The King entered from his ante-chamber and took his place at the head of the long table amidst a profound and depressing silence. The faces of his counsellors were grave indeed. The military members were all at the front. Those who remained were the merchants and men of peace, and to them the guns whose roar seemed ever increasing spelled ruin.

Old Baron Doxis took the chair. He opened the proceedings with dim eyes and a shaking voice. Theos was dear to him, but so also were his sons and nephews, some of whom he could scarcely hope to see again. The routine business was quickly dispensed with. The King in a few sentences told them the war news of the day.

Then Baron Doxis rose again.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “this meeting of our Inner Council you yourself have pronounced an wholly informal one. We are sitting here with closed doors. We are all, I believe, patriots and Thetians. Let me ask your Majesty, therefore, if every means have been tried to avoid the destruction which threatens us?”

The faces of all were turned towards the King.

“My friends,” he said, slowly, “I have heard it whispered, not amongst you, perhaps, but yet amongst those who might have known me better, that this war is the outcome of my own military activity, that it is a war which might have been prevented. Let me implore you not to give credit to any such idea. It is a cruel war, an unjust war, and—we must look the worst in the face. It may mean the extinction of Theos as an independent nation. But it has been brutally thrust upon us. We have been powerless to avoid it. We have given no offence, we have striven for peace, knowing that by peace alone we can prosper. The pretext for the commencement of hostilities was a false one. An absolutely faithful account of all that passed between Effenden Pascha and ourselves has been set down on paper and forwarded to Constantinople—also to every Court in Europe. I have appealed to every reigning sovereign for intercession. What is left to us but to fight? The enemy have crossed our frontier. But for our dispositions and the bravery of our soldiers they would be even now at the gates of Theos. If I failed in my duty, tell me where. What could I have done?”

Baron Doxis rose up again.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “we do not presume to doubt your word. We believe in the justice of our cause, and we will believe that these movements on the part of the Turks are movements of ruthless aggression. But, bearing in mind our hopeless inferiority in numbers, I must ask whether any steps have been taken to ascertain the terms on which peace would be granted to us.”

The King’s face was set and grave.

“Baron Doxis,” he said, “we have not yet approached the Commander-in-Chief of the Turkish forces on this subject. But I can tell you well what the answer would be. The surrender of your army, of our city, the pillaging of our houses, the outraging of our women. Have you not yet learned how the Turks make war?”

Baron Doxis remained upon his feet. He passed his trembling hand along his snow-white beard.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “these are the days of civilized warfare, and it is possible that more restraint might be exercised over the Turkish soldiery now than in the days gone by. I humbly submit that the demands of the invaders be ascertained and submitted to us.”

The King remained silent for a minute. Then he looked up, and though his lips trembled his voice was firm enough.

“You can send your instructions to General Dartnoff,” he said. “I shall not interfere. At the same time, I feel bound to tell you that I look upon any such appeal as hopeless. We have no hope, save in God, in our arms, and from the possible intercession of one or more of the Powers.”

Tavener, a merchant, who was suspected of Jewish descent, rose timidly to his feet.

“Your Majesty has come to-night from the seat of war,” he said. “May we ask of these rumours concerning the Duke of Reist? It is rumoured that the Duke has abandoned his command and returned his sword to your Majesty.”

“The rumour is correct,” the King answered.

There was an uneasy murmur of voices. Baron Doxis rose.

“Your Majesty, we should esteem some further particulars as to this action on the part of the Duke of Reist. We have always been accustomed to consider him one of the born leaders of this country.”

“The resignation of the Duke,” Ughtred said, “is due to a personal matter which I am not at liberty to explain to you. No one can regret it more than I do.”

An ominous silence followed. Ughtred was conscious of it, yet there seemed to be nothing which he could do to dispel it. He knew that the loyalty of these men was being sorely taxed. In their hearts they believed him responsible for the war. This severance with Reist encouraged them in their belief. Baron Doxis rose slowly to his feet.

“Your Majesty,” he said, slowly, “as the oldest member of this council, as the oldest inhabitant of Theos here present, will you permit me to say a word respecting the Duke of Reist?”

The King inclined his head.

“I am prepared to hear you, Baron Doxis,” he said.

“The Duke of Reist,” Doxis continued, “is the sole representative of the one family in Theos who for centuries have served their country faithfully as true patriots. The Duke of Reist it was who is solely responsible for the restoration of the monarchy. It was he who found your Majesty out and brought you here to reign over us.”

Ughtred looked up.

“I am conscious,” he said, “of all that Nicholas of Reist has done for Theos. I know, too, what I personally owe him. I believe him at heart to be a true and devoted patriot. Yet for all this the quarrel between us is not of my seeking. I cannot go to him and order him into the field. Seek him yourselves, if you will. He has spoken words to me which no one, not even the first noble in Christendom, has a right to use to his sovereign. I pass that over. I demand no apology. Let him resume his place in the field and his command, if he will. I would not place my own dignity before the good of Theos. The Assembly is dismissed, gentlemen.”

The King retired to his own apartments. His servant was in waiting.

“Your Majesty has four hours before the time appointed for the special train,” he announced. “The sleeping chamber is prepared.”

Ughtred waved him away.

“I shall not retire,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

He leaned forward in his easy-chair and buried his face in his hands. Only a month ago life had seemed such a fair thing. He had been full of plans and dreams. He had envied no man in Europe. And now he seemed hemmed about with disaster. He was no longer the hero of the people. He had lost his best friend—between his counsellors and himself an ominous gulf was widening every hour. There were whispers of treason in the city, his isolation would soon become an accomplished fact. Almost his courage failed him.

The door was softly opened and closed. He looked up wearily, then sprang to his feet. It was Sara who was coming across the room towards him with outstretched hands.

“Sara.”

He took her into his arms, from which she presently escaped, and carefully disengaged herself. Already he felt better at the sight of her.

“How did you come here, Sara?” he asked.

“I used your ring,” she answered, showing it to him. “Father is in the next room.”

“Your father has been very useful,” he said. “He has been out with the engineer all day.”

She laughed.

“He is amusing himself. But, Ughtred, I came to talk to you for a moment. They tell me that you are going back to the front directly.”

“I must be there at daybreak,” he answered. “Until then we have granted them an armistice—to bury their dead.”

She nodded.

“I hear all about it. I was in the field-hospital all day, and the wounded were brought in shouting with joy. It was a great fight, Ughtred.”

An answering gleam flashed in his eyes.

“You should have been a soldier’s daughter, Sara.”

Her face was suddenly grave. She was standing by his side with her hands loosely clasped behind her, her eyes upturned to his.

“Ughtred,” she said, “I have come here to say something to you. There have been rumours of a quarrel between you and the Reists. Is that true?”

“There is something of the sort,” he admitted.

“They say that the Duke of Reist has thrown up his command.”

“Yes.”

“Is it true, Ughtred, that you went through some sort of a betrothal ceremony with the Countess of Reist?”

He laughed heartily. Then he told her the story. She listened with grave face.

“You were scarcely to blame,” she said, when he had finished. “But, Ughtred, I have begun to understand what should have been plain to me from the first—what you too should have thought of, perhaps. Our engagement would never be welcomed by your people. They love the old families and the old names. It would make you unpopular, and I believe it is at the bottom of your disagreement with the Reists. You must forget what you said, dear. It is best, indeed.”

He turned upon her for the moment almost fiercely. He was overwrought.

“You, too!” he exclaimed. “My God, how lonely people can leave a King when the evil times come.”

He saw her look of pain, and the tears fill her eyes. He turned suddenly and threw his arms about her.

“You love me, Sara. You do not want to take that back?”

“You know that I do not,” she answered.

“Then put these things away from you till these troubles are past. At least let me have you to think of and fight for. Afterwards we will speak of them again.”

She assented gladly.

“Only I want you to know, Ughtred,” she said, “that I will never become your wife if it is to lessen your hold upon your people here. I wish they could know it. Some of these poor wounded soldiers look at me as if I were their enemy. Why, it is terrible.”

He smiled reassuringly.

“When the war is over we will talk of this seriously,” he answered. “Listen.”

He threw up the blind. It was still dark and apparently raining, but away eastwards there was a break in the clouds, and the stars were paler. In the courtyard below a carriage was waiting. He dropped the blind hastily, picked up his cloak.

“I must go, Sara,” he declared. “Wish me luck, dear.”

She clung to him with suddenly swimming eyes. Her lips trembled—her face was very wistful.

“Oh, my dear! My dear,” she cried, softly, “if only I could bring you luck. If only I could be your mascotte.”

He laughed cheerily. His arms were around her, and she was comforted.

“There is no better mascotte for a man in this world,” he declared, “than the touch of the woman he loves. Send me back to the front, dear, with your kisses upon my lips and the sound of your voice in my ears, and I promise you that you shall hear great news.”

When Ughtred passed out a few minutes later a rumour went through the palace that good news had come. For the King held his head high, and his eyes were as the eyes of a man who goes forth to victory looking upon pleasant things.