had sent him especially to enquire how the King's health was after the
fatigues which his Majesty had undergone yesterday.

"My best thanks, sir, to my cousin," said I; "and tell her Royal
Highness that I was never better in my life."

"The King," added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for
its own sake), "has slept without a break all night."

The young gentleman (he reminded me of "Osric" in Hamlet) bowed himself
out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim's pale face
recalled us to reality--though, in faith, the farce had to be reality
for us now.

"Is the King dead?" he whispered.

"Please God, no," said I. "But he's in the hands of Black Michael!"




CHAPTER 8

A Fair Cousin and a Dark Brother


A real king's life is perhaps a hard one; but a pretended king's is,
I warrant, much harder. On the next day, Sapt instructed me in my
duties--what I ought to do and what I ought to know--for three hours;
then I snatched breakfast, with Sapt still opposite me, telling me that