It was very dark, very stuffy, and a strong, malodorous suggestion of garlic pervaded the little cafÉ. The ordinary customers of the place preferred always the round tables outside, and very few passed through the worn swing doors which led to the gloomy interior. The two men who occupied one of the small partitions had the place to themselves.

“It is not the time, this, for any weak scruples, my dear Reist,” Domiloff was saying. “Theos in a week’s time will be either a Russian State forever, or once more a free country with a ruler who is one of her own sons, and in whom my master can repose every confidence. You see I am very frank with you. I admit that this attack upon your country is the will and the decree of Russia. It was broached in London, confirmed in St. Petersburg, and planned in Constantinople. Yet, believe me, it was conceived in no spirit of enmity to Theos. It is simply this. We will not have a Tyrnaus upon the throne of Theos.”

“Your country,” Reist answered, hoarsely, “has no great reputation for generosity. What are we to pay for our freedom? You would not have me believe that there is no price.”

“There is none,” was the quiet answer, “which you, as a patriot and a Thetian, need hesitate to pay. We should require the abolition of the present edict prohibiting Russians from holding public offices, and a few more such unimportant concessions. They are nothing. They will serve only to knit our countries more closely together in friendship.”

Reist laughed hardly.

“Yet I think,” he said, “that the freedom of Theos would become somewhat of a jest were I to accept your terms.”

“The alternative,” Domiloff remarked, “may seem more pleasing to you. Yet I have heard people say unpleasant things of the Turkish yoke.”

“Theos is not yet conquered,” Reist answered. “Ughtred, to do him justice, is a soldier, and my people have the love of fighting born in their hearts.”

“The odds are too great—and you know it,” was the quiet reply. “Besides, the Turkish army is led by Russians and supplied with Russian artillery. The result is certain.”

“There may be intervention!”

“From whom?” Domiloff asked, smiling. “France is the monkey who dances to my master’s music—Austria is bound to us, Germany is geographically powerless.”

“There is England.”

Domiloff laughed outright.

“England as a European Power,” he declared, “has ceased to exist. A few Dutch farmers have pricked the bubble of her military reputation. If she should have the sublime impudence to lift her voice we should treat her with the contempt she has earned. No, Reist, there will be no intervention. Your brave Thetians will be cut to pieces, your country will be pillaged and burned, your women will become the consorts of the Turkish soldiery, your ladies will go to grace a Turkish harem. These things must be unless you have the courage to hold out your hand. You call yourself a patriot. Prove it! The issue is plain enough.”

The words bit into Reist’s heart. He sat in gloomy silence. From afar off he seemed to hear the battle-cry of his beloved soldiers, the thunder of hoofs, the flashing steel, the glory of the charge thrilled his blood. There was patriotism indeed—there, where the lances dripped red and the bullets flew. And he, Nicholas of Reist, sat skulking in the back room of a doubtful cafÉ, safely out of harm’s reach, talking treason with one who had ever been the foremost of his country’s enemies.

“You bought Metzger,” he said, “and the people cast him out. You may buy me, and yet the people will not accept your terms. They will not have Russians in authority over them. The hatred of your country is a religion with them.”

“They believe in you as they would believe in no other man,” Domiloff answered. “You can make the situation clear to them. In your heart you know that it is their only salvation.”

“They may save their skins,” Reist admitted, “but after all life is a short thing. It is better to die like gods than to live like slaves.”

Domiloff shook his head.

“My friend,” he said, “there is but one life that we know anything of, and it should not be lightly thrown away. You can save Theos if you will. Supposing, however, that you are obstinate—that you cling to your ancient prejudices—well, what will you do then? Consider your position. You have quarrelled with the King. Your place in the army has gone, you have surrendered your sword. How can you ever show yourself in Theos again, who lingered here in the hour of battle? Be wise, my friend. Before you there is but one possible course. Take it. The day will come when every man who calls himself a Thetian will bless your name.”

“Or curse it!” Reist muttered.

“Curse it, indeed,” Domiloff answered, “if you play the coward. It is the hour now for a strong man to rise. You are that man. Ughtred of Tyrnaus, whom you call your king, is even now forging the fetters to lead Theos into slavery. It is for you to thrust him aside and save your people.”

“His is the nobler way,” Reist cried, bitterly. “Domiloff, I can listen to you no longer. I am not the man you seek. My feet are not used to these tortuous ways. I will ask the King’s pardon. He will give me back my sword, and I can at least find a glorious death.”

“You can fight then for a King who has deprived you of your sword?” Domiloff whispered. “You can forgive him the insult he has thrust upon your sister. You can bear to think of her, slighted for the daughter of an American tradesman. Who is Ughtred of Tyrnaus that he should do this thing, and that the Duke of Reist should ask his pardon!”

Reist ground his teeth.

“I can force my way into the ranks and fight unknown,” he said, hoarsely. “It would be better to die there than to live to listen to your poisonous whisperings. I do not trust you, Domiloff. I cannot. I have no pledge that you would keep your word.”

A sudden change flashed into the white face of the Russian. He sat perfectly still—listening. Reist opened his lips to ask a question, but it remained unasked. He, too, heard the sound. Somewhere behind the partition a man’s breathing was distinctly audible. Domiloff’s hand sought his pocket, and he rose softly to his feet.

The intruder, whoever he might be, did not hesitate for a second. He leaped through the window by which he had entered, and ran down the passage. Domiloff followed him, and peering forward fired a couple of shots in rapid succession. Apparently they were fruitless, for the fugitive gained the open space in front of the cafÉ and mingled with the crowd. There was a rush of bystanders towards the two men, but Domiloff raised his hands and cried in Thetian—

“A Turk! A Turk! A spy! Follow him!”

There was a rush across the street. Domiloff and Reist exchanged rapid glances with one another.

“A spy indeed, but a spy from the other side,” Domiloff muttered. “I wonder how much he heard.”

But Reist was speechless. To him the interruption had come like the awakening from a horrible dream. There was a man then—a man of Theos who knew him for a traitor.

The hue and cry had left them alone. Suddenly Domiloff stooped down. A soft felt hat lay almost at their feet. Through the brim and crown was a small round hole.

“It is his hat,” Domiloff muttered. “Why did I not aim an inch lower?”

He struck a match, and looked for the name inside the lining. It was Scott and Co., Bond Street, London.

Reist felt his cheeks burn, though the night was cool. Domiloff’s voice sounded unnaturally calm.

“It was the Englishman then, Walter Brand. Good!”

“The King’s friend,” Reist faltered.

Domiloff nodded.

“I do not think,” he said, “that he will ever see the King again.”