  It seemed years before I reached the high road. Before then I had slowed down with the realisation that since we had the last car in the garage, danger must lie ahead of us, and not behind. We had two passes to the Queen in Herrovosca, so our lack of passports would probably be overlooked except by the Black Ghost’s adherents, who would shut us up again in any case if they caught us. John had only fainted, but I had no idea how badly he might be hurt. My first concern was to get him to a doctor, though that was a dangerous business, with everyone but the legal authorities against us, in a country where the legal authorities had almost become fugitives. The high road where we turned into it was deserted, except for an old donkey cart with a small girl driving. She looked too stupid to be a menace even if she had wished. About three miles farther on we came to a small village. There was nowhere to go but through it, so I drove boldly, if not straight, up the main street. It was not very much like our main streets in America. Here were small thatched-roof houses, many only one story high. The vehicles in the street were propelled by ox, horse, mule and donkey power, most of them had solid squeaking wooden wheels. I felt John move. He sat up. “How’s your arm?” I asked. “Feels better, thanks. Aches like the devil, still, but this isn’t so bad. It was the jolting over those ruts that did me up. I’ll last all right now till we get to a doctor in Herrovosca. You go right on driving.” We left the little village behind us and came suddenly upon a branch road leading to the left. I turned down it unhesitatingly. Anything would be better than to stay on the main road where they were looking for us. “That’s right,” John agreed. “Safer. I may be the family invalid, but we’ve got to get to Herrovosca.” The road was dirt, but smooth enough to make fairly good time, although there was more traffic than I had expected. Then we came into another town, this one much larger than the last. The houses were higher, and closer together. There was still more traffic, and in a moment as we neared the center of the village, the streets became full of standing vehicles. There was, however, almost no person in sight. Those that were still moving were going in the same direction we were. Even children were conspicuously absent. It was with greater and greater difficulty that I found space for the car to move. At last, in sight of the large square that seems to form the center of all Alarian towns, as it does of all New England towns, we came, perforce, to a stop. Four slow-moving vehicles closed in behind us, with still more coming, effectually blocking that way out. Ahead of us a vast crowd mulled, shouting, gesticulating. We were stopped again. I began to feel that Herrovosca was the ultimate and dearly attainable goal of those who had served a proper term in purgatory. From somewhere in the distance, standing, apparently, on the fountain in the center of the square, a man was addressing the crowd. A man, as I could see, with a long white beard, and long white hair that reached to his shoulders. He held a staff in his hand, with a crucifix on the top. More vehicles came up behind us, their occupants jumping out, and rushing on to the square. Here, undoubtedly, was news, if we could get someone to interpret it for us, but the first need was for a doctor, since we had to halt, anyway. John could walk alone, but I helped him out to make sure. We skirted our way around the standing vehicles, and found a crooked alley, empty of people, and at its end, near the square, there was a doctor’s sign. I rang the old-fashioned bell. There was no answer. I rang again, and still again. At last I heard slow feet shuffling a little, and the door was opened grudgingly by an old, deaf woman, who waited for us to speak, scowling, with her hand to her ear. I took refuge in signs, pointing to John’s arm, and repeating the one word, “doctor,” the same in so many languages that I hoped she might understand it. She beckoned us to follow her, and shambled along the passage, grunting as she walked. Presently we heard shouts and the revivalistic sound of the white-beard’s voice, and then we were ushered into a room overlooking the square. There the old woman left us, shutting the door carefully behind her. While we waited I looked out of the window. We were not half a city block from the fountain and the man on it. It was a remarkable thing to watch, though we did not know what it was all about. He seemed to be having difficulties with his audience. He was answering questions from all sides at once, and dramatically waving his arms. From our vantage point we could see his face plainly when he turned in our direction. He was younger than his white hair suggested, and rather fine looking in a patriarchal fashion reminiscent of moving picture Bible scenes. His eyes were large and dark, his nose aquiline. Words were audible to us, but we could not understand them. At last a man came into the room, and I turned as I heard him close the door behind me. He seemed excited. I spoke to him in German, and hoped that he believed me when I told him that we had been shot at on the highway, probably by robbers, and my friend must have his wound dressed. “What is the matter with your hands?” he asked John. “I blistered them fixing our car,” John replied innocently, “and a very charming young lady insisted upon bandaging them up in this absurd way.” He reached for a pair of surgical scissors the doctor had laid out, to take the bandages off, but I stopped him. “You are better off that way,” I said, “let them be, for a while. You don’t want to do anything with your hands, anyway, so what is the difference?” The doctor gave us a suspicious look, but got to work, though he divided his attention somewhat between John and the scene out of the window. Twice, a woman dashed into the room and shouted something at him, at which he grew still more excited. “I wish you would tell us what this is all about,” I said, “who is the man on the fountain?” “A mad monk,” he said, “who says he is sent by God to lead the people of Alaria to a holier form of government. He is an old hermit who is said to have worked miracles. He is quite mad but some of the people believe him and there will be trouble here unless something is done.” “Why not arrest him?” I asked. The doctor shook his head. “We would not dare,” he said. “In Alaria the supernatural is always a higher power than any other. But we have one sure savior.” “Who?” John asked, though I saw he knew the answer. “Fakat Zol, the Black Ghost,” the doctor said, simply. “If you do not keep quiet I cannot help hurting you. Our hetman has sent a message to him. He will come soon, I hope.” “Do Alarian ghosts always come when they are sent for?” I asked. “This is a live ghost,” the doctor answered, winding yards of bandage around John’s arm. “It is fortunate, too, for with a strange impostor in Herrovosca, to be crowned as Queen, and a prophet here, raising a mob, we need something more than police to keep order.” “But surely,” I said, “if this Princess can establish her identity that will be the end of the trouble?” “That has been the beginning of the trouble,” the doctor said, coldly. “No pretender can ever establish his identity to everyone’s satisfaction, nor can one ever be proved a fraud to everyone’s conviction. There will always be some who believe or disbelieve and make trouble. But something will happen. The Black Ghost, or Prince Conrad, who is the rightful king, will find a way to arrange matters.” “Then,” I asked, “there are two rulers in Alaria now?” “No,” he answered, “there is only one ruler in Alaria.” “Conrad?” John asked. “No, the Black Ghost,” the doctor answered, and laughed. “And who is the Black Ghost?” I asked, “does anyone know? Is he just a bandit chief, or an Alarian in good standing who plays this part as a side issue?” The doctor frowned. “There must be some who know,” he said, “but they do not tell. The great mass of the people believe he is really the old crusader, Fakat Zol. Even many of his followers believe that. If it were not so he would have no power. As it is, if that statue of the Holy Virgin should step down from the front of the church and the Black Ghost said it was a trick of the devil, the people would believe the Black Ghost.” He tied the end of the bandage, and began putting away his instruments. “Thank you,” John said, “and now we must go back to our car. Alarian politics are not for us, even though a prophet and the ghost of a crusader are about to do battle before our eyes. I’d like to see it so I could tell about it when we’re home again where things like that don’t happen. Still, we started for Herrovosca, and as soon as this meeting breaks up enough to let us through the streets, we must go on. Also, our car will be robbed if we leave it alone.” “Two Americans going to Herrovosca in a car,” the doctor said ruminatively. “Yes,” John answered, “thanks for doing my arm—if you’ll let us settle our bill now—” The noise in the square was increasing momentarily. The prophet’s voice was no longer audible above the shouts of the townsfolk. Suddenly a stone crashed through a window not far away. We could hear the breaking glass, and then the storm broke. The doctor turned to us, “You had better wait here,” he said, “it won’t be safe for you to go out, even by the back way. Besides, you gentlemen have not yet explained to me this gunshot wound. The only bandits of the mountains are Fakat Zol’s men. They do not fire on harmless travellers. In order that you may remain here quite safely I will lock the door as I go out.” He smiled, not pleasantly, and went out quite suddenly. The key turned in the lock on the other side of the door. I started to intercept him, but since I had been standing by the window and he had been beside the door while he spoke, I was too late. We were prisoners again. “If,” said John, “we ever get back to a slightly less hospitable country I shall feel lonely and neglected. This sound of keys that turn in locks has grown to be a familiar lullaby.” “Let’s see what they do to the prophet,” I said, and went back to the window. The sound of keys turning in locks had become so familiar to me that I scarcely paid any attention to it. John, exhausted by his wound and its dressing, stayed on the sofa. “Funny,” he groaned, “that of all the doctors in Alaria we should have happened to come to this man, who is obviously such a staunch adherent of Conrad’s.” “Not funny a bit,” I said, “it would have been a bit of amazing luck if we had happened to find one who wasn’t. Those two women are not exactly popular heroines.” Outside was the greatest confusion. The prophet was no longer on the fountain. In his place half a dozen men were standing, all speaking at once, but no one paying much attention to them. Every once in a while a stone crashed through a window, or someone screamed. Then, from somewhere to the left, came the sound of a trumpet. “The gendarmes!” I cried. “Listen, John.” The crowd parted slowly, and into the square rode a small troop of cavalry. We were in a second story window, and I could see uninterruptedly from the moment they entered the square. At their head rode the Black Ghost, on a black horse, his crusader’s cross showing white against his breast. All his men were in black, and rode black horses, and every man in the troop wore a short black mask across the upper part of his face. Only the Black Ghost was entirely covered, even to the hands. “Enter the villain of the piece,” I said. “It’s our old friend, Fakat Zol.” “I guess that lets us out of our week-end in Herrovosca,” John said, “I wonder where he’ll send us now, and what he has done with the Countess Waldek? She thought we’d have her message delivered by now. I wonder who the devil he is, anyway?” “Devil is right,” I said, “and that door is far too thick to smash without being heard, even supposing there’s no one guarding the other side of it. Too bad. This is our only chance for a getaway. This time they’ll shut us up so we can’t get out.” “There’s the window,” said John. “With your wounded arm? You’d never be able to get through that crowd. They’d jostle you and you’d faint again.” There was a narrow iron balcony outside the window and it was not so very high above the street. We could have dropped without any special risk, perhaps, if there had not been such a crowd below, and if, on a similar balcony belonging to the next room, the doctor and various members of his household had not been standing. They were shouting and cheering, “Fakat Zol! Fakat Zol! Fakat Zol!” The black troop rode straight through the square to the fountain. There they paused, and Fakat Zol, scorning the eminence of the masonry beside him, raised one arm straight above his head in the fashion made famous by the Fascisti. It is a dramatic gesture, and he was a dramatic personification of direct action and force to people to whom pageantry is the outward and visible sign of authority. And he was more than that. He was a holy creature, a saint, supernatural, a subject for worship and the hero of an infinite number of legends. Friends and enemies alike were his publicity agents. “I’d like to know,” I said, “that Helena’s safe, though I’m damned if I think she deserves to be. So far as I can see she’s an out-and-out political meddler.” “She probably has the best of intentions,” John answered, “and I don’t like to think of her in trouble, but I quite agree. Still, I think we must try to deliver her message to the Queen, though I’m inclined to wish no one had ever interfered with Conrad. That girl Maria Lalena, or whoever she is, is too young to know what she’s about.” I agreed, decidedly. “Pretty girl, too,” said John, thoughtfully. “We mustn’t be too hard on them, though it’s the craziest scheme I ever heard of even if she really is the Princess.” “Yes,” I said, “I’d like to know who thought of the whole silly plot in the first place, and who persuaded my poor cousin to go into it. Being Queen of a poverty-stricken, unsettled Balkan country isn’t my idea of a proper destiny for a young girl who ought to be going to dances and having a lot of trips to Paris, and all that sort of thing.” “Queen Yolanda thought of it,” John said, “it fairly reeks of her.” “Thought of what?” I asked. “Killing her son, or only of importing this girl to take his place?” “Oh,” John said. “Suppose Fakat to be responsible for killing Bela, what more natural than that a lady who had been practically the ruler of the country for a number of years should object to relinquishing her place to an old hermit brother-in-law, and want to keep her position as mother of a weak, or at least inexperienced ruler? No doubt it had got to be a habit.” “Don’t be too sure,” I interposed, “it may quite well be that the girl really is the Princess. If the old lady had wanted her only daughter brought up away from the court, what could be more natural than that she should give her to her only disinterested friend, a woman whom she could trust, and who lived nearby, and yet outside the country?” “Yes,” John admitted, “not that it is going to make much difference, as I see it. Her fate isn’t going to be determined by her identity, but by Conrad and the Black Ghost. My guess is that they mean to assassinate her as quietly as possible, blame it on someone else, and take the throne.” I agreed, but said that it wasn’t any of our affair, anyway, but that we must get Helena’s message to the Queen. “All I wish,” John said, “is that I were sure that that nice Countess Visichich were not mixed up in the assassination part. That I should hate.” “Our business at present,” I said, “is to get out of this place before we are returned with thanks to the more careful custody of our black-masked friend. We may be able to save the girl’s life, and save Countess Visichich from even a reflected guilt in her death.” “Bravo,” said John, “and a splendid chance of escape we’d have hopping on the heads of that mob out there. You might try picking the lock of that door, though.” “Ever try it?” “No.” “Besides, we haven’t anything to pick it with. Have to have something in the way of tools.” “Oh, for a woman with hairpins.” “Those days are passed. They all have cropped hair except your favorite Countess Visichich.” “She’d do nicely. Still, if we were to raise some sort of disturbance—” “Have to be a good deal of disturbance before it would be heard over this excitement.” “Couldn’t we set the house on fire?” “That’s arson. After all, we’re not criminals, and there’s strong practical objection in that we’d probably be burned up in it before they noticed.” “Yes, but if we made a smudge, and they thought it was on fire—” “I’m afraid there’d still be more chance of smothering ourselves than of attracting their attention.” He gave up the idea, then, and we both sat down gloomily to wait. The crowd outside calmed down, and little by little it thinned, as the excitement faded. The Black Ghost went into the house next door, and his troop sat their horses under our window. The mob was still disturbed, and from time to time a new center of argument would bubble up, and die out again after a few shouts. The presence of the black masked horsemen was wonderfully soothing. At last the key turned again in the lock and the doctor reappeared. “This way, gentlemen, if you please,” he said. John rose a little unsteadily, and we followed the doctor down a corridor, and through two rooms and a heavy door in a thick wall, into a dining room. Behind a long table, in a high-backed, red-cushioned chair, sat Fakat Zol in state. Around him were grouped three of his followers in their outlandish uniform, and several men of the town, looking very important with reflected mystery. The Black Ghost spoke in a somewhat husky voice. “We meet again, a little sooner than I expected.” He had taken off the gloves that covered his hands when I saw him from the window. He waved John to a chair with a hand that should have worn a ruby ring. Automatically I looked for it. It was not there. John answered him, smiling, and seeming to have lost his weakness. “Perhaps a little sooner than any of us wished,” he suggested. “I am sorry you ’ave suffered a wound,” the Black Ghost went on, “and yet I am very glad that it brought you ’ere. I am sure Doctor Carlo ’as given you the best of medical care, and I ’ope you are not in pain.” He seemed very much concerned, yet I would not allow myself to be deceived. He was a bandit. We were to be disposed of by him, and though he was as pleasant as ever, I felt that something was wrong. It was not that he seemed displeased with us, quite the contrary. But he seemed changed. John noticed it, too. He was staring at him thoughtfully. The accent was the same, but the voice, for all its huskiness, was more debonair. I argued that a sudden success had wrought the change. That was bad for us, in one way, yet it might be that we could count on him now to be more magnanimous to two American citizens. Still, who would ever know anything about it if he were not? “You ’ave escaped twice from my—er—our—’ospitality. They say the number three is symbolic of good luck.” “A singular recurrence of good luck, certainly,” said John. “Exactly. The Black Ghost brings good luck to ’is friends. Though you ’ave opposed yourselves to me, I feel that you would like to be my friends. Is that not so?” “That might be true if we knew you better,” John said. The Black Ghost laughed. “That is what I mean,” he said. “I believe you gentlemen wish to go to Herrovosca to see Queen Yolanda. At least that is the way I interpreted the news of the ’ole between your room and that occupied by a certain lady. Now, it may be a surprise to you if I withdraw my objection to your going there. As prisoners, gentlemen, you are very troublesome. I think I would rather ’ave you for friends. If you will give me your word of honor to say nothing of what you ’ave learned of the politics of the Visichich family, or of the location of the castle in the mountains, you may go to Herrovosca. Except, I ask you to do me a favor.” “And what sort of favor can we do you?” I asked, feeling that it would probably prove a joker. “I ’ave a passenger for you as far as Herrovosca.” “A passenger?” I repeated, stupidly. “Yes. Only one.” “May we ask the identity of this passenger?” “It is the self-styled prophet who was preaching from the fountain. ’e is a mad monk, a ’ermit, who takes every opportunity to preach sedition to people who believe ’im a saint. ’e is suppose to ’ave effected a few miraculous cures. ’e is a great fakir, but ’armless except at a time like this, when any slight disturbance may create a civil war. I do not wish to arrest ’im ’ere for fear the people may take ’is part. ’e ’as refused to go with my men to Herrovosca, though ’e wishes to go there, but ’e ’as agreed to go with two American tourists. If you will not take ’im I will arrest ’im, but this way may prevent bloodshed.” “That sounds most reasonable,” said John. “It is best that you should not speak to ’im, nor to answer ’im if ’e speaks to you. ’e ’as also promised not to speak, though I am not so sure ’e will keep ’is word. You will drive by the straight road, going through the city as far as the church of St. Nicholas. There you will turn to the left. Do not mistake that. At the Central Bridge you will be met by police who will remove the Prophet from the car, and you will be free to do, from that time forward, whatever it may please you, even so far as a visit to our Dowager Queen.” “Well,” said John, “of all the topsy-turvy countries I’ve ever been in—though, of course, that is no affair of ours.” “None,” said the Black Ghost, “unless, of course, you would wish to make it so.” “And the alternative?” I asked. “The alternative—will be to return to the frontier under guard—immediately.” “We’re not interested in the alternative,” John said. “Are we, Carvin?” Of course I had to protest that we were not. I wasn’t, really, either, though I was beginning to wish we’d stop somewhere a little while. “The Doctor Carlo’s most charming wife ’as prepared some food for you to eat upon the journey,” the Black Ghost went on. “That is so you need not stop on the way. There is no ’urry to ’ave you arrive there, but I do not wish you to stop with your passenger, ’e might jump out.” “We haven’t enough petrol,” I said. The Black Ghost turned to one of his men, and gave an order in Alarian. “Your tank will be filled immediately,” he said. “Anything else you wish?” “We should like our passports back,” I suggested. “Ah, your passports. Oh, yes, to be sure. I shall ’ave to send for them, but I promise you shall ’ave them back again.” He turned to the doctor and spoke again in Alarian. The doctor fumbled in his pocket and drew out a card with an official-looking stamp on it. The Black Ghost motioned him to give it to me. “That,” he explained, “is a pass that will take you through any police lines. With it you will be able to reach the servants in the Royal Palace. No doubt you ’ave been provided with some means of gaining an interview with the Queen after that. Can you think of anything else you will require?” “Nothing,” I said. “Naturally,” he continued, “you will do your passenger no ’arm of any sort on the way. I think he will not try to make any trouble for you. You give me your word of honor, gentlemen?” “My word of honor,” I answered. “Mine, also,” said John. “Then you will start immediately. Oh, one thing more. Your passenger may understand any language that you do. Kindly say nothing to each other during the trip. There will be no necessity for speech.” He waved his hand, and four of his black-masked followers went with us, out of the house, by the same back way we had entered. The alley was crowded now, but not too much so for passage back to the car, where another Black Mask was already filling the gas tank from two large tin cans. We would have got in the front seat, but our guards stopped us, and we stood waiting until two more Black Masks joined us, leading the Prophet between them. They put him in front next to me, standing close to him to prevent his jumping out. He was followed by a large crowd who eyed us all curiously. Meanwhile John got into the tonneau, and I heard him say “damn!” in a surprised tone. “All right?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered, “quite. Get in.” I mounted beside the prophet. “Straight ahead on this road,” directed one of the masked men, “make no turning until you come back to the main road, then turn to your left. About a hundred kilometers farther.” I started the car with a groan of relief. We were again on our much-interrupted way to Herrovosca. The road was too full of people to make quick time at first, but as soon as we were out of the congested area I stepped on the gas. At last there seemed to be nothing between us and our goal, though I could not help wondering what had happened to make the Black Ghost change his mind about letting us go. However, just driving again without feeling hunted was such fun that I relaxed presently, for the first time in days, and stepped on the accelerator, hard. We came to the wide, metalled main road, and made splendid time. Farther on we topped a hill, and saw below us again the broad, fertile valley beyond which was Herrovosca. In the distance I could just see, a little mistily, the towers and roofs of the city. My watch had stopped the night before, but by the position of the sun I judged it to be about the same time of day we had passed this way three days before, fatuously running away from possible trouble. We made splendid time. I wanted to comment on it to John, but remembered in time not to speak. I glanced back at him. He was smoking quietly, and winked at me. He was having a fine Roman holiday. In half an hour or so more we would be in the city again, and rid of our passenger and our responsibilities. The prophet sat straight and silent all the way, holding fast to his cross-handled staff, his eyes fixed on the city with a fanatic intensity. It was quite evident he was not expecting arrest there. It was a little cruel of us to deceive him, I felt. We passed the little inn where we had bought bread and mutton and wine on our way to Helena’s. Gradually the small houses grew more frequent, they assumed the style of villas, their gardens became more ornamental, the traffic was heavier, and then we were suddenly in the city again, where we had so often despaired of being. The shadows were lengthening. I did not remember the way very well, but he had said straight to the church of St. Nicholas, then right—or left?—to the river. I could not remember which it was, so I tried to think of all the things the Black Ghost had said, but still I could not determine whether it was right or left. Then I came to the church of St. Nicholas, and slowed down while I motioned to John. He pointed to the right. I turned that way. I did not know the bridges by name, but I knew that Central Bridge must be a large one, so I drove on until we came to a large bridge. I drove beyond it, and then turned widely so as not to stop the car, and drove back, looking for gendarmes. There were none. I decided that that was the wrong bridge, and drove on farther the same way, until I came to another. There were no gendarmes there, either, so I went on still farther. And at the next there were also no gendarmes, so I continued, but came suddenly to the high city wall, with a great gate through it. There were no more bridges, so I turned around to go back. But there was not so much space to turn there, and I had to stop and back and stop and back again. The second time I stopped, the prophet suddenly opened the door at his side, and jumped out. He stood for a moment beside the car, holding up three fingers of his right hand in blessing. We had been told not to harm him or to speak to him, so I left him there, not knowing what else to do with him. As soon as we saw some gendarmes we could tell them where we had left him. John said “what the hell!” I said, “what could I do?” “Nothing,” he answered. “It was their fault not to meet us. You either drove faster than they expected or didn’t go to the right bridge. We ought to have grabbed him, but there is a reason back here why I couldn’t.” “Oh, it’s their own fault,” I said. “Are you all in?” “No,” he said. “Keep on moving and I’ll tell you. We have a second passenger. He’s hidden under the robe back here. I stepped on him as I got into the car in that town. I almost gave the show away saying ‘damn.’ It’s the chap who dropped the plaster on us. He was in the car before we left Visichich manor, and he seems to want to stay hidden.” “So while they were looking for him outside the manor,” I said, “he was in the car?” “They were not looking for me,” answered a muffled voice. “There was another riot. There will be many. I heard them talking about it when they took the other cars. I was afraid they would take this one, too, but they did not. They had not missed me. But now I must quickly be taken to the Palace. No one must see me.” “Why should we take you to the Palace?” John asked. “For all we know you may be an assassin. We don’t even know any name to call you by, right or wrong.” “I cannot tell you my name,” the man said, “but I did give you a pass to the Queen, did I not? If you will try to use that you will see that it will be honored.” “You may have stolen it.” “I will write you another, and you may see me write it. It also will be honored.” “The Queen knows you, then?” “Yes, yes, she knows me. But I am in great danger here if anyone should see me. I have enemies. Enemies to the King. Enemies to the Queen.” “John,” I said, “if he’ll write another pass, and you see him do it, and they think it is all right at the Palace, I guess we’d better take him up there. But we won’t vouch for him.” There was a half-choked expletive from under the blanket, which stopped abruptly, and then changed to saccharine sweetness. “Any way you like, gentlemen,” the voice said. “Stop the car while I write, but be sure there is no one to see me. I cannot write while the car moves.” We went through the little ceremony without mishap. John compared the signatures on the two passes. “Whatever this is meant for,” he said, “it is quite illegible, but the two look exactly alike.” “All right,” I agreed, “we’ll go, but I shall tell the guards that we do not know the man, and are not responsible for him, and that I shall feel safer if he is carefully watched.” “I don’t care what you tell the guards,” came from under the robe. “Only I wish to be taken to the Royal Palace, and queeck. Perhaps you know what has been happening since I was in prison?” I heard John say, “why, yes, a little, I guess. Though we don’t really know much of what has been going on the last two days. We’ve been about as much out of touch as you have. Of course you knew the King is dead?” “Oh. The King is dead! No, I did not know that.” “Yes, assassinated.” “Ah. The poor King! And is Conrad already in power in the Palace, then?” “No. The Queen sprung a surprise on everybody. She produced a princess everyone thought was dead. Maria Lalena is Queen of Alaria now.” “Maria Lalena!” the voice whispered, and I could not tell whether the man was laughing or sobbing, but his voice was shaking. “You are sure the Queen did that, not Conrad?” “Look here,” I said. “This doesn’t sound right to me. Who the devil are you, anyway?” “That I must not tell you.” “I am afraid to take you to the Palace unless you do.” “I am a monk,” he said, “attached to the service of the Royal Family. I was King Bela’s confidant, and, in many things, the Queen’s also, but of this Princess Maria Lalena I knew nothing. Gentlemen, I beg of you, take me to the Royal Palace.” And, still doubting the safety and wisdom of the course, I did. A sentry stood motionless on either side of the gate. John leaned forward, and showed the pass the monk had written. “Do you know that signature?” He asked in German. The man saluted smartly. “Yes, sir,” he answered. “Certainly I know it, but we have orders to allow no one to enter here without a special pass signed within twenty-four hours. I am sorry.” “Oh,” John said. “I did not notice that that had a date. Here, anyway, is one signed within twenty-four hours, for I saw it signed myself.” He offered the second of our passenger’s signed slips of paper. For answer, the two sentries stared for an instant, and then thrust their bayonets at us, and called out. Two more men appeared from behind the gate. “You are under arrest,” said the first man. |
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