RENAULD.

Gordon lowered the paper. "Is that quite clear?" he asked. "Do you

follow me? I have invited the enemy himself to inform you of your

plans, and to tell you who has betrayed them. His answer, which was

received a half hour ago, removes all suspicion from any save those he

names. General Renauld and myself cease to be of the least consequence

in the matter; we are only messengers. It is the President of Messina

who will speak to you now. If you still doubt that the secret of your

expedition is known to the President you will have to doubt him."

The King sprang quickly to his feet and struck the arm of his chair

sharply with his open hand.

"I shall not permit that message to be read," he said. "If we have a

traitor here, he is a traitor against me. And I shall deal with him as

I see fit, in private."

There was a murmur of disappointment and of disapproval even, and the

King again struck the arm of his chair for silence. Kalonay advanced

toward him, shaking his head and holding out his hands in protest.

"Your Majesty, I beseech you," he began. "This concerns us all," he

cried. "It is too evident that we have been betrayed; but it is not

fair to any of us that we should all lie under suspicion, as we must

unless it is told who has been guilty of this infamy. I beg your

Majesty to reconsider. There is no one in this room who is not in our

secret, and whoever has betrayed us must be with us here and now. I,

who have an interest second only to your own, ask that that cablegram

be read."

There was a murmur of approbation from the conspirators, and

exclamations of approval and entreaty. Miss Carson, in her excitement,

had risen to her feet and was standing holding her mother's hand. The

King glanced uncertainly at Kalonay, and then turned to Barrat and

Erhaupt as if in doubt.

Gordon's eyes were fixed for a moment on Kalonay with a strange and

puzzled expression. Then he gave a short sigh of relief, and turning

quickly searched the faces of those around him. What he saw seemed to

confirm him in his purpose, for he folded the paper and placed it in

his pocket. "His Majesty is right," he said. "I shall not read this."

Kalonay and Father Paul turned upon him angrily. "You have no choice

in the matter, sir," Kalonay cried. "It has passed entirely out of

your hands."

"I beg your Majesty that the cablegram be read," the priest demanded,

in a voice that held less the tone of a request than of a command.

"I shall not read it," persisted Gordon, "because the person chiefly

concerned is not present."

"That is all the more reason for reading it," said Kalonay. "Your

Majesty must reconsider."

The King whispered to Barrat, and the others waited in silence that

expressed their interest more clearly than a chorus of questions would

have done.

"It shall be as you ask," the King said, at last. "You may read the

message, Mr. Gordon."

Gordon opened the paper and looked at it for some seconds of time with

a grave and perplexed expression, and then, with a short breath, as one

who takes a plunge, read it aloud. "This is it," he said.

To General Renauld. Cable Office, Tangier.--They leave Tangier Tuesday

at midnight, they land at daybreak Thursday morning on the south beach

below the old breakwater. The secret of the expedition was sold us for

three hundred thousand francs by the Countess Zara and the Prince

Kalonay.

Gordon stuck the paper in his pocket, and, crossing to Kalonay, held

out his hand, with a smile. "I don't believe it, of course," he said;

"but you would have it."

Kalonay neither saw the gesture nor heard the words. He was turning in

bewilderment from the King to Father Paul, and he laughed uncertainly.

"What nonsense is this?" he demanded. "Whose sorry trick is this? The

lie is not even ingenious."

General Renauld had not spoken since he had entered the room, but now

he advanced in front of Kalonay and faced him with a threatening

gesture.

"The President of Messina does not lie, sir," he said, sternly. "I

myself saw the Countess Zara write out that paper, which I and others

signed, and in which we agreed to pay to her and to you the money you

asked for betraying your King."

Father Paul pressed his hand heavily on Kalonay's shoulder. "Do not

answer him," he commanded. Gordon had moved to Kalonay's other side,

and the three men had unconsciously assumed an attitude of defence, and

stood back to back in a little group facing the angry circle that

encompassed them. The priest raised his arm to command a hearing.

"Where is Madame Zara?" he cried.

"Ah, where indeed?" echoed the King, sinking back into his chair. "She

has fled. It is all too evident now; she has betrayed us and she has

fled."

But on his words, as if in answer to the priest's summons, the curtains

that hid the door into the King's private room were pulled to one side,

and Madame Zara appeared between them, glancing fearfully at the

excited crowd before her. As she stood hesitating on the threshold,

she swayed slightly and clutched the curtains for a moment as though

for support. The priest advanced, and led her to the centre of the

room. She held a folded paper in her hand, which she gave to him in

silence.

"You have heard what has passed?" he asked, with a toss of his head

toward the heavy curtains. The woman raised her head and bowed. The

priest unfolded the paper.

"Am I to read this?" he asked. The woman bowed again.

There was silence in the room while the priest's eyes ran quickly over

the paper. He crushed it in his hand.

"It is as General Renauld says," he exclaimed. "In this the Republic

of Messina agrees to pay the Countess Zara and the Prince Kalonay three

hundred thousand francs, if the expedition is withdrawn after it has

made a pretence of landing on the shores of Messina."

He took a step forward. "Madame Zara," he cried, in a tone of warning,

"do you pretend that the Prince Kalonay was your accomplice in this;

that he knew what you meant to do?"

Madame Zara once more bowed her head.

"No! You must speak," commanded the priest. "Answer me!"

Zara hesitated, in evident distress, and glanced appealingly at the

King; but the expression on his face was one of grief and of

unrelenting virtue. "I do," she said, at last, in a low voice.

"Kalonay did know. He thought the revolution would not succeed; he

thought it would fail, and so--and so--and we needed money. They made

me--I, O my God, I cannot--I cannot!" she cried, suddenly, sinking on

her knees and hiding her face with her hands.

Kalonay stepped toward her and lifted her gently to her feet; but when

she looked and saw who it was that held her, she gave a cry and pulled

herself free. She staggered and would have fallen, had not Gordon

caught and held her by the arm. The King rose from his chair and

pointed at the shrinking figure of the woman.

"Stand aside from her," he said, sternly. "Why should we pity her,

what pity has she shown for us--for me? She has robbed me of my

inheritance. But let her go, she is a woman; we cannot punish her.

Her sins rest on her own head. But you--you," he cried, turning

fiercely on Kalonay, his voice rising to a high and melancholy key,

"you whom I have heaped with honors, whom I have leaned upon as on the

arm of a brother, that you should have sold me for silver, that you

should have turned Judas!"

The crowd of volunteers, bewildered by the rapid succession of events,

and confused and rendered desperate by the failure of their expedition,

caught up the word, and pressing forward with a rush, surrounded

Kalonay in an angry circle, crying "Judas!" "Traitor!" and "Coward!"

Kalonay turned from side to side. On some he smiled bitterly in

silence, and at others he broke out into swift and fierce

denunciations; but the men around him crowded closer and would not

permit him to be heard. He had turned upon them, again challenging

them to listen, when there was an opening in the circle and the men

stepped back, and Miss Carson pushed her way among them and halted at

Kalonay's side. She did not look at him, but at the men about him.

She was the only calm figure in the group, and her calmness at such a

crisis, and her youth, and the fineness and fearlessness of her beauty,

surprised them into a sudden quiet. There was instantly a cry for

order, and the men stood curious and puzzled, watching to see what she

would do.

"Gentlemen," she said, in a clear, grave voice. "Gentlemen," she

repeated, sharply, as a few murmurs still greeted her, "if you are

gentlemen, let this lady speak. She has not finished." She crossed

quickly and took the Countess Zara by the hand. "Go on, madame," she

urged, gently. "Do not be afraid. You say they made you do it. Who

made you do it? You have told us a part of the truth. Now tell us the

whole truth." For a moment the girl seemed much the older of the two,

and as Zara glanced up at her fearfully, she smiled to reassure her,

and stroked the woman's hand with her own. "Who made you do it?" she

repeated. "Not the Prince Kalonay, surely. You cannot hope to make us

believe that. We trust him absolutely. Who was it, then?"

The King sprang forward with an oath; his apathy and mock dignity had

fallen from him like a mask. His face was mottled, and his vicious

little eyes flashed with fear and anger. Erhaupt crowded close behind

him, crouching like a dog at his heels.

"She has lied enough already," the King cried. "We will not listen to

her. Take her away."

"Yes, let her go," shouted Erhaupt, with a laugh. "If she had been a

decent woman----"

There was a quick parting in the group and the sound of a heavy blow as

Kalonay flung himself upon Erhaupt and struck him in the face, so that

he staggered and fell at length upon the floor. Gordon stood over him,

his fingers twitching at his side.

"Stand up, you bully," he said, "and get out of this, before we throw

you out."

Zara's face had turned a pitiful crimson, but her eyes flashed and

burned with resolve and indignation. She stood erect and menacing,

like an angry goddess, and more beautiful in her indignation than they

had ever seen her.

"Now, I shall tell them the truth," she said, sternly. "That man," she

cried, pointing her finger at the King, "that man whom they call a

King--that man who would have sacrificed the only friend who serves him

unselfishly--is the man who sold your secret to the enemy. It was he

who made me do it. He sent me to Messina, and while the priest and the

Prince Kalonay were working in the south, I sold them to the government

at the capital. Barrat knew it, Erhaupt knew it, the King himself

planned it--to get money. He has robbed all of his own people; he had

meant to rob this young girl; and he is so mean and pitiful a creature

that to save himself he now tries to hide behind the skirts of a woman,

and to sacrifice her,--the woman who has given her soul to him. And

for this--my God!" she cried, her voice rising in an accent of agony

and bitter contempt--"for this!"

There was a grim and momentous silence in the room while Zara turned,

and without waiting to learn what effect her words might have, made her

way swiftly through the crowd and passed on out of the room and on to

the terrace beyond.

The King crouched back in his chair like a common criminal in the dock,

glancing fearfully from under his lowered eyebrows at the faces about

him, and on none did he see the least question of doubt but that Zara

had at last spoken the truth.

"She lies," the King muttered, as though answering their unspoken

thoughts, "the woman lies."

There was no movement from the men about him. Shame for him, and grief

and bitter disappointment for themselves, showed on the face of each.

From outside a sea-breeze caught up the sand of the beach and drove it

whispering against the high windows, and the beat of the waves upon the

shores filled out and marked the silence of the room.

The Prince Kalonay stepped from the circle and stood for a moment

before the King, regarding him with an expression of grief and bitter

irony. The King's eyes rose insolently, and faltered, and sank.

"For many years, your Majesty," the Prince said, but so solemnly that

it was as though he were a judge upon the bench, or a priest speaking

across an open grave, "the Princes of my house have served the Kings of

yours. In times of war they fought for the King in battle, they

beggared themselves for him in times of peace; our women sold their

jewels for the King, our men gave him their lives, and in all of these

centuries the story of their loyalty, of their devotion, has had but

one sequel, and has met with but one reward,--ingratitude and

selfishness and treachery. You know how I have served you, Louis. You

know that I gave up my fortune and my home to go into exile with you,

and I did that gladly. But I did more than that. I did more than any

king or any man has the right to expect of any other man. I served

your idle purposes so well that you, yourself, called me your jackal,

the only title your Majesty has ever bestowed that was deserved. There

is no low thing nor no base thing that I have not done for you. To

serve your pleasures, to gain you money, I have sunken so low that all

the royal blood in Europe could not make me clean. But there is a

limit to what a man may do for his King, and to the loyalty a King may

have the right to demand. And to-day and here, with me, the story of

our devotion to your House ends, and you go your way and I go mine, and

the last of my race breaks his sword and throws it at your feet, and is

done with you and yours forever."

Even those in the room who held no sympathy in their hearts for the

sentiment that had inspired the young man, felt that at that moment and

in their hearing he had renounced what was to him his religion and his

faith, and on the faces of all was the expression of a deep pity and

concern. Their own adventure, in the light of his grief and bitterness

of spirit, seemed selfish and little, and they stood motionless, in an

awed and sorrowful silence.

The tense strain of the moment was broken suddenly by the advent on the

scene of an actor who had, in the rush of events, been neglected and

forgotten. The little Crown Prince had stood clinging to his nurse's

skirts, an uncomprehending spectator of what was going forward. But he

now advanced slowly, feeling that the silence invited him to claim his

father's notice. He halted beside the chair in which Louis sat, his

head bent on his hands, and made an effort to draw himself up to his

father's knee.

But the King pushed him down, and hid his face from him. The child

turned irresolutely, with a troubled countenance, and, looking up, saw

that the attention of all was fixed upon him. At this discovery a

sudden flood of shyness overtook him, and he retreated hastily until

his eyes fell on the Prince Kalonay, standing alone, with his own eyes

turned resolutely away. There was a breathless hush in the room as the

child, with a happy sigh, ran to his former friend and comrade, and

reached up both his arms. The tableau was a familiar one to those who

knew them, and meant only that the child asked to be lifted up and

swung to the man's shoulder; but following as it did on what had just

passed, the gesture and the attitude carried with them the significance

of an appeal. Kalonay, as though with a great effort, lowered his eyes

to the upturned face of the child below him, but held himself back and

stood stiffly erect. A sharp shake of the head, as though he argued

with himself, was the only sign he gave of the struggle that was going

on within him.

At this second repulse, the child's arms dropped to his side, his lips

quivered, and he stood, a lonely little figure, glancing up at the

circle of men about him, and struggling to press back the tears that

came creeping to his eyes.

Kalonay regarded him steadfastly for a brief moment, as though he saw

him as a stranger, searching his face with eyes as pitiful as the

child's own; and then, with a sudden, sharp cry, the Prince dropped on

his knee and caught the child toward him, crushing him against his

heart, and burying his face on his shoulder. There was a shout of

exultation from the nobles, and an uttered prayer from the priest, and

in a moment the young men had crowded in around them, struggling to be

the first to kiss the child's hands, and to ask pardon of the man who

held him in his arms.

"Gentlemen," Kalonay cried, his voice laughing through his tears, "we

shall still sail for the island of Messina. They shall not say of us

that we visited the sins of the father on a child. I was weak, my

friends, and I was credulous. I thought I could break the tradition of

centuries. But our instincts are stronger than our pride, and the

House I have always served I shall serve to the last." He swung the

Crown Prince high upon his shoulder, and held his other arm above his

head. "You will help me place this child upon his throne," he

commanded, and the room rang with cheers. "You will appeal to his

people," he cried. "Do you not think they will rise to this

standard-bearer, will they not rally to his call? For he is a true

Prince, my comrades, who comes to them with no stain of wrong or

treachery, without a taint, as untarnished as the white snow that lies

summer and winter in the hollow of our hills, `and a child shall lead

us, and a child shall set them free.' To the yacht!" he shouted. "We

will sail at once, and while they wait for us to be betrayed into their

hands at the north, we shall be landing in the south, and thousands

will be hurrying to our standard."

His last words were lost in a tumult of cheers and cries, and the young

men poured out upon the terrace, running toward the shore, and filling

the soft night-air with shouts of "Long live the Prince Regent!" "Long

live our King!"

As the room grew empty Kalonay crossed it swiftly and advancing to Miss

Carson took her hand. His face was radiant with triumph and content.

He regarded her steadily for a moment, as though he could not find

words to tell his feelings.

"You had faith in me," he said, at last. "Can I ever make you

understand how much that means to me? When all had turned against me

you trusted me, you had faith in me, in the King's jackal."

"Silence; you must never say that again," the girl commanded, gently.

"You have shown it to be the lie it always was. We shall call you the

Defender of the Faith now; you are the guardian of a King." She smiled

at the little boy in his arms, and made a slight courtesy to them both.

"You have outgrown your old title," she said; "you have a proud one

now, you will be the Prince Regent."

Kalonay, with the child in his arms, and Miss Carson were standing

quite alone. General Renauld had been led away, guarded by a merry

band of youngsters; the King still crouched in his chair, with Barrat

bowed behind him, but pulling, with philosophic calm, on a cigarette,

and Father Paul and Gordon were in close conversation with Mrs. Carson

at the farther end of the room. The sun had set, and the apartment was

in semi-darkness. Kalonay moved closer to Miss Carson and looked

boldly into her eyes, "There is a prouder title than that of the

Regent," he whispered; "will you ever give it me?"

The girl started, breathing quickly, and turned her head aside, making

an effort to free her hand, but Kalonay held it closer in his own.

"Will you give it me?" he begged.

Then the girl looked up at him smiling, but with such confidence and

love in her eyes that he read his answer, though she shook her head, as

though to belie the truth her eyes had told him.

"When you have done your work," she said, "come to me or send for me,

and I shall come and give you my answer; and whether you fail or

succeed the answer will be the same."

Kalonay stooped quickly and kissed her hand, and when he raised his

face his eyes were smiling with such happiness that the little child in

his arms read it there, and smiled too in sympathy, and pressed his

face closer against his comrade's shoulder.

Gordon at this moment moved across the room and bowed, making a deep

obeisance to the child.

"Might I be permitted," he asked, "to kiss his Royal Highness? I

should like to boast of the fact, later," he explained.

The Crown Prince turned his sad, wise eyes on him in silence, and

gravely extended a little hand.

"You may kiss his Highness's hand," said Kalonay, smiling.

Gordon laughed and pressed the fingers in his own.

"When you talk like that, Kalonay," he said, "you make me feel like

Alice in the court-room with the Kings and Queens around her. A dozen

times this afternoon I've felt like saying, `After all, they are only a

pack of cards.'"

Kalonay shook his head and glanced toward Miss Carson for enlightenment.

"I don't understand," he said.

"No, you couldn't be expected to," said Gordon; "You have not been

educated up to that. It is the point of view."

He stuck out the middle finger of his hand, and drove it three times

deliberately into the side of the Crown Prince. The child gasped and

stared open-mouthed at the friendly stranger, and then catching the

laugh in Gordon's eyes, laughed with him.

"Now," said Gordon, "I shall say that I have dug the King of Messina in

the ribs--that is even better than having kissed him. God bless your

Royal Highness," he said, bowing gravely. "You may find me

disrespectful at times," he added; "but then, you must remember, I am

going to risk a valuable life for you. At least it's an extremely

valuable one to me."

Kalonay looked at Gordon for a moment with serious consideration, and

then held out his hand. "You also had faith in me," he said. "I thank

you. Are you in earnest; do you really wish to serve us?"

"I mean to stay by you until the boy is crowned," said the American,

"unless we separate on our several paths of glory--where they will lead

depends, I imagine, on how we have lived."

"Or on how we die," Kalonay added. "I am glad to hear you speak so.

If you wish, I shall attach you to the person of the Crown Prince. You

shall be on the staff with the rank of Colonel."

Gordon made a low and sweeping bow.

"Rise, Sir Archibald Gordon," he said. "I thank you," he added. "We

shall strive to please."

Miss Carson shook her head at him, and sighed in protest.

"Will you always take everything as a joke, Archie?" she said.

"My dear Patty," he answered, "the situation is much too serious to

take in any other way."

They moved to the door, and there the priest and Mrs. Carson joined

them; but on the threshold Kalonay stopped and looked for the first

time since he had addressed him at the King.

He regarded him for some seconds sternly in silence, and then pointed,

with his free hand, at the crown of Messina, which still rested on the

table at the King's elbow. "Colonel Gordon," he said, in a tone of

assured authority, "I give the crown of Messina into your keeping. You

will convey it, with all proper regard for its dignity, safely on board

the yacht, and then bring it at once to me."

When he had finished speaking the Prince turned and, without looking at

the King, passed on with the others across the terrace and disappeared

in the direction of the shore, where the launch lay waiting.

Gordon crossed the room and picked up the crown from the table, lifting

it with both hands, the King and Barrat watching him in silence as he

did so. He hesitated, and held it for a moment, regarding it with much

the same expression of awe and amusement that a man shows when he is

permitted to hold a strange baby in his arms. Turning, he saw the

sinister eyes of the King and of Barrat fastened upon him, and he

smiled awkwardly, and in some embarrassment turned the crown about in

his hands, so that the jewels in its circle gleamed dully in the dim

light of the room. Gordon raised the crown and balanced it on his

finger-tips, regarding it severely and shaking his head.

"There are very few of these left in the world now, your Majesty," he

said, cheerfully, "and the number is getting smaller every year. We

have none at all in my country, and I should think--seeing they are so

few--that those who have them would take better care of them, and try

to keep them untarnished, and brushed up, and clean." He turned his

head and looked inquiringly at the King, but Louis made no sign that he

heard him.

"I have no desire, you understand me," continued Gordon, unabashed, "to

take advantage of a man when he is down, but the temptation to say `I

told you so' seems almost impossible to resist. What?" he asked--"I

beg your pardon, I thought you spoke." But the King continued

scornfully silent, and only a contemptuous snort from Barrat expressed

his feelings.

Gordon placed the crown carefully under his arm, and then removed it

quickly, with a guilty look of dismay at its former owner, and let it

swing from his hand; but this fashion of carrying it seemed also

lacking in respect, so he held it up again with both hands and glanced

at the King in some perplexity.

"There ought to be a sofa-cushion to go with this, or something to

carry it on," he said, in a grieved tone. "You see, I am new at this

sort of thing. Perhaps your Majesty would kindly give me some expert

information. How do you generally carry it?"

The King's eyes snapped open and shut again.

"On my head," he said, grimly.

Gordon laughed in great relief.

"Now, do you know, I like that," he cried. "That shows spirit. I am

glad to see you take it so cheerfully. Well, I must be going, sir," he

added, nodding, and moving toward the door. "Don't be discouraged. As

someone says, `It's always morning somewhere,' and in my country

there's just as good men out of office as there are in it. Good-night."

While the sound of Gordon's footsteps died away across the marble

terrace, the King and Barrat remained motionless and silent. The

darkness in the room deepened and the silence seemed to deepen with it;

and still they remained immovable, two shadowy figures in the deserted

apartment where the denunciations of those who had abandoned them still

seemed to hang and echo in the darkness. What thoughts passed through

their minds or for how long a time they might still have sat in bitter

contemplation can only be guessed, for they were surprised by the sharp

rattle of a lock, the two great doors of the adjoining room were thrown

wide open, and a broad and brilliant light flooded the apartment.

Niccolas, the King's majordomo, stood between the doors, a black

silhouette against the glare of many candles.

"His Majesty is served!" he said.

The King lifted his head sharply, as though he found some lurking

mockery in the words, or some fresh affront; but in the obsequious bow

of his majordomo there was no mockery, and the table beyond glistened

with silver, while a pungent and convincing odor of rich food was

wafted insidiously through the open doors.

The King rose with a gentle sigh, and nodded to his companion.

"Come, Barrat," he said, taking the baron's arm in his. "The rascals

have robbed us of our throne, but, thank God, they have had the grace

to leave me my appetite."