itself had not escaped scathless, while the people who looked on at the ceremony had scarcely a cheer to spare for their new sovereign, since their thoughts were all with Carlino. But as though to give point to the words with which M. Drakovics had ushered in the new reign, the guns which announced the accession of King Otto Georg thundered forth also the knell of the traitors who had conspired against Caerleon.

CHAPTER XXII.
A KING WITHOUT A CROWN.

Banished from Scythia, Princess Soudaroff and Nadia turned their faces southwards, and after a hurried winter journey across Central Europe and a more leisurely one through Spain, found themselves at Cadiz and on board the yacht Anna Karénina. The Princess had acted with her usual impulsiveness in deciding on the way in which she would spend her winter, and she was a little startled when she found herself in command of a ship, the crew of which, with one exception, was entirely English. She had no experience of yachting whatever, and her ignorance made her fall an easy prey to the captain, an ancient mariner endowed with as many wiles as those popularly attributed to the heathen Chinee. Like his late Majesty King George III., however, this gentleman “gloried in the name of Briton,” and considered that all foreigners were constitutionally afflicted with a more or less mild form of insanity. It was both right and advisable to humour their fancies, especially when they were sufficiently wealthy to hire a large yacht for the winter; but it was also necessary to guide them gently in the direction in which they ought to go, and to restrain their natural eccentricities by the moral influence of a stronger mind.

On the very day that the Princess first came on board, the captain asserted his independence by refusing to receive his orders through the courier, a useful and important individual whom Prince Soudaroff had chosen to accompany the ladies on their travels, and protect them from extortion by the way, since if he did cheat them right and left himself he would take good care that no one else should have the opportunity of doing so. The Princess, in her kindness of heart, recognised at once that it was only natural that the captain should dislike to take orders from Alessandro, and accorded him the privilege of seeing her whenever he found it necessary, thus yielding herself as a helpless slave to a most unbending autocrat. Not that Captain Binks was rude or overbearing—far from it. The commander of a Cunarder could not have been more accommodating and urbane; but it was evident that he must know more about the winds and currents and shoals of the Mediterranean than his employer, and when some conjunction of these natural objects interfered to prevent anything that the Princess was anxious to do, it certainly could not be considered the fault of Captain Binks. This being the case, it was not, perhaps, a just punishment which overtook the old sailor when, after a short cruise in which he had regulated the ladies’ trips on shore in regular man-of-war fashion, the yacht was run into by a lumbering collier as she lay at anchor outside the Grand Harbour of Valetta on the night after arriving in sight of Malta. It had been Captain Binks’s intention to take the Anna Karénina into the harbour by daylight, thereby exhibiting to all and sundry both her beauties and his own seamanship, and then to grant the Princess the day in which to make her pilgrimage to St Paul’s Bay and back while he took stores on board; but now the spars and bulwarks were so much damaged as to render necessary a stay of a week or more in the island.

It must be confessed that this accident gave keen pleasure to Nadia, who was not a favourite with Captain Binks; but the Princess failed to perceive either his uplifting or his fall, for she was absorbed, as usual, in schemes of kindness for the benefit of those about her. She was acquainted with the histories of all the crew by this time, knew how many children each man had, and who had aged parents to support, and it was her delight to write letters home for them in her formal foreign hand with its queer twirls and flourishes, while Nadia, longing to be of some use or help to some one, stood shyly aloof, and wondered how her godmother managed to take so much interest in the affairs of all these strangers. In one of the Princess’s pleasures, however, Nadia’s interest was as deep as that of her godmother, for the person involved had been connected with herself at one of the crises of her life. It was on the day that they sailed from Cadiz, before they had been on board more than a few hours, that the Princess came into Nadia’s cabin with a face radiant with delight.

“Who do you think is the carpenter on this ship, my child?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Marraine,” said Nadia, looking up puzzled. “Some relation of the English coachman you had once?”

“No; it is not an Englishman—it is a Scythian.”

“One of our own people? or a Bibelist? The Oudenist cabinetmaker you visited in the hospital, perhaps?”

“Dear child, no. But it is a person of whom you have often heard—Yegor Popoff, my poor Katinka’s husband.”

“Oh, Marraine! How did he get here?”

“When he left Katinka, he went to Pavelsburg to look for work, and made a voyage to Sweden as ship’s carpenter. At Bergen he heard that my friend Feodor Petrovitch, to whom this yacht belongs, was in the harbour looking out for a carpenter, as the one he had brought from England had died, and he obtained the post. And now, without our knowing it, he was waiting at Cadiz, and we, without his knowing it, were bringing Katinka to him. Do you see now why we were driven out of Scythia, my child?”

“I see,” said Nadia. “But what are you going to do? Have you said anything?”

“Said anything?” cried the Princess. “My dear child, I have said everything! I sent for Yegor to come to me in the saloon, and I have spoken to him very seriously. I told him how wrong and foolish he had been in doubting Katinka and in listening to Anna at all, and much more so in running away as he did. He saw it all for himself—in fact, nothing but pride had kept him from coming back and telling her so. He was waiting for her to write first, when she did not know where he was! I think I made him thoroughly ashamed of himself. When I saw that he was really sorry, I slipped out and fetched Katinka. She was ready enough to forgive, poor child! and I left them together. What a happy beginning for our voyage, is it not?”

Nadia acquiesced, and a new hope rose suddenly in her own heart. Could this voyage be destined to bring Caerleon and herself together, as it had already united Yegor and Katinka? The same thought had occurred to the maid, who came shyly to tell her that she and Yegor were praying that she might be as happy as they were. They did not know her story; but Katinka guessed at it, and found it easy to fill up the details from imagination. Her sympathy contributed still further to raise Nadia’s spirits, and perhaps to bring her into the somewhat uncharitable frame of mind in which she welcomed the discomfiture of Captain Binks. In any case, she submitted cheerfully to the necessary detention at Valetta, in spite of the desolate aspect of the dried-up town, with its huge fortifications and flat-roofed white houses, and was indefatigable in helping the Princess to render habitable the enormous rooms, stone-floored and scantily furnished, in which they took up their abode while the repairs to the yacht were pending.

Here it was that two days later they heard the news of the rebellion in Thracia—news which sent all the special correspondents who keep portmanteaus ready packed, in case of a sudden summons, to the Balkans at racing speed. Carlino was dethroned, Peter was restored, Bellaviste was in the hands of the Franzist party,—this was what the telegram, despatched by M. Sertchaieff and his brother the General, told the world, and after its contents had been made public there was silence for several days. What those days of waiting were to Nadia it is impossible to describe. As is always the case when no authoritative news can be obtained, the most sensational rumours were rife—all, of course, founded on “private messages of undoubted trustworthiness,” or on the utterances of “a person who was better acquainted with the east of Europe than any other man living.” The purveyors of news of this description were largely concerned with the fate of Caerleon, and his supposed adventures formed the universal subject of conversation in Valetta society. There was not an Englishman in the island that did not admire the way in which he had stuck to his kingdom, although there were some who objected to his having gone to Thracia at all, and many were the conjectures, each backed by the authority of some newspaper statement or other, as to what had become of him. He had yielded to the demands of the rebels without striking a blow; he had refused to abdicate until a pistol was held to his head; he had offered such a strenuous resistance that he had been vanquished only when severely wounded; he was now imprisoned in one of the underground galleries of the Bellaviste fortifications; he had entered the service of King Peter; he had disappeared mysteriously; he had blown out his brains; he had been murdered;—the variety and mutual inconsistency of the rumours bore reliable testimony to one point only, the impenetrable mystery that shrouded his fate. It seemed certain that he was not at large, or why was he making no effort to regain his throne? but it seemed certain also that the victory of the insurgents had not been so complete as was at first reported, or why did they not send for King Peter?

That easy-going gentleman was still at Nice, apparently caring very little whether he was restored to his kingdom or not, and professing to have no more certain knowledge than any one else whether Thracia was in a state of civil war or had submitted calmly to the new order of things. Meanwhile the Thracian border was beset by hordes of eager journalists, each man anxious to obtain for his own paper the first authentic news, and all alike refused an entrance into the kingdom. One or two, more enterprising than their fellows, succeeded in crossing the frontier at some unguarded point; but they were detected and seized before they had got a mile nearer the capital, and after a few hours’ detention in a police-station to cool their ardour, were escorted over the border again without gaining any information beyond a further addition to the stock of rumours.

At last a definite piece of news made its way to the frontier, and remained uncontradicted. M. Drakovics, still strong in the possession of office, was at Tatarjé, and was engaged in conference with the envoy from Roum, while negotiations were being carried on with the various Powers. The next day the embargo on special correspondents was removed, and the long-tried newspaper men rushed across the frontier, and raced one another to Bellaviste. The ‘Empire City Crier’ only missed gaining the earliest details through an unfortunate accident which befell the cart in which its representative was being conveyed at break-neck speed across country; but as it was, the correspondent of the ‘Fleet Street’ took the first place, with the unconquerable Mr Hicks as a good second. After them came the representatives of numberless other journals, and Europe was speedily deluged with full, true, and particular accounts of the origin, progress, and extinction of the revolt.

The news reached Malta in time for publication in the morning papers. Ever since the first tidings of the outbreak had arrived, the Princess and Nadia had heard nothing discussed, whether in public or in private, but the “Thracian business,” with all the gruesome details which the hopes or fears or imaginations of different people had grafted on to the truth. The long uncertainty had made the girl sick with fear. She was almost driven to feel that it would have been less painful to hear once for all that Caerleon was dead than to have absolutely no idea as to what had become of him. On this particular morning she was crouching in one of the windows of the great bare drawing-room, afraid to go out lest she should hear the question of Caerleon’s fate discussed once again, but knowing that she could not refrain from listening to the conjectures which tormented her, when the Princess was summoned to an interview with Captain Binks. Breakfast was only just over; but the autocrat of the Anna Karénina resembled time and tide in that he waited for no man, and he wanted the Princess’s authority for some item of the repairs to the yacht. The formality, which was naturally of a purely ceremonial character, having been gone through, Captain Binks was about to depart, when the Princess caught sight of a newspaper sticking out of his pocket.

“Is that to-day’s paper?” she asked, moved by a sudden impulse of alarm for which there appeared no special reason.

“Yes, your Highness. Sad business this about Thracia. I wish I had the men that murdered that poor fellow aboard of my ship. There would be no yard-arms to let when I’d done with ’em.”

“Murdered?” said the Princess, with sinking heart. “Please let me see.”

Captain Binks smoothed out the crumpled sheet and handed it to her, and she read the account, telegraphed in the first instance from Bellaviste to London, over a hastily repaired wire, by the correspondent of the ‘Fleet Street,’ of the recapture of the city, of Louis O’Malachy’s confession, and of Prince Otto Georg’s election to the vacant throne. As she read it she resolved instantly that Nadia should hear nothing of the news until the report was confirmed.

“Thank you, my good captain,” she said, handing the paper back to its owner. “It is indeed terrible! Will you have the goodness to send Alessandro to me as you go out?”

Captain Binks departed, somewhat disappointed by the indifference with which the Princess had received the news, and which he attributed to the fact of her being a foreigner, and she hastily laid her plans while waiting for the courier to appear. The account in the newspaper had mentioned the presence of Mr Hicks in Bellaviste, apropos of the accident which had delayed his arrival there, and the Princess had a certain amount of acquaintance with Mr Hicks. He had been sent on a journalistic mission to Scythia some time ago, charged to ascertain the real facts as to the persecution of the Evangelicals, rumours of which had reached America, and he had gone to the fountainhead, and had interviewed Count Wratisloff and herself. When Alessandro entered the room she directed him to procure a carriage for the whole day, and intrusted him also with a telegram to be despatched immediately, addressed to Mr Hicks at Bellaviste, and inquiring whether the reports which had reached Malta of recent events in Thracia were trustworthy. Alessandro was relieved of his usual duty of accompanying the carriage, and ordered to wait at the house and bring the return telegram to his mistress as soon as it arrived. Having made these arrangements, the Princess went in search of Nadia, whom she found still curled up on the stone window-seat.

“I have ordered the carriage to take us to Il Boschetto this morning, my child,” she said, briskly. “We will spend the day there, and come back in the evening. It will be a pleasant change, and you will like to see the orange-groves.”

“Yes, Marraine,” assented Nadia, without showing much interest in the prospect. “I suppose there is not likely to be any news before we get back—genuine news, I mean?”

“If there is, it shall be brought out to us,” said the Princess. “You may be sure of that, dear child.”

Somewhat comforted, Nadia went to her room to prepare for the drive; but her godmother did not breathe freely until they were safely outside the gates of the city and well on their way. At any moment, while they were in the house, some acquaintance might come in, and enter upon the one absorbing topic of conversation. But it was too early as yet for most of the Valetta ladies to be out, while the gentlemen were still busy in office or orderly-room, and all was safe when once the white city on its steep hill had been left behind, and the long country drive begun. Bare little fields with stone walls enclosing them, without a tree or a bush to break the monotony, interspersed with small houses like square stone boxes, windowless and chimneyless, lay on either side of the road. After driving some distance, they came in sight of Città Vecchia. Here there is a grotto which is said to have been at one time the abode of St Paul; but the Princess thought that its genuineness was too problematical for it to call for a visit, and the city was left on one side, in spite of the remonstrances of the driver of the carriage.

Il Boschetto was reached after a further drive—a pleasant oasis of gardens and orange-groves in the midst of the surrounding desolation, and the northern eyes of the Princess and Nadia rejoiced in the luxuriant greenness. The place was a favourite one for picnics; but it happened that there were no other visitors that day, and they had the gardens to themselves. After lunch the Princess suggested a rest in the shade; but Nadia could not sit still, and preferred to walk on by herself and obtain a view of the sea from a hill near at hand. She had been gone some time, and the Princess was becoming a little drowsy, when the sound of footsteps roused her to full consciousness, and she saw Alessandro coming towards her with a telegram in his hand. Taking it from him, she turned back among the trees and tore it open:—

“This poor Carlino!” broke from the Princess. “And my poor child! how shall I tell her?”

“Marraine,” said the panting voice of Nadia behind her, “wasn’t that Alessandro I saw from the hill-top just now? It looked like him, and he seemed to be coming here. Did he bring any news?”

The Princess turned quickly, guilty and tongue-tied, crumpling the telegram in her hand. Nadia caught sight of it, and knew at once what it was.

“Marraine, you have had news of Carlino!” she cried, snatching the paper from her godmother’s reluctant hand and reading it. The moment that the words had met her eyes she dropped it with a groan.

“He is dead, and I have killed him!” she cried.

“Killed him? But you did not kill him, my child,” said the Princess.

“Yes, I did; I urged him to accept the crown, I wouldn’t let him abdicate when he wished to do it. I made him stay in Thracia, and I have killed him. It is my doing.”

“It is God’s will, dear child. You may have been the instrument——”

“I was,” said Nadia, in the same hard voice. “You told me that I had been doing wrong the night I came to Pavelsburg, and now this has happened to make me sure of it. It is all through me. Don’t speak to me, Marraine. No doubt it is well that I should see what harm my wanting my own way can do. But why should he be punished for what was my fault?”

She stood looking away through the trees with stony eyes that saw nothing, and the Princess laid her hand on her arm and guided her gently back to the carriage. When they reached it, Alessandro came bustling up to express a hope that the telegram had not contained any bad news, but Nadia neither saw nor heard him. As they left the gardens behind them, she sat looking out over the arid landscape, refusing to listen to the Princess’s attempts to comfort her.

“Please don’t speak to me just now, Marraine. Let me get used to the thought,” she said at last, and her godmother desisted with a sigh from her well-meant efforts. They had passed Città Vecchia before the Princess spoke again; and this time she did not address Nadia, but seeing two weary-looking men toiling along the road a short distance in front of the carriage, she called to Alessandro, who was riding behind—

“Tell the driver to stop when we come up to those men, Alessandro. They look tired, and we might drive them into Valetta.”

Alessandro obeyed in silence, for he was becoming accustomed to his mistress’s eccentricities, but with a slight grimace.

“Vill your ’ighness zat I speak to zem?” he asked, as the carriage stopped.

“No,” said the Princess, “I will invite them myself. This one does not look like a Maltese. I will try him in English. My poor man, I fear you are in some distress. Can we help you in any way?”

The second wayfarer, a Maltese peasant in the ordinary dusty cotton clothes and Phrygian cap, stared in surprise and utter lack of comprehension at the lady; but the one whom the Princess had addressed came forward respectfully, touching the place where the brim of his hat would naturally have been, if he had worn one. He was an undersized, light-haired man, haggard and unshaven, and clad in what looked like the tattered remains of a suit of livery of some kind.

“I’m sure you’re very good, ma’am,” he said. “If you would be so kind as tell me the word for ‘doctor’ in this chap’s lingo, and ’ow to find one in the town yonder when we gets to it, me and my master would be no end obliged to you.”

“Your master is ill—hurt?” asked the Princess. “You have been shipwrecked with him, perhaps?”

“No, ma’am; we ain’t been shipwrecked,” returned the man, politely but repressively. “I ’ope as you’ll excuse me sayin’ any more, for my master is a very well-known gentleman; but bein’ in difficulties just now, so to speak, ’e tell me not to mention ’is name. But we want a doctor badly, and as we couldn’t make out these fellers, nor them us, ’is Maj—— I mean my master, said as me and this chap ’ad better go on to the town there, and see where we was. We’ve tried ’em in English and in French and in Thracian——” he broke off suddenly, and stared at Nadia, whose attention had been caught by the last word, and who had turned and was regarding him fixedly.

“It is you, is it, Wright?” she said, with listless indifference. “Then you forsook him too?”

“Me forsook ’is Majesty, miss?” cried Wright, much injured. “Not until ’e tell me to. Would you ’ave me say, ‘Go yourself,’ when ’e sent me for the doctor?”

“He sent you?” Nadia almost screamed. “When? Where?”

“About ’alf a hour ago, miss; from this chap’s farm’ouse over there.”

“Then he is alive? They didn’t kill him? Tell me quickly, or I shall go mad. He is there, you say?”

“Why, yes, miss,” said Wright, stolidly, trying to disentangle the sheaf of questions which Nadia poured upon him in her agitation. “’E’s there, of course—leastways, I left ’im there, and it stands to reason as ’e ain’t dead.”

“Oh, Marraine!” sobbed Nadia, burying her face on the Princess’s shoulder, “do you hear? He’s alive, he’s alive!”

“Compose yourself, my child,” said the Princess, although Wright’s wooden face showed no sign of his having observed the girl’s excitement. “Who is this worthy man? Tell me.”

“He is the King’s groom, the man who brought me to meet Marie Karlovna. Oh, Marraine, he isn’t dead!”

“My good man,” said the Princess, abandoning the attempt to reduce Nadia to reason, and addressing Wright, “get into the carriage, and we will return to find your master, and drive him to Valetta.”

“Not with you, ma’am,” said Wright, in horror. “It ain’t my place at no time, and now——” he looked at his disreputable clothes with disgust. “If I might ride on the box this little way, and get down before comin’ into the town, so as not to disgrace you——”

“Your companion will sit on the box, and show the driver the way to his farm,” said the Princess. “Tell him so, Alessandro. Now, my good man, if you wish to be of assistance to your master, you will do as I tell you.”

Thus adjured, Wright obeyed in much confusion, and took the seat opposite the Princess, making himself as small as possible, and with great delicacy keeping his face turned from Nadia, who was leaning back in her place, holding her parasol so as to shield her from observation, and crying quietly for joy.

“Now tell me,” said the Princess, when the carriage had turned and they were driving in the direction of the farm, “is it the King who is ill?”

“No, ma’am; it’s ’is brother, Prince Cyril. ’E’s always been sickly, and me and ’is Majesty think as the cold ’as got to ’is chest. ’E was moanin’ awful when I come away.”

“Poor boy!” said the Princess. “And what did the King propose to do when he reached the town?”

“I don’t rightly know, ma’am, seein’ as ’e’s precious ’ard up. We didn’t ’ave no money with us when we was took, except a copper or two as I ’ad in my pockets, and ’is Majesty ain’t quite sure what ’e can lay ’is ’and on ’ere. You see, the British Government, they didn’t like ’is takin’ the kingdom on, and ’e don’t know that ’e mightn’t be took up if ’e showed ’imself. That’s why I didn’t tell you ’is name until I see Miss O’Malachy.”

“I see,” said the Princess, beckoning to Alessandro, who rode up, and received his mistress’s orders to return to Valetta and prepare some of the unused rooms at her lodgings, and to secure the services of a doctor, all without making any fuss, or saying who the new visitors were. He departed at once, and the Princess began to inquire into Cyril’s symptoms, a subject which lasted Wright until the carriage arrived at the farm. The peasant descended from the box and led the way into the little courtyard with its high stone walls and one tree, while two or three women and a number of children peered shyly at the ladies from the shelter of the outbuildings. Wright went straight into the house, and with an innate dramatic instinct, the existence of which had hitherto been unsuspected in him, announced merely—

“There’s two ladies ’ere, your Majesty, with a carriage, as will be pleased to give you and ’is ’ighness a lift into the city.”

“Ladies!” Nadia heard Caerleon remark, in tones of dismay; but catching sight of their shadows behind Wright, he took his courage in both hands and came towards them. There is a popular superstition, which is an article of faith with some people, that a gentleman looks like a gentleman under any circumstances. Perhaps Caerleon was the exception which is said to prove the rule—at any rate, wearing neither coat nor waistcoat, and not having had the opportunity of washing or shaving for several days, he presented the appearance of an unusually powerful ruffian with whom trade had not prospered of late.

“I am most grateful for your kindness,” he said, coming to the door and bowing to the Princess; “but I could not think of trespassing upon it by accepting your offer. The fact is, we are not exactly in trim for ladies’—— Nadia!” he seized her hand in both his, and stood gazing at her, forgetful alike of the Princess and of what he had been saying, until Nadia, feeling herself growing crimson under the look in his eyes, drew her hand away and retreated behind the Princess.

“My child, you are acquainted with this gentleman, I think?” murmured her godmother reprovingly; and Nadia came forward again for an instant and said in confusion—

“The King of Thracia—Princess Soudaroff,” and retired in greater confusion still, feeling that it was indeed the most unkindest cut of all that she should be the first to remind him of his altered estate, by presenting him to the Princess instead of the Princess to him. But her godmother was already crossing the room towards Cyril, who was lying moaning and only half-conscious on a bed of maize-leaves in a corner.

“I am afraid he is very ill,” said the Princess aside to Caerleon, “and he certainly cannot be nursed here. We must take him to Valetta in my carriage immediately, and there is a room in my lodgings where he can be well looked after, and you will be safe at the same time.”

“Oh, really,” began Caerleon, “I don’t know how to thank you enough; but I can’t saddle you with all the bother of an invalid in this way.”

“Of course not,” said the Princess; “I saddle myself with him. I have the room, and he needs it. Besides, you are friends of my dear child’s, so that I cannot count you as strangers, though I hope I should do the same if you were.”

“I have seen my godmother bring home a dying beggar from the roadside, in a most dreadful state, and have him nursed and cared for,” said Nadia, reassuringly. The comparison suggested was not a particularly happy one; but her intention was so kind that Caerleon felt ashamed of the twinkle in his eye as he glanced at her, and hoped she had not seen it.

“See,” said the Princess, “we will get into the carriage, and you and your servant shall carry your brother to it. Then we will make room for you too, and the groom shall go on the box. Stay,” and she drew him aside and put her purse into his hand, “you will wish to reward these honest people who have given you shelter, and you can repay me afterwards, when you have been able to make arrangements.”

“You are too good, Princess,” said Caerleon, gratefully; and he remunerated the farmer and his family for their kindness in a way that left them calling down blessings on his head. Then he and Wright carried Cyril to the carriage, where the Princess and Nadia had been arranging the cushions as comfortably as they could for him, and when he had been propped up safely, they were able to leave the farm on the way back to Valetta. There was little opportunity for conversation during the drive, for Cyril was restless and uneasy, and turned continually from Nadia to his brother in weary bewilderment, relapsing now and then into moaning unconsciousness, so that every one was glad when the city was reached. It was now dusk, and the friendly twilight prevented the Princess’s strange companions from being noticed in their passage through the streets and their entrance into the house. Alessandro had done his work well. The doctor was in attendance, and Cyril was speedily relegated to a comfortable bed, and delivered over to the care of an elderly woman, the widow of a martyred Bibelist, whom the Princess had brought with her on her travels as Nadia’s maid. The doctor said that cold and exposure had brought on an attack of pleurisy, but he hoped that it might not prove very serious; and Caerleon, much relieved by the verdict, gave himself up to the tender mercies of Alessandro, who provided suitable clothes in a marvellous manner, and sent him down in proper trim, an hour later, to dine with the ladies. He was warmly welcomed by the Princess, who had found all her kindness of heart necessary hitherto to help her to conceal the dismay she had felt at his appearance, and who positively beamed upon the transformation effected by Alessandro.

CHAPTER XXIII.
UNDER WHICH KING?

“Your Majesty will relate to us your adventures?” said the Princess, when they were seated at table. “At present we know only that the insurgents declared most solemnly that they had killed you, and that we find you are here in Malta several days after your supposed death.”

“I can’t at all understand that confession myself,” said Caerleon, smiling, “for the men who made it had the best possible means of knowing what had really happened to us. Well, to go back to the beginning of everything, it seems, from what my brother has since told me, that he and Drakovics had some idea that an attempt would be made on my life at the coronation, which was to take place to-day—or yesterday—or was it the day before?—I am in a state of utter confusion now as to the day of the week. I suppose the rumour was a mere blind, intended to distract our attention from the real plot. At any rate, rather less than a week ago, Wright woke us in the middle of the night, and told us there was not a sentry to be seen about the place, and that the servants had all disappeared. We got up and looked for our revolvers, but they had been tampered with, and the only weapons we could find were the wretched Brummagem swords we wear in full dress. We started out along the corridor with these in our hands, but it wasn’t until we came to the landing that we caught sight of the enemy. Then we had a fight on the stair-way, like old Umslopogaas, and we were led forcibly to the conclusion that a Zulu battle-axe was a more satisfactory weapon than a tailor-made sword. Still, with General Sertchaieff’s sword, which Wright got hold of for me, I think we might have managed to hold our own, if they hadn’t come upon us from behind and knocked us down the stairs. Then they tied us up with curtain-ropes, and wanted me to sign a deed of abdication, but I wouldn’t do it.”

“I am sure you would not!” cried Nadia, with flashing eyes. “Did they threaten to kill you?”

“Well, the atmosphere was rather threatening, certainly, and they were kind enough to warn us that our fate was in our own hands, and that sort of thing. Then they took us down to the river, and on board a steamer, and there, I don’t mind telling you, I did think that our last hour was come. They blindfolded us, and I made sure we were to be shot at once; but then they began to drag us along the deck, and I thought they must be going to make us walk the plank, that there might be no signs of violence visible on our bodies. I know it crossed my mind even then that they must have a robust faith in human nature if they believed that three bound and blindfolded corpses would be imagined to have got into the river by accident. At last I felt them give me a good push forwards, but instead of falling overboard I found myself on my hands and knees in a cabin. The next moment my brother and Wright were flung in on top of me, and the door was locked. I believe they never really meant to kill us after all, only to frighten us into begging for mercy, or something of the kind; but if that was the case, they were disappointed. Before we had picked ourselves up we heard the men who had brought us on board putting off again in the boat, and the steamer started immediately. They must have been getting up steam beforehand in readiness for our arrival. We set to work at once to try and free ourselves, and as our hands were tied in front of us, we managed to do it after a time. Wright succeeded first, and he helped us. Then we got off the handkerchiefs which were tied over our eyes, but the place was quite dark. We felt all round and about it, and made up our minds that we must be in some sort of deck-cabin, but there were no windows, only wooden shutters. There was no furniture, nothing but a heap of old tarpaulins, and it was frightfully cold, for the snow was on the ground when we started. Cyril hadn’t got a proper coat on, merely a smoking-jacket, and he began to shiver horribly. I had no coat either, but Wright gave him his, and we took turns in walking about so as to keep warm, and covering ourselves as best we could with the tarpaulin. If you asked me how long we stayed in that place, I should say about six hundred years, but I suppose it can’t have been more than six days,—or was it only five? A grinning Scythian rascal with a lantern opened the door and poked us in some ship’s biscuit and water several times during our voyage. I really never knew before how old and stale ship’s biscuit could be. We tried to induce the fellow to bring us some better food for Cyril and a blanket or two; but we had no money with us, and he demanded cash down, and exhibited a holy horror of dealing on credit. Cyril got worse and worse, and we couldn’t do anything for him. We gave him all the tarpaulin to keep him warm, but it was wretched stiff stuff, and wouldn’t cover him properly. At first he was able to talk sensibly to us, and to try to appeal to the jailer’s better nature in Scythian, but as time went on he became half-delirious, and we could see that he was suffering horribly. We banged at the door and did everything we could devise to attract attention, and we promised the jailer unheard-of sums if he would bring the captain or some one in authority to speak to us, but he only laughed. All this time we could tell that the ship was moving, but happily there was not much sea on. At last, this morning, she stopped suddenly, and as far as we could make out, a boat came on board, and then put off again. Whether this was an order for some change in our destination I don’t know, but not very long afterwards they called to us to come out of the cabin. Wright and I dragged Cyril up, and helped him out into a sort of passage-place, where the light dazzled us, for we had seen nothing but the jailer’s lantern since we had been on board. Before we could look round or manage to see who was there, we were blindfolded again and our hands tied, and we were taken down the ship’s side into a boat. We were rowed some way until we felt the keel grate on some sort of shore, and then they hauled us out and dumped us down upon the sand, and we heard them rowing away again. Our hands were tied behind us this time, so that it was a long while before we could get them free, and when we got our eyes uncovered, the ship was steaming away from us right out at sea, almost out of sight. There we were stranded, on a desert island for all we knew, with poor old Cyril gabbling away in all sorts of languages, and quite off his head. We drew him under the shadow of the cliff, and Wright went a little way along the beach to look for a path. He found a place where there was a gap in the cliffs, and went up it a short distance, and then came back and told me that he could see houses a good way off. We lifted poor Cyril between us, and carried him up through the gap and along a little field-path to the house where you found us. There were only the women and children at home, and they couldn’t understand us, nor we them; but they were very kind to us, and gave us food and made up a bed of leaves for Cyril. Then when the farmer came back from work, we had another try at making ourselves understood; but it was no good, and we couldn’t even get him to tell us slowly where we were. He talked so fast, and said so much, that though I had an idea that he mentioned Valetta, I couldn’t be sure of it. However, I thought it was very likely that they had brought us to Malta as the nearest piece of British territory to Thracia, so Wright and I agreed that he had better get the farmer to take him to the town we could see in the distance, and look about for some good Samaritan who could speak English, and might be able to guide him to a doctor. But I never hoped to fall in with two such good Samaritans as those who brought him back.”

“Hush!” said the Princess, “let us have no compliments, please. To have been the means of helping fellow-creatures in distress is enough for me, and if it is not enough for Mdlle. O’Malachy, she may say so for herself. But tell me—do you seriously consider that you are in danger here?”

“I haven’t an idea,” said Caerleon. “The English Government has never recognised me as King of Thracia, and therefore it has no right to consider me as anything but a private person; but there might be some official who would prefer security to logic, and put me in prison just to prevent any risk of accidents. I must telegraph to Drakovics to-morrow, and see how things stand, and after I have heard from him I shall know better what to do.”

“Quite so,” said the Princess. “You are aware that the Thracians, believing you to be dead, have chosen one of the Schwarzwald-Molzau princes as their king?”

“I know—Prince Otto Georg, a very good fellow; he was staying with me at Bellaviste before I—well, left. I have no wish whatever to interfere with his election,—though no doubt it will be an awful sell for him when he hears that I am alive after all.”

“I doubt whether you could interfere even if you were anxious to do so,” said the Princess. “We heard that he was to be crowned to-day, and it is possible that his coronation might bar any claim on your part.”

“I shan’t be sorry,” said Caerleon. “It seems to me that this would end a very difficult situation in a very desirable way. It certainly looks as though my captors were of your opinion. If that boat this morning brought the news of Otto Georg’s coronation to the men who had me in charge, it appears that they considered me no longer dangerous. Otherwise they might have marooned us somewhere along the North African coast, where there would have been very little chance of our ever turning up again to trouble them, or if they were particular about British territory, they could have found one or two rather nasty places on the shores of Cyprus.”

“But you are the King still,” said Nadia, with fierce eagerness.

“I really don’t know, and I can’t say that I care very much if I am not. It has not been such a delightful post as to make me want to turn the other man out of it if he likes it. And if I am not king I must surely be a very harmless individual, who might safely be left in peace.”

“Yes,” said the Princess, “and yet it might be supposed that you had come here for the purpose of setting on foot a plot for your own restoration. I will tell you what I will do. We have not yet attended one of the Governor’s receptions, but I brought with me a letter of introduction to him, and I will deliver it to-morrow morning. I will represent your situation to him in his private capacity, and if as Governor he considers it his duty to arrest you, he will give me some hint of his intention, and you shall take refuge on board the Anna Karénina, and leave the port. Under the Scythian flag you will be safe.”

“This is the irony of fate,” said Caerleon. “Scythia has turned me out of Thracia, and now she is to protect me against the lawful authorities of my own country.”

“Then you believe that the plot against you was of Scythian origin?” asked the Princess. Caerleon reflected for a moment before answering.

“I do not think that there were any Scythians among the actual plotters,” he said; “but I feel pretty sure that they would never have entered into the conspiracy if they had not felt sure of Scythia’s support in case of success, and her sympathy if they failed. I think it’s quite possible, too, that she strained a point in granting the exiles permission first to settle in her territory, and then to leave it.”

“But who were the leaders of the conspiracy?” asked Nadia, suddenly.

“Well, I saw most of General Sertchaieff; but I hear that his brother, the former Premier, was in it too.”

“Yes, I saw their names; but that is not what I mean. Was my brother there?”

“There were a good many of them altogether,” said Caerleon, evasively.

“Was Louis there?” she persisted.

“Well—yes, he was,” admitted Caerleon.

“You need not be afraid of hurting my feelings,” said Nadia, her eyes gleaming ominously. “He has no special tenderness for me—he would have shot me once if another man had not knocked his hand up just in time, so don’t try to spare him.”

“My child,” said the Princess, “do not say what you may afterwards regret. Your unhappy brother is dead.”

“Dead?” said Nadia, awed. “Was he killed in the fighting?”

“No,” said the Princess, “afterwards. Do you wish to leave us, my child? His Majesty will be so kind as to excuse you,” and Nadia rose and left the room.

“What became of Louis O’Malachy?” asked Caerleon, returning to his place after opening the door for her. “All that I know about the outbreak is what I heard from your man just now, and he did not mention his name.”

“He was to be shot this morning with General Sertchaieff and others among the rebels who had belonged to the army,” said the Princess.

“I can’t say that I don’t think his fate was well deserved,” said Caerleon, hotly. “When I remember the way in which that fellow deceived us all—pretending that he had given up his commission in the Scythian army for the sake of throwing in his lot with Thracia, and how he took the oaths to me, and received the pay of our Government while all the time he was plotting against it—I feel as though shooting was too good for him. But that’s not all,” he rose from his seat and began to walk up and down the room. “As Miss O’Malachy says, when she came to Bellaviste to warn me that her father meant to murder me, he actually fired at her—would have killed her rather than allow her to betray his secret. There are some things one feels it very hard to forgive a man, though he is dead.”

“It is cases of this kind,” said the Princess, with apparent irrelevance, “that make one wish that Scripture and reason allowed us to believe in the efficacy of prayers for the dead.”

“It is, indeed,” Caerleon assented heartily, although wondering a little at the turn the conversation was taking. But when the Princess spoke next, she had changed the subject again.

“My poor Nadia is very much alone in the world,” she remarked. “Now that her father has cast her off, she has really no relations left.”

“Is the O’Malachy acting the Roman father?” asked Caerleon. “I was surprised that he took no part in the rebellion.”

“He has been laid up with a bad attack of gout at a little town in Scythian Sarmatia,” said the Princess, “and no doubt his illness has saved his life. He must have heard from his son the reason for the failure of the plot which you mention, for Nadia has received a long letter from him, containing the promise of his dying curse, and declaring that from thenceforward she was no daughter of his.”

“She could have worse spared a better father,” said Caerleon.

The Princess smiled. “That is exactly my idea. No doubt it is selfish of me, but I cannot but rejoice that Colonel O’Malachy has cast her off so unequivocally. When she came to me first, as a little child, I was always afraid that a day would come when her parents would claim her again, and, as you know, they did.”

“And I’m afraid that I can’t say I’m sorry for it,” said Caerleon. “It was to my advantage, you see, for if Miss O’Malachy had remained in Scythia with your Highness, I might never have met her—nor yourself, madame,” he added, hastily.

“I did not know that Englishmen were so fond of paying compliments,” said the Princess, looking surprised. “However, as I was about to remark, it is a great happiness to me to know that my god-daughter is altogether mine from henceforth.”

“I—I’m afraid you don’t quite understand what I wanted to say,” said Caerleon, desperately. “I don’t know whether she has told you, but it doesn’t seem right for me to be staying in your house without your knowing it—I mean that I have twice asked Miss O’Malachy to marry me.”

“You are candid,” said the Princess, smiling. “Nadia has told me of your obliging offer, I assure you. May I ask whether this plain speaking is intended as a prelude to a third proposal?”

“I wish it might be! But that must depend upon circumstances.”

“I see. Your Majesty is a prudent lover.”

“But you don’t see what I mean,” persisted Caerleon. “I can’t be certain until I know whether I am still King of Thracia or not.”

“Then you consider that Nadia is good enough to be your wife, but not to be your queen?”

“I think she is fit for any throne on earth,” said Caerleon, indignantly. “Your Highness seems determined to misunderstand me. It is not my fault that Nadia—I beg your pardon, Miss O’Malachy—is not Queen of Thracia at this moment; but she would not have me when I was King, and yet she wouldn’t allow me to abdicate. She put me on my honour to stay in Thracia until I was turned out, and refused to have anything to say to me as long as I stayed there. Of course I see the difficulties in the way. Her Scythian blood, and her name, would make the people detest the marriage at first, even now, especially after what has just happened, and Drakovics would oppose it violently, and he is capable of a good deal. But time works wonders, and if she would have given me a grain of hope, I would have waited any number of years; but she wouldn’t, and therefore your Highness can’t wonder that I shall be glad if Prince Otto Georg is left in peaceable possession of the throne.”

“This is a declaration of war, then? If you find yourself once more a private individual, you will again ask Nadia to marry you, and do your best to deprive me of my child?”

“Like a shot,” returned Caerleon, promptly. “I am sorry if you think I am ungrateful, but I thought it only fair to tell you the state of the case.”

“You are right. I prefer an open enemy. Now, I can see that all your fatigues and anxieties have left you very tired, and no wonder. Don’t let me keep you up if you would rather go to your room at once. I hope the servants have made you comfortable?”

“Perfectly, thank you. But I am going to sit up and look after my brother.”

“Are you?” asked the Princess. “I think not. I lay my commands upon you to leave him to-night to my care and Tatiana’s, while you take a good rest. If you wish to please me (and you know that I am a very important person to please if you want to marry Nadia) you will do as I tell you.”

“How can I thank you for all your kindness?” asked Caerleon, gratefully, but she stopped him at once.

“By saying nothing about it. Good night.”

“I don’t think she is really as angry with me for wanting to marry Nadia as she seemed to be just now,” was Caerleon’s reflection as he kissed her hand, while the Princess was congratulating herself that she had at least shown him plainly that he need not contemplate marrying Nadia out of pity, nor imagine that she had no friends.

The next day opened brightly for the fugitives from Thracia. In the first place, Tatiana announced that she thought Cyril seemed a shade better. Next, Wright won a victory which filled his soul with delight. Entering his master’s dressing-room before he was up, he discovered Alessandro and an aiding and abetting boy engaged in putting out the clothes which they had procured for Caerleon to wear. In the present state of affairs, Wright looked upon this duty as his own, and after the employment of much broken English and many Italian gestures on the side of the two foreigners, and much silent contempt on his part, he ousted his rivals and remained master of the situation. Lastly, the Princess interviewed the Governor at an absurdly early hour, and found him in a most reasonable frame of mind. Truth to tell, when his Excellency heard that Princess Soudaroff wished to see him on urgent private business, his thoughts flew immediately to Captain Binks, whose tyranny, owing to his own boastful spirit, had become a joke in the town. As a man of honour, the Governor was rejoiced to welcome the opportunity of delivering this harmless and excellent foreign lady from her oppressor, and accorded her an interview at once. His amazement, when he found that she had come to inquire his opinion as to the personality of the reigning King of Thracia, and not to ask his advice as to the best way in which to get rid of the captain of her yacht, was extreme, but he was quite ready to help her. He had not a doubt that Prince Otto Georg would immediately be recognised as King by the Powers, and in that case Caerleon could probably count on being left unmolested, unless he took to devising plots against the new régime in Thracia. At any rate, if orders for his arrest should be sent from England, his Excellency would contrive that the Princess should hear of the mandate by a side wind before it could be carried out.

This was the news which the Princess imparted to Caerleon when he appeared, much ashamed of having overslept himself, at the late breakfast. The intelligence, following on his conversation with her the night before, served to raise his spirits considerably, and he went so far as to chaff her gently on the subject of the exactions of Captain Binks, of which he had heard from Wright, much to her amusement, while Nadia listened in silence, pleased at his cheerfulness, but still puzzled by it. After breakfast, nothing would satisfy him but to go out at once and despatch his telegrams to King Otto Georg and M. Drakovics. He felt himself a free man once more, but he was feverishly anxious to have the charter of his liberty signed and sealed. It was only as he enjoyed the unwonted sensation of filling in the telegraph-forms that he realised what a relief it was not to find himself waylaid during his walk to the post-office by half-a-dozen broken-hearted officials, all beseeching him, reverentially and almost with tears, not to give himself the trouble of writing out his messages with his own hand. As he left the building he made an eager mental calculation of the time which must necessarily elapse before he could receive his assurance of release from Bellaviste, and rejoiced to discover that a few hours ought to be sufficient to end his suspense. It was not only that he was desirous to escape from the trammels of etiquette—he had endured them for the past three months, and could manage to endure them again, he thought, if it would do any human being any earthly good,—but there was Nadia. He could not help knowing that she had been glad to see him again the night before; she had allowed him to hold her hand, and her beautiful eyes had been full of tears when they fell before his,—and yet, if he was King of Thracia still, she would persist in maintaining the barrier which she had erected between them. If it was his duty to go back to Thracia and take up the weary round again without the support of her companionship, he would do it, doggedly if not with a good grace; but if things had been settled otherwise without any action on his part, how gladly would he hail the release! He was fully convinced by this time that he was not suited to be a king—the position demanded mental and moral (or perhaps unmoral) qualifications of which he was not possessed, and a quiet life in England with Nadia was more than ever his ideal of happiness. He walked back to the house as though he had been treading on air, and was greeted by a friendly smile from Alessandro, who had washed his hands of Wright, but still retained a proprietary interest in Wright’s master, and took occasion to inform him that the doctor had arrived some time ago to pay his morning visit to Cyril. Almost before the courier had finished speaking, Caerleon caught sight of Nadia standing on the piazza and apparently waiting for him. He ran up the steps at once.

“I have just been telegraphing my congratulations to the new King,” he said, “and assuring him that I had far rather he was on the throne than I. I feel like a schoolboy out for a holiday.”

“Oh, hush!” said Nadia, gravely. “I have bad news for you. The doctor is here, and he says that your brother is decidedly worse.”

Caerleon gazed at her in astonishment. “But I thought he was so much better!” he cried.

“That was only a temporary improvement, attributable to the greater comfort of his surroundings,” she answered, quoting the medical pronouncement word for word. “The doctor hoped that the pain would decrease a good deal in the night; but it is worse, and he is afraid he will be obliged to perform an operation.”

With a muttered apology, Caerleon hurried past her, and hastened up-stairs to Cyril’s room, meeting the doctor on the way, and hearing the unfavourable verdict confirmed. The patient’s state was critical, and the remedies which had been applied seemed to have failed of their effect. Everything depended now on constant care and attention, and this the Princess and her household might be relied upon to furnish. But such a transference of responsibility could not satisfy Caerleon. He insisted on taking his share, and much more than his share, of the nursing, and would never have quitted his brother’s room if he had not been compelled to do so. The Princess and the doctor between them hunted him out for a walk twice a-day, and obliged him to take his meals in an adjoining room, but except during these short intervals he insisted on remaining with Cyril. The telegram which reached him from M. Drakovics, inquiring anxiously what course he intended to pursue with regard to Thracia, and that from King Otto Georg, offering to resign the kingdom to him at once, were read and answered by the patient’s bedside, and forgotten as soon as they had been disposed of, in the all-absorbing interest of the struggle between life and death. The Princess was surprised and touched by the devotion of the elder brother to the younger, but Nadia read Caerleon’s feelings more clearly. He was indignant with himself for acquiescing so easily in the cheerful view at first taken of Cyril’s state, and for allowing his mind to turn to considerations respecting his own love and happiness when the brother who had come to Thracia for his sake, who had done his best to keep him on his unstable throne, and who was suffering even now through his misfortune, was too much prostrated by pain and weakness even to realise the gravity of his own condition. To devote himself now altogether to Cyril, and to atone for his past neglect by cutting himself off almost entirely from Nadia’s society, was his first impulse, but Nadia only admired him the more on this very account, for in a similar case her own instinct would have been to do exactly the same. As it was, she stifled a sigh over the memories of that first evening and morning, when Caerleon had seemed so happy and had talked so cheerfully as to recall the first days of her acquaintance with him, and turned heroically to taking her share of the nursing, or to doing what she could towards leaving her godmother free to devote herself to the invalid.

“What an ungrateful wretch I am!” she said to herself. “A week ago it would have seemed to me the very height of happiness merely to know that Carlino was alive, and yet now that he is in the same house, and I see him every day, I am not content. Can it be that I am jealous of poor Lord Cyril? It sounds dreadful, and yet, when I see that Carlino is always thinking about him, and never speaks to me unless he is obliged, it makes me miserable. And I ought to be glad to be able to do anything for Lord Cyril, and so I am,—only I am glad that I forgave him before I knew how hard it would be.”

Another thing that made the time she spent in nursing Cyril more than ordinarily hard for Nadia was the fact that her presence always seemed to exert on the patient an influence the reverse of soothing. Whether it was that her anxious, painstaking ways irritated him, or that his conscience pricked him with regard to her, did not appear, but his fevered eyes followed her persistently about the room, and seemed to be addressing some entreaty to her. The doctor noticed it at last.

“He has something on his mind,” he said to Caerleon. “Has anything occurred to trouble him, do you know?”

“Nothing but our leaving Thracia, so far as I am aware.”

“He did not leave any young lady behind him there, of whom Miss O’Malachy may remind him, did he?”

“Oh no. He’s not that sort of fellow at all,” responded Caerleon, with absolute assurance. But no other suggestion presented itself to his mind, and he found himself puzzling continually over the uneasiness Cyril showed in Nadia’s presence. Could it be that for some reason she was vaguely connected in his mind with her brother? Nadia herself could offer no explanation but this, and the discovery of the real cause of Cyril’s aversion to her surprised her almost as much as it did Caerleon. She was left in charge of the patient one day, while Caerleon ate his lunch in the dressing-room, and he was astonished after a time to hear the sounds of an altercation from the sick-room,—if that could be called an altercation in which all the speaking was on one side.

“Is he delirious?” he asked, opening the door slightly. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, do go away,” said Nadia, her face flushed and angry. “No, it’s too late; he has heard your voice. I think he must be delirious.”

“But what is it? Does he want anything?”

“He wants me to tell you something, and I won’t. There is no reason why I should, and it can’t do any good.”

“But how do you know that is what is troubling him?”

“It struck me suddenly that he wanted something, and I asked him all the things I could think of, until it flashed upon me that it was this, and I have told him I can’t do it, and he won’t be satisfied.”

“Can’t you tell me, just to quiet his mind? I will never think of it again, but this excitement must be very bad for him.” He glanced at Cyril, who was straining his ears to catch their low-toned conversation.

“No; I can’t. He has no right to ask it of me, nor have you. It is merely a thing between him and me, and it would make no difference if I told it to you, except that you would think worse of him. I say to him that he must tell you about it himself if he wants you to know it.”

“How can he, when he hasn’t strength to utter a word?” asked Caerleon, indignant at what seemed her unkindness. “Come, I must insist on your telling me. Do you know that this anxiety is the worst possible thing for him? You cannot refuse to ease his mind.”

“You care a great deal more for his feelings than you do for mine!” cried Nadia, angrily.

“If you really believe that, I must bear it, I suppose. Kindly tell me this mystery.”

“It is merely that he came to see me at Bellaviste, some days before the great ball, and got me to promise that I would not marry you if you asked me. That’s all. And it made no difference whatever. I would never have married you under any circumstances.”

And launching this Parthian arrow at him, she retreated defiantly, leaving him stupefied. He remembered how Cyril had offered to help him in his suit, had arranged for him a meeting with Nadia, had contrived to keep M. Drakovics from suspecting what was going on,—and all the time he had been playing this double game. Now he was lying helpless, gazing with anxious eyes at his brother, and awaiting his reception of the news. With those eyes upon him, Caerleon could not hesitate.

“It’s all right, old man,” he said, with something like a groan; “she says herself that it made no difference, you see.”

Whether Cyril accepted the forgiveness with less difficulty than it was offered, or whether it was that his act of treachery did not loom so large in his eyes as in his brother’s, certain it is that he seemed to begin to mend from that time. The doctor commented on the improvement in his condition, and opined that the load on his mind had been removed, and Caerleon, although conscious that it had merely been transferred to his own, agreed with him. It was fortunate for the ex-King that public affairs were now once more of a character to engross his mind, for side by side with the realisation of Cyril’s perfidy came the knowledge that Nadia was most grievously offended with him, and that she ignored him resolutely whenever they met. But it was high time that the affairs of Thracia should be settled on a definite basis, and two delegates, one the president of the Legislative Assembly, the other M. Drakovics’s chief supporter in the Ministry, were about to visit Malta for the purpose of opening negotiations with Caerleon, since the Premier himself dared not leave the kingdom at this juncture. A very short conference with their late sovereign convinced the ambassadors that they were not likely to meet with any opposition on his part to the established state of things. To King Otto Georg’s offer to abdicate he had from the first returned an unqualified refusal, and he scouted even the idea of retiring into private life on his laurels and a pension, as his predecessor had done. His reign of three months had been merely an interlude in his life, he said, although a most picturesque and stirring one, and he was quite content to return to England as poor as he had left it now that peace and liberty were so happily secured to Thracia. The news of this noble self-abnegation was duly telegraphed to Bellaviste, and rehearsed to the Assembly by M. Drakovics, who was overcome by emotion during the delivery of his speech, although not to such an extent as to be unable to cope with the business side of the question. It was immediately arranged to give legal effect to the renunciation by drawing up a document renouncing all claims to the Thracian throne, to be taken to Malta with all possible speed, and there signed by Caerleon and Cyril. To Caerleon the signing of this document was a formal release from his fetters, and when he was informed that the commissioners had brought it to the house, and were awaiting his presence, he so far forgot the dignity of his late position as to whistle while he hurried down-stairs. But before he could enter the drawing-room Nadia came flying along the lofty stone passage, and forgetting her displeasure of the past week, caught his arm.

“Don’t sign it,” she gasped. “You are the true King.”

“But I have no objection whatever to signing it,” he replied.

“Oh, don’t say that!” she entreated. “Don’t forsake your work. There was so much to be done, and you were sent there to do it.”

“Perhaps,” said Caerleon, “and I was ready to stay on there as long as I was wanted. I was not anxious to leave Bellaviste—in fact, I objected most strongly to doing so; I had no hand in announcing my own death, nor in getting King Otto Georg crowned, but all these things happened, and it is pretty clear to me that any work that is to be done is left for other people.”

“But you must not leave it,” she cried. “Oh, why won’t you listen to me?”

“Isn’t that rather hard, when I have always obeyed you so implicitly? I don’t deny that if you would have listened to me at Bellaviste on a certain evening, Thracia would not have appeared quite such a howling wilderness as it did latterly. But after all, that was not the cause of my leaving, and I would not go back there now, even if you refused to have anything more to say to me unless I did.”

“You have no right whatever to suggest such a thing,” said Nadia, with great dignity.

“Quite so; I haven’t. But I know very well that I am not going back on the old footing, which I suppose you intended should continue? I thought so. It seems to me that you are making the choice a very easy one. But I beg your pardon for teasing you. The fact is, that I am not going to plunge Thracia, and perhaps Europe, into bloodshed to gratify my personal ambition—or even yours for me. King Otto Georg is liked by the people and acceptable to the Powers, whereas my return would be the signal for revolution, perhaps for a European war. That risk I will not incur, even to please you.”

“I never thought you were a coward!” she cried, bitterly. Caerleon looked down at her with a smile which he could not repress.

“I wonder whether it has ever occurred to you what a very queer girl you are?” he said. For the moment he thought that Nadia would have struck him.

“How dare you say that to me?” she cried, and rushed away.