The last moments of a loved friend or relative are, and must be, sacred. Let it suffice, therefore, that for some minutes after my poor brother had drawn his last breath I knelt beside the bed in silent prayer, then, with one last look at the face I loved so well, I left the room, taking Bertram with me. General Groplau would, I knew, make all the necessary arrangements. In the meantime it behoved me to summon another council, and that done, to despatch messengers to the capital with the sad intelligence. Within an hour a proclamation had been issued, and it was known that the King, who had been missing for so long, had in reality been serving with his army, and had given his life, as unostentatiously as its humblest unit, for the country he loved so well. The announcement was received with a sort of stupefaction by the army. If the news caused a sensation in their ranks, however, I could imagine how much greater the surprise would be in Europe generally. Remembering this, one of my first acts was to communicate with Ottilie, in order that she might hear the sad intelligence from me personally, before receiving it from any other source. For you to realise the effect that the finding of Max, under such mournful circumstances, had upon me would be impossible. Indeed, every one and everything around me seemed to share the impression. The silent, almost deserted streets, the unhappy townsfolk (though they were unhappy from another cause), and even the dull, leaden sky overhead, seemed to mourn with me. We had won a great victory, it is true, but at what a cost to me and to the nation of which I was now the head!

The council being over, and the official communication of the news sent forth to the world, I gave orders that Bertram should be admitted to my presence. So far I had not had much opportunity of observing him; now, however, I found him a tall, well-set-up young Englishman of the higher middle class.

"Mr. Bertram," I said in English, "you may remember what my poor brother said to me concerning you, just before he died. He said he trusted that you would be as good a friend to me as you had been to him. May I hope that you will enter my service, as he wished?"

"I will do so, if your Majesty really desires it," he answered. "Though I scarcely know in what capacity I can serve you."

"You can do so by proving yourself my friend," I answered.

Traces of grief still remained upon his face. It was certain that the affection he had shown to Max was genuine, and that he mourned him almost as sincerely as I did myself.

"And now," I said, "I want you to tell me as much as you can of his life since you first met him. Remember, I know nothing. It is all mystery to me. Where did you meet him, and how does it come about that you're in Pannonia together?"

Thereupon he furnished me with a summary of Max's life from the time when they first met in Brazil, beginning with the unhappy diamond expedition, and continuing until the moment was reached when Max fell mortally wounded on the steps of the church in the market-square. From his narrative, I was able to gather something, not only of Max's past life, but also of the character of the man I had before me now. Never once during his recital of the tale did he sound his own praises, or represent himself as playing anything but a secondary part in the drama that was destined to end so tragically. Instinctively I took a liking to the man; perhaps not so much because of the fact that he had been Max's friend as because of what I felt to be his inherent good qualities. When, at my request, he consented to serve me as one of my gentlemen-in-waiting, I felt that I had secured a friend whose fidelity was in no way dependent upon the rewards or emoluments he might receive.

That evening the body of my brother was to be conveyed to the Council Hall, where it would remain closely guarded until the time should arrive for it to be removed to the capital for interment in our grand cathedral, where repose so many of our House. Before Max's remains were taken from the house, I had a last look at his face, and Bertram and I walked quickly back, for the night was cold, to the residence where I had taken up my abode. We had only just left the market-square, and were approaching our destination, when we were suddenly confronted by a man. So cutting was the wind, so keen the sleet that was now driving straight into our faces, that we did not become aware of his proximity until he had collided with Bertram.

"Why don't you look where you are going, my friend?" inquired the other, with a somewhat foreign accent. "Have you no eyes in your head?"

Then he uttered a cry of surprise, and next moment was running down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.

"That was an unmannerly fellow," I said to Bertram, who was standing on the pavement watching the other's receding figure.

To my surprise, however, he did not answer. When he turned his face to me again, dark though it was, I could see that there was a look of extreme astonishment, if not of almost consternation, upon it.

"What is the matter?" I inquired, I fear a little sharply. "Why do you look like that?"

"That man," he answered. "I must be mistaken, and yet——"

"And yet what?" I inquired. "Come, my friend, tell me the reason of your extraordinary behaviour."

Bertram hesitated again before he replied.

"I only caught a glimpse of his face," he said at length, "and yet I feel almost certain that the person who ran into me, and who bade me look where I was going, was none other than Rodriguez, one of the men who accompanied us on that fatal journey to the diamond fields in Brazil."

For a moment, for some reason that was not quite apparent to me, he seemed almost beside himself. He must have communicated this feeling to me, for I remember taking him by the arm and laughing loudly, though, Heaven knows, I was not in the humour to laugh at anything.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" I inquired scornfully, as soon as I had somewhat recovered my self-control. "How could he be here now, and why, since he was then in South America, should he be in Zaarfburg, of all places in the world?"

But Bertram did not answer. For the moment it looked as if the shock he had received had been too much for him. Whoever, or whatever, this man Rodriguez may have been, it is quite certain that the mere thought of meeting him again was sufficient to exert a powerful influence over Max's faithful friend. In silence we resumed our walk, and presently reached the house in which I had, for the time being, taken up my residence. Two hours later my poor brother's coffin was conveyed from the clockmaker's house to the city hall, the great council chamber of which had been converted into an impromptu chapelle ardente. A guard was placed upon it, while additional sentries were posted at the outer doors.

At the council meeting that evening, it had been arranged that the remains should be conveyed to Pannonia on the day following, and that I should accompany them to the capital. Accordingly, at noon, amidst the thunder of artillery and the respectful homage of the army, we set out, escorted by a regiment of cavalry, of which Max, as a boy, had been colonel-in-chief. Bertram, who was now a recognised member of my suite, accompanied me.

My story has taken so long to tell that I have no time or space left me in which to do more than briefly summarise that mournful journey. Let it suffice, therefore, that every hamlet and town through which we passed received us with tokens of respect and sorrow. Whenever I think of that mournful time, the picture of our return rises before my mind's eye. Dusk was falling as we entered our ancient capital—the dusk of a cold, raw day, quite in keeping with the sorrow which filled our hearts. We found the streets crowded to their utmost holding capacity. Signs of mourning were to be observed on every hand. Short though the notice had been, the majority of the houses were draped in black, while overhead sounded the mournful tolling of bells. At the entrance to the city I gave up my horse, and for the remainder of the distance followed the cortÉge my suite, the governor of the city and his staff, the chief burgomaster and his councillors, imitating my example. As we passed slowly along the Graben towards the cathedral, I recalled the night when Max and I, with our father and mother, had said good-bye to the capital, and had gone into exile. My father and mother had never seen their country again, and now Max was coming back to it, unconscious of the fact, to take his last long rest in the old grey cathedral in which so many of our race lay buried. Slowly and solemnly, to the accompaniment of wailing bands, we crossed the King's Square and approached the majestic pile, whose roofs and parapets towered above us, thickly coated with snow. The deep tones of the bell echoed mournfully in the gathering darkness, while the troops that lined the streets presented arms, and the crowd stood bareheaded as we passed. At last we reached the foot of the cathedral steps, where the white-robed clergy, with the archbishop—the same who had baptised us—at their head, were waiting to receive us. The coffin having been removed from the hearse, and a new procession formed, we entered the church and passed up the central aisle, to the music of the Dead March, towards the spot where a catafalque had been prepared for the lying-in-state. Upon this we placed the casket that contained the remains of our dear one, and when a short service had been conducted, and the guard of honour mounted, we left the cathedral and returned, through the still waiting crowd, to the palace on the other side of the square. On the morrow and the next day there was to be a public lying-in-state; and on the day following, the funeral would take place. In the meantime there was much for us to do. There were the representatives of the various European sovereigns to be received and lodged, the precedence of each to be settled, and their positions allotted by the chamberlains; while there was also the progress of the war, to which it was necessary that I should give almost unremitting attention. Fortunately, however, that was nearly at an end. Indeed, it was as if Max's death had set the final seal upon it. As a matter of fact, it was rumoured that proposals for peace were already in course of formation, and were soon to be submitted. Later in the evening came the news by telegram that Ottilie and her father had crossed the Channel, and were on their way to Pannonia. I had scarcely received it when old Antoine, my ever-faithful groom of the chambers, entered my study to inform me that the Count von Marquart had arrived at the palace, and craved an audience with me.

"Admit him at once," I said; and, indeed, I was glad to see him. His devotion to our House had never wavered. He had been one of the first to greet me on my return to Pannonia, and it seemed only fit and proper that he should hasten to my side when I was in such dire distress as now. Needless to say I greeted him most cordially, and I could see that he was much touched by my reception of him.

"This is a sad meeting indeed," said he, as I gave him my hand. "It has affected me more deeply than I can say."

I could see that what he said was true, for the old man, as he stood before me, was visibly overcome. He asked me certain questions concerning all that had transpired, and furnished me with an outline of the various arrangements he had made. Never before had I realised the extent of the ceremonial which must be observed in such cases. We were still discussing this important matter when Antoine, with a scared expression upon his face, an expression which even his long training could not conceal, entered the room. Through the half-open door I could see old Strekwitz, the Grand Chamberlain, and several people standing outside. Something was undoubtedly wrong, but what that something was I could not even conjecture.

"The Count von Strekwitz craves an audience," said Antoine, more abruptly, I think, than he had ever addressed me before.

"Ask him to be good enough to see me in the morning," I answered sharply. "Do you not notice that I am engaged with the Count von Marquart?"

"But, your Majesty, he states that his business is of the most important nature," Antoine persisted. "He implores you to see him at once, and says that there is not a moment to lose."

"Something has evidently gone wrong with his arrangements," said von Marquart. "Perhaps it would be as well if he were admitted."

"As you please, as you please," I continued, I am afraid, with a little irritation. Then, pulling out my watch, I added, as I looked at it, "It is nearly eleven o'clock. What possible business can he have with me that will not keep until the morning?"

"You will very soon discover," the Count replied. "Perhaps you would wish me to withdraw?"

"By no means," I answered. "It is possible I may stand in need of your advice."

A moment later Strekwitz entered the room, and from the moment that I looked at his face I saw that, whatever his news might be, it was certain he had not disturbed me without good cause. The man was more upset than I had ever yet seen him; his face was as white as the paper upon which I am now writing, while his hand, when he rested it upon the table beside which he stood, shook so that the pens upon the pen-rack trembled and rattled against each other.

"Well, Count, what is the matter?" I inquired. "What brings you here at this hour of the night?"

"The saddest news possible," he replied. "I scarcely know how to tell your Highness."

On hearing this a great fear took possession of me. What was I to learn? Could any disaster have befallen Ottilie? Had that been so, however, von Marquart would have known it before Strekwitz, and I should have heard before both; but it was impossible to be logical at such a moment. When next I spoke I scarcely recognised my own voice, so anxious was it.

"There is nothing to be gained by beating about the bush," I said. "Whatever your tidings may be, let me know the worst. Have you bad news concerning the Princess?"

He shook his head.

"No, it does not concern her Highness," he answered, "yet I fear it will distress your Majesty as much. For my own part, I do not know what to think."

"For goodness sake, man, get on with what you have to say," I answered. "Can't you see how you are distressing me? Let me hear your story at once."

"Your Majesty gave me orders to make the necessary arrangements for the lying-in-state of your lamented brother."

"I did," I replied. "What of that? I know you better than to imagine that you have failed in your duties. What has occurred?"

"Your Majesty informed me that you had brought the body from Zaarfburg?"

"I did. And you were present when it was admitted to the cathedral. What has happened since? Why do you not speak, man?"

"I fear that I must so far contradict your Majesty as to say that I was not present when it was admitted to the cathedral. A great crime has been committed. I mean that it cannot be laid in state, since it is not there!"

"Not there?" I cried, springing to my feet, scarcely able to believe that I had heard aright. "What do you mean by making such a statement? What makes you say such a thing? Are you not aware that I brought it with me from Zaarfburg?"

"I venture to say that it is not there," he returned. "The necessary preparations were made in my presence. On opening the coffin, however, we were amazed to find it empty, save for a few heavy weights. If the body had ever been placed in it while in the city, it must have been removed, either there or en route for this place."

"My God! what can this mean?" I cried. "Can you swear, Strekwitz, that what you say is correct? Be careful, for I give you my word I am in no mood to be played with."

"Your Majesty should know me well enough by this time to be aware that I would not trifle with you upon such a matter," he answered, somewhat reproachfully. "It has caused me the acutest sorrow. Alas! however, it is as I state."

"In that case what is to be done?"

For the moment the news stunned me, but it was not very long before I realised its dread importance. Von Marquart must also have done so, for once more came the question, this time from him: "What is to be done?" We had not only ourselves, and the country, but the whole of Europe to consider. Von Marquart was the first to recover his composure. Turning to Strekwitz, he said,—

"How many people know this?"

From what the other said it appeared that there were only three people in the secret, in which number he included himself. As soon as the direful discovery was made he had been quick to insist upon the others keeping the intelligence to themselves. He had been so imperative on this point that there was very little fear, he assured me, of their making mischief. To make sure, however, I gave orders that they should be admitted to my presence in the morning, that I might further caution them. Then addressing myself to von Marquart, I said:

"My poor brother's body must be recovered at any cost. But that will take time, and how are we to set about the task? To offer a reward would only be to publish the news abroad."

"Impossible, your Majesty, impossible," von Marquart replied. "In the interests of the country that is not to be thought of. It would be taken as a bad omen, and until the dynasty has been more firmly established, public opinion must be considered before everything else. Let us review the facts of the case and endeavour to discover when and where the crime could have been perpetrated. Where did your Majesty see the dead man for the last time?"

"In the clockmaker's house at Zaarfburg," I replied.

"And the house itself?"

"Was closely guarded," I answered. "From the house the coffin was conveyed to the city hall, where it lay until we started on the journey here."

"Would it have been possible, think you, for it to have been tampered with while at the city hall?"

"Quite impossible, I should say. There were guards at the entrance to the room itself, and sentries were posted at the great doors below. In fact, I would be prepared to swear that no one entered the room save myself and my brother's faithful friend."

"Your brother's friend?" von Marquart repeated suspiciously. "Who is he? Perhaps he can throw some light upon the affair."

This point had never struck me, and I thereupon told Strekwitz to summon Bertram to my presence without delay. He did so, and a few minutes later, the man we wanted entered the room. Strekwitz had told him nothing, so that he was quite unprepared for the news I had to give him. On hearing it his grief was as great, and plainly as sincere, as my own had been.

"I can scarcely believe it," he said, after he had heard what we had to tell. "What possible motive can anyone have had for such a dastardly deed?"

I could furnish him with no answer that would be in any way satisfactory. Strekwitz inclined to the belief that it was the work of the enemy—an act of revenge, in fact, for the defeat they had suffered at our hands. Von Marquart, however, ridiculed the notion.

"No," he said, "there is more behind it than meets the eye. We must look elsewhere for a solution of the mystery."

Suddenly Bertram uttered an exclamation.

"Why on earth didn't I think of it sooner?" he cried. "If I'm not mistaken, I can explain everything."

"What do you mean?" I asked impatiently. "What do you remember? Tell us quickly."

"The man I ran into, in the street at Zaarfburg," he replied. "Rodriguez, who was with us in South America. Was it possible that his appearance in the city was only a coincidence, or had he some more sinister object in view? He was aware of the mysterious marks upon your brother's body, and knew they were connected with the hidden diamonds. Seeing that he was dead, and that he might never have another opportunity, is it not quite possible that he would be anxious to penetrate the secret before it was too late?"

All this was so much Greek to von Marquart and Strekwitz. They knew nothing, it must be remembered, of Max's past life, consequently they had not heard of Moreas, or of the now famous expedition in search of the diamonds. In a few words I enlightened them, and then we fell to considering the problem that Bertram had set before us. His theory, though extraordinary, certainly seemed feasible enough.

"This is what puzzles me, however," said Bertram, who had been silent for a few moments. "If he were able to get near enough to the body to examine it, why did he take it away? It would be of no use to him, and would be a source of continual danger. No! I am very much afraid that there is something else behind it. Some other person is pulling the strings. Rodriguez would be a mere tool."

"One thing is quite certain," said von Marquart, walking towards the fireplace as he spoke, "and that is that we must find this man. If we can once get hold of him we shall be able to discover a way to make him speak. The rest should then be easy."

"But how on earth are we to catch him?" I inquired. "He would scarcely be likely to remain in Zaarfburg. Besides, there is no time. It is only three days before the State funeral will take place, and it is most improbable that we shall be able to regain possession of the body in that short space of time. It will be sad news indeed to give to the world."

"It must not be given," said von Marquart imperatively. "They must know nothing of it."

"But, good heavens! man," I cried, "how is the funeral to take place if the body is still missing?"

"Very easily," he replied. "The public did not doubt you to-night when you passed through the city to the cathedral; the archbishop did not doubt you when he led the way up the aisle; and if every one else holds his tongue, why should not the coffin be placed in the vault without suspicion having been aroused?" Then, dropping his voice a little, and speaking with even greater emphasis than before, he continued: "I tell you as plainly as I can speak that we have no other course open to us. After struggling with what at one time appeared to be insurmountable difficulties, we have at last succeeded in replacing the Ramonyi dynasty upon the throne. It behooves us, therefore, to proceed with the greatest caution possible. One false step may result in destruction to all our hopes. Your poor brother's mysterious absence did a vast amount of harm; his death, however, fighting for his country as he did, retrieved it. I must leave you to understand what the result will be if you reveal to the nation this fresh catastrophe. The sensible will describe it as a regrettable incident; the foolish will declare it to be a sign that Heaven is against your house. That will be the opportunity your enemies want, and they will be sure to make capital out of it."

"And when we have recovered that which we are seeking? What then?"

"Then his body can be laid to its rest, and what has been placed in the vault in the meantime can be removed."

"Very well," I answered. "I suppose it must be so. And who is to carry out the search?"

"There is one man who most certainly must go," von Marquart replied, "since he is the only person who is familiar with the features of the man you saw at Zaarfburg; our friend here must undertake the mission." Then, turning to Bertram, he continued: "You understand, sir, I presume, the difficulty of the task we are setting you? Believe me, it will be no light one. Nor will the responsibility be lighter. You will have to proceed with the utmost circumspection. His Majesty's honour, and the honour of the country, will be in your hands. I do not doubt your integrity, but I should like to be also assured of your discretion."

"I will answer for Mr. Bertram," I said. Then, turning to him, I continued: "Mr. Bertram, my poor brother trusted you when he was alive; I am sure you will do what you can for him, and for me, now that he is dead."

"Your Majesty may trust me in everything," he returned simply, and with a sincerity that spoke for itself. "I loved him, and would serve him alive or dead."

For a minute we were all silent, then Bertram inquired when he should start.

"The sooner the better," I answered. "I will give you a letter to General Groplau, informing him that you are on personal business for myself, and asking him to give you all the assistance that lies in his power. You may imagine with what eagerness I shall await news from you. And now you had better retire to rest. I will see you before you start."

Bertram accordingly left the room, and when he had gone Strekwitz received his final instructions.

We discussed the arrangements for the funeral for a little longer, and then Strekwitz and von Marquart withdrew, and I was left alone with my gloomy thoughts.

When I retired to rest, I lay awake hour after hour, thinking of Max, and of the vile deed of which his poor body was the innocent victim. Long before it was light I had said good-bye to Bertram, and he had left the city, after which I set myself to wait and hope. Of what transpired during the next three days I scarcely like to think, even now. The grim mockery that was daily taking place in the cathedral, and the knowledge of the still grimmer one that was to follow it, weighed upon my heart like lead. All day long, from my study window, I could see the crowd passing into the building by one door and out by another. I could not but watch it, though the sight irritated me beyond measure. Had it not been for the constant letters of love and sympathy that I received from Ottilie, I believe I could not have borne it as well as I did.

Of the funeral ceremony itself I will say but little. Its grandeur and pomp could not have been excelled. I did my best to bear myself as a man should, but as I looked at the coffin, and thought of what it contained, my feelings well-nigh overcame me. When all was over, I left the cathedral and entered the carriage that awaited me at the foot of the steps. The great square was crowded, till it resembled one vast sea of heads, upon which a gleam of wintry sunshine played as if with a caressing hand. Slowly I drove along to the accompaniment of the respectful salutations of the people, though, wrapt as I was in my own thoughts, I was scarcely conscious of their presence. We were not half-way across the square, however, before my feelings underwent a complete change. Looking from the carriage I saw among the multitude of faces one that stung me to instant action. I could scarcely believe the evidence of my own eyes. I looked again, only to become doubly certain that there was no mistake. To the best of my belief, there, looking up at me, was the man we suspected, the individual who had cannoned into Bertram at Zaarfburg, and to search for whom Bertram had returned to the scene of Max's death. A moment later it had disappeared, and I was left wondering what I should do. To stop the procession and to go in search of the man was out of the question, and yet to continue our journey to the palace would be to run the risk of allowing him to escape. Situated as I was, there was nothing for it but to go on and to trust to Providence for the rest. One thing, however, was quite certain. A message must be sent to Bertram telling him to return to Pannonia at once. Drawing Strekwitz aside as soon as we reached the palace, I told him what had happened, and gave him the necessary instructions.

For the remainder of the day the memory of the face I had seen in the crowd haunted me like that of a ghoul. Please God, Bertram would not be too late to catch him after all.