RUPERT of Hentzau was dead! That was the thought which, among all our perplexities, came back to me, carrying with it a wonderful relief. To those who have not learnt in fighting against him the height of his audacity and the reach of his designs, it may well seem incredible that his death should breed comfort at a moment when the future was still so dark and uncertain. Yet to me it was so great a thing that I could hardly bring myself to the conviction that we had done with him. True, he was dead; but could he not strike a blow at us even from beyond the gulf?

Such were the half-superstitious thoughts that forced their way into my mind as I stood looking out on the crowd which obstinately encircled the front of the palace. I was alone; Rudolf was with the queen, my wife was resting, Bernenstein had sat down to a meal for which I could find no appetite. By an effort I freed myself from my fancies and tried to concentrate my brain on the facts of our position. We were ringed round with difficulties. To solve them was beyond my power; but I knew where my wish and longing lay. I had no desire to find means by which Rudolf Rassendyll should escape unknown from Strelsau; the king, although dead, be again in death the king, and the queen be left desolate on her mournful and solitary throne. It might be that a brain more astute than mine could bring all this to pass. My imagination would have none of it, but dwelt lovingly on the reign of him who was now king in Strelsau, declaring that to give the kingdom such a ruler would be a splendid fraud, and prove a stroke so bold as to defy detection. Against it stood only the suspicions of Mother Holf — fear or money would close her lips — and the knowledge of Bauer; Bauer’s mouth also could be shut, ay, and should be before we were many days older. My reverie led me far; I saw the future years unroll before me in the fair record of a great king’s sovereignty. It seemed to me that by the violence and bloodshed we had passed through, fate, for once penitent, was but righting the mistake made when Rudolf was not born a king.

For a long while I stood thus, musing and dreaming; I was roused by the sound of the door opening and closing; turning, I saw the queen. She was alone, and came towards me with timid steps. She looked out for a moment on the square and the people, but drew back suddenly in apparent fear lest they should see her. Then she sat down and turned her face towards mine. I read in her eyes something of the conflict of emotions which possessed her; she seemed at once to deprecate my disapproval and to ask my sympathy; she prayed me to be gentle to her fault and kind to her happiness; self-reproach shadowed her joy, but the golden gleam of it strayed through. I looked eagerly at her; this would not have been her bearing had she come from a last farewell; for the radiance was there, however much dimmed by sorrow and by fearfulness.

“Fritz,” she began softly, “I am wicked — so wicked. Won’t God punish me for my gladness?”

I fear I paid little heed to her trouble, though I can understand it well enough now.

“Gladness?” I cried in a low voice. “Then you’ve persuaded him?”

She smiled at me for an instant.

“I mean, you’ve agreed?” I stammered.

Her eyes again sought mine, and she said in a whisper: “Some day, not now. Oh, not now. Now would be too much. But some day, Fritz, if God will not deal too hardly with me, I— I shall be his, Fritz.”

I was intent on my vision, not on hers. I wanted him king; she did not care what he was, so that he was hers, so that he should not leave her.

“He’ll take the throne,” I cried triumphantly.

“No, no, no. Not the throne. He’s going away.”

“Going away!” I could not keep the dismay out of my voice.

“Yes, now. But not — not for ever. It will be long — oh, so long — but I can bear it, if I know that at last!” She stopped, still looking up at me with eyes that implored pardon and sympathy.

“I don’t understand,” said I, bluntly, and, I fear, gruffly, also.

“You were right,” she said: “I did persuade him. He wanted to go away again as he went before. Ought I to have let him? Yes, yes! But I couldn’t. Fritz, hadn’t I done enough? You don’t know what I’ve endured. And I must endure more still. For he will go now, and the time will be very long. But, at last, we shall be together. There is pity in God; we shall be together at last.”

“If he goes now, how can he come back?”

“He will not come back; I shall go to him. I shall give up the throne and go to him, some day, when I can be spared from here, when I’ve done my — my work.”

I was aghast at this shattering of my vision, yet I could not be hard to her. I said nothing, but took her hand and pressed it.

“You wanted him to be king?” she whispered.

“With all my heart, madam,” said I.

“He wouldn’t, Fritz. No, and I shouldn’t dare to do that, either.”

I fell back on the practical difficulties. “But how can he go?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But he knows; he has a plan.”

We fell again into silence; her eyes grew more calm, and seemed to look forward in patient hope to the time when her happiness should come to her. I felt like a man suddenly robbed of the exaltation of wine and sunk to dull apathy. “I don’t see how he can go,” I said sullenly.

She did not answer me. A moment later the door again opened. Rudolf came in, followed by Bernenstein. Both wore riding boots and cloaks. I saw on Bernenstein’s face just such a look of disappointment as I knew must be on mine. Rudolf seemed calm and even happy. He walked straight up to the queen.

“The horses will be ready in a few minutes,” he said gently. Then, turning to me, he asked, “You know what we’re going to do, Fritz?”

“Not I, sire,” I answered, sulkily.

“Not I, sire!” he repeated, in a half-merry, half-sad mockery. Then he came between Bernenstein and me and passed his arms through ours. “You two villains!” he said. “You two unscrupulous villains! Here you are, as rough as bears, because I won’t be a thief! Why have I killed young Rupert and left you rogues alive?”

I felt the friendly pressure of his hand on my arm. I could not answer him. With every word from his lips and every moment of his presence my sorrow grew keener that he would not stay. Bernenstein looked across at me and shrugged his shoulders despairingly. Rudolf gave a little laugh.

“You won’t forgive me for not being as great a rogue, won’t you?” he asked.

Well, I found nothing to say, but I took my arm out of his and clasped his hand. He gripped mine hard.

“That’s old Fritz!” he said; and he caught hold of Bernenstein’s hand, which the lieutenant yielded with some reluctance. “Now for the plan,” said he. “Bernenstein and I set out at once for the lodge — yes, publicly, as publicly as we can. I shall ride right through the people there, showing myself to as many as will look at me, and letting it be known to everybody where I’m going. We shall get there quite early tomorrow, before it’s light. There we shall find what you know. We shall find Sapt, too, and he’ll put the finishing touches to our plan for us. Hullo, what’s that?”

There was a sudden fresh shouting from the large crowd that still lingered outside the palace. I ran to the window, and saw a commotion in the midst of them. I flung the sash up. Then I heard a well-known, loud, strident voice: “Make way, you rascals, make way.”

I turned round again, full of excitement.

“It’s Sapt himself!” I said. “He’s riding like mad through the crowd, and your servant’s just behind him.”

“My God, what’s happened? Why have they left the lodge?” cried Bernenstein.

The queen looked up in startled alarm, and, rising to her feet, came and passed her arm through Rudolf’s. Thus we all stood, listening to the people good-naturedly cheering Sapt, whom they had recognized, and bantering James, whom they took for a servant of the constable’s.

The minutes seemed very long as we waited in utter perplexity, almost in consternation. The same thought was in the mind of all of us, silently imparted by one to another in the glances we exchanged. What could have brought them from their guard of the great secret, save its discovery? They would never have left their post while the fulfilment of their trust was possible. By some mishap, some unforeseen chance, the king’s body must have been discovered. Then the king’s death was known, and the news of it might any moment astonish and bewilder the city.

At last the door was flung open, and a servant announced the Constable of Zenda. Sapt was covered with dust and mud, and James, who entered close on his heels, was in no better plight. Evidently they had ridden hard and furiously; indeed they were still panting. Sapt, with a most perfunctory bow to the queen, came straight to where Rudolf stood.

“Is he dead?” he asked, without preface.

“Yes, Rupert is dead,” answered Mr. Rassendyll: “I killed him.”

“And the letter?”

“I burnt it.”

“And Rischenheim?”

The queen struck in.

“The Count of Luzau–Rischenheim will say and do nothing against me,” she said.

Sapt lifted his brows a little. “Well, and Bauer?” he asked.

“Bauer’s at large,” I answered.

“Hum! Well, it’s only Bauer,” said the constable, seeming tolerably well pleased. Then his eyes fell on Rudolf and Bernenstein. He stretched out his hand and pointed to their riding-boots. “Whither away so late at night?” he asked.

“First together to the lodge, to find you, then I alone to the frontier,” said Mr. Rassendyll.

“One thing at a time. The frontier will wait. What does your Majesty want with me at the lodge?”

“I want so to contrive that I shall be no longer your Majesty,” said Rudolf.

Sapt flung himself into a chair and took off his gloves.

“Come, tell me what has happened today in Strelsau,” he said.

We gave a short and hurried account. He listened with few signs of approval or disapproval, but I thought I saw a gleam in his eyes when I described how all the city had hailed Rudolf as its king and the queen received him as her husband before the eyes of all. Again the hope and vision, shattered by Rudolf’s calm resolution, inspired me. Sapt said little, but he had the air of a man with some news in reserve. He seemed to be comparing what we told him with something already known to him but unknown to us. The little servant stood all the while in respectful stillness by the door; but I could see by a glance at his alert face that he followed the whole scene with keen attention.

At the end of the story, Rudolf turned to Sapt. “And your secret — is it safe?” he asked.

“Ay, it’s safe enough!”

“Nobody has seen what you had to hide?”

“No; and nobody knows that the king is dead,” answered Sapt.

“Then what brings you here?”

“Why, the same thing that was about to bring you to the lodge: the need of a meeting between yourself and me, sire.”

“But the lodge — is it left unguarded?”

“The lodge is safe enough,” said Colonel Sapt.

Unquestionably there was a secret, a new secret, hidden behind the curt words and brusque manner. I could restrain myself no longer, and sprang forward, saying: “What is it? Tell us, Constable!”

He looked at me, then glanced at Mr. Rassendyll.

“I should like to hear your plan first,” he said to Rudolf. “How do you mean to account for your presence alive in the city today, when the king has lain dead in the shooting-box since last night?”

We drew close together as Rudolf began his answer. Sapt alone lay back in his chair. The queen also had resumed her seat; she seemed to pay little heed to what we said. I think that she was still engrossed with the struggle and tumult in her own soul. The sin of which she accused herself, and the joy to which her whole being sprang in a greeting which would not be abashed, were at strife between themselves, but joined hands to exclude from her mind any other thought.

“In an hour I must be gone from here,” began Rudolf.

“If you wish that, it’s easy,” observed Colonel Sapt.

“Come, Sapt, be reasonable,” smiled Mr. Rassendyll. &ldqu............