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“But how dreadfully unmediaeval!–What will the public say?” I began.

“Bother the public!” he said gruffly. “Who’s running this dynasty–you or I? Come!” With the assistance of Fritz he tied up my face with a handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout of defiance, we three rushed madly into a closely packed third-class carriage.

Never shall I forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears of that mad journey. Panting, perspiring, packed together with cheap trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the King, we at last staggered out on the Kohlslau platform utterly exhausted. As we did so we heard a distant roar from the city. Fritz turned an ashen gray, Spitz a livid blue. “Are we too late?” he gasped, as we madly fought our way into the street, where shouts of “The King! The King!” were rending the air. “Can it be Black Michael?” But here the crowd parted, and a procession, preceded by outriders, flashed into the square. And there, seated in a carriage beside the most beautiful red-haired girl I had ever seen, was the King,–the King whom we had left two hours ago, dead drunk in the hut in the forest!

CHAPTERS III TO XXII (Inclusive)

IN WHICH THINGS GET MIXED

We reeled against each other aghast! Spitz recovered himself first. “We must fly!” he said hoarsely. “If the King has discovered our trick–we are lost!”

“But where shall we go?” I asked.

“Back to the hut.”

We caught the next train to Bock. An hour later we stood panting within the hut. Its walls and ceiling were splashed with sinister red stains. “Blood!” I exclaimed joyfully. “At last we have a real mediaeval adventure!”

“It’s Burgundy, you fool,” growled Spitz; “good Burgundy wasted!” At this moment Fritz appeared dragging in the hut-keeper.

“Where is the King?” demanded Spitz fiercely of the trembling peasant.

“He was carried away an hour ago by Black Michael and taken to the castle.”

“And when did he LEAVE the castle?” roared Spitz.

“He never left the castle, sir, and, alas! I fear never will, alive!” replied the man, shuddering.

We stared at each other! Spitz bit his grizzled mustache. “So,” he said bitterly, “Black Michael has simply anticipated us with the same game! We have been tricked. I knew it could not be the King whom they crowned! No!” he added quickly, “I see it all–it was Rupert of Glasgow!”

“Who is Rupert of Glasgow?” I cried.

“Oh, I really can’t go over all that family rot again,” grunted Spitz. “Tell him, Fritz.”

Then, taking me aside, Fritz delicately informed me that Rupert of Glasgow–a young Scotchman–claimed equally with myself descent from the old Rupert, and that equally with myself he resembled the King. That Michael had got possession of him on his arrival in the country, kept him closely guarded in the castle, and had hid his resemblance in a black wig and false mustache; that the young Scotchman, however, seemed apparently devoted to Michael and his plots; and there was undoubtedly some secret understanding between them. That it was evidently Michael’s trick to have the pretender crowned, and then, by exposing the fraud and the condition of the real King, excite the indignation of the duped people, and seat himself on the throne! “But,” I burst out, “shall this base-born pretender remain at Kohlslau beside the beautiful Princess Flirtia? Let us to Kohlslau at once and hurl him from the throne!”

“One pretender is as good as another,” said Spitz dryly. “But leave HIM to me. ‘Tis the King we must protect and succor! As for that Scotch springald, before midnight I shall have him kidnaped, brought back to his master in a close carriage, and you–YOU shall take his place at Kohlslau.”

“I will,” I said enthusiastically, drawing my sword; “but I have done nothing yet. Please let me kill something!”

“Aye, lad!” said Spitz, with a grim smile at my enthusiasm. “There’s a sheep in your path. Go out and cleave it to the saddle. And bring the saddle home!”