not bark. I trust no one. The very air is full of sedition."

The King twisted his blue-veined old hands together, but his
voice was quiet. "But why?" he demanded, almost fretfully. "If
the people are fond of the boy, and I think they are, to - to
carry him off, or injure him, would hurt the cause. Even the
Terrorists, in the name of a republic, can do nothing without the
people."

"The mob is a curious thing, sire. You have ruled with a strong
hand. Our people know nothing but to obey the dominant voice.
The boy out of the way, the prospect of the Princess Hedwig on
the throne, a few demagogues in the public squares - it would be
the end."

The King leaned back and closed his eyes. His thin, arched nose
looked pinched. His face was gray.

"All this," he said, "means what? To make the boy a prisoner, to
cut off his few pleasures, and even then, at any time - "

"Yes, sire," said Mettlich doggedly. "At any time."

Outside in the anteroom Lieutenant Nikky Larisch roused himself,
yawned, and looked at his watch. It was after twelve, and he had
had a hard day. He put a velvet cushion behind his head, and
resolutely composed himself to slumber, a slumber in which were
various rosy dreams, all centered about the Princess Hedwig.
Dreams are beyond our control.