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Flinging open the door, we saw Fritz von Tarlenheim stretched, fully dressed, on the sofa. He seemed to have been sleeping, but our entry woke him. He leapt to his feet, gave one glance at me, and with a joyful cry, threw himself on his knees before me. "Thank God, sire! thank God, you're safe!" he cried, stretching his hand up to catch hold of mine. I confess that I was moved. This King, whatever his faults, made people love him. For a moment I could not bear to speak or break the poor fellow's illusion.

But tough old Sapt had no such feeling. He slapped his hand on his thigh delightedly. "Bravo, lad!" cried he. "We shall do!" Fritz looked up in bewilderment. I held out my hand. "You're wounded, sire!" he exclaimed. "It's only a scratch," said I, "but--" I paused. He rose to his feet with a bewildered air. Holding my hand, he looked me up and down, and down and up. Then suddenly he dropped my hand and reeled back. "Where's the King? Where's the King?" he cried. "Hush, you fool!" hissed Sapt.

"Hush, you fool!" hissed Sapt. "Not so loud! Here's the King!" A knock sounded on the door. Sapt seized me by the hand. "Here, quick, to the bedroom! Off with your cap and boots. Get into bed. Cover everything up." I did as I was bid. A moment later Sapt looked in, nodded, grinned, and introduced an extremely smart and deferential young gentleman, who 49 a "My best thanks, sir, to my cousin," said I; "and tell her Royal Highness that I was never better in my life."
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