CHAPTER VI.

A ROYAL PROGRESS.

“Where is the King?” asked M. Drakovics, coming into the coffee-room hastily about an hour later, and finding only Cyril, who was engaged in performing some complicated operation with a bradawl and the strap of a knapsack.

“His Majesty,” returned Cyril, in the choicest ‘Court Circular’ style, “is walking out this morning, and at this moment is probably conversing in a friendly spirit with some of his faithful subjects, through the medium of Mr Louis O’Malachy.”

“These O’Malachys again!” cried M. Drakovics. “This must be stopped!”

He turned angrily to leave the room, but Cyril was at the door before him.

“One moment, monsieur. I wish to know on what terms we are to stand?”

“I do not understand you, milord”--M. Drakovics was astonished--“but I hope to satisfy you later. Meanwhile, are you aware that Colonel O’Malachy and his family leave this place to-day, before his Majesty, for Bellaviste, and intend to reside there for the present? That cannot be allowed.”

“Now we have come to the point,” said Cyril. “I want a plain answer to a plain question, M. Drakovics. Are you and I to work together or not? If we are to be friends, I will tell you at once that you are meditating a very great mistake, and that I should be glad to help you to avoid it.”

“Milord!” The Kossuth of the Balkans looked Cyril up and down in amazement visibly mingled with scorn. “I am highly honoured by your offer of co-operation, but my dull mind fails to perceive its advantages.”

“No?” said Cyril, with unruffled good-humour, “and yet there are two very obvious ones. In the first place, you have to reckon with my influence over my brother. You cannot persuade yourself that you know him as well as I do, and if you consider the matter a little, I think you will see that my advice is quite as likely to be followed as yours, and that the consequences of this might be unpleasant if you and I had the misfortune to disagree. In the second place, although you are very clever and very powerful, you are neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and there are circumstances in which the help of a man who has a certain amount of knowledge of the world, and some slight experience in diplomacy, might possibly stand you in good stead, even though he were the humble individual before you.”

M. Drakovics gasped. The colossal impudence of his sovereign’s brother appeared literally to take away his breath. “If you were not an Englishman,” he said, slowly, “I should think that you wanted to be bought off.”

“But since I am an Englishman,” said Cyril, “you can’t quite see what Thracia could offer me that I should care for; and you are about right there. I am going in for this business just for the fun of the thing, and for the sake of backing up Caerleon. I don’t know, of course, what Mrs Sadleir told you about me in the letter I forwarded; but from what she said when she wrote it, I think she must have let you know what my views were.”

“She did,” said M. Drakovics, with some hesitation, “but still----” He looked thoughtfully at Cyril for a moment, and then spoke quickly, “You have no doubt studied carefully the present position of affairs in the Balkans, milord. What should be my course at the moment with regard to Roum, which holds suzerain rights over Thracia?”

“Despatch a special messenger, well provided with money, to Czarigrad immediately,” said Cyril, without an instant’s pause. “Make the Government there see that the election of an Englishman as king is a fresh bulwark against Scythian aggression. Secure their moral support at any cost, and get an assurance, no matter what you have to pay for it, that even if Scythia brings pressure on them to censure or disavow your action, they will at least take no active steps against you.”

“Excellent!” cried M. Drakovics. “My dear friend, the messenger has already started. How your ideas jump with mine! But tell me, what next?”

“Send off immediately notes to the various Powers, informing them of my brother’s election, and inviting their sovereigns to be present at the coronation. Once the despatches are gone, don’t lose a minute. Instead of heading straight for Bellaviste, let us go at once to the nearest city or monastery where an archbishop is to be found. Beg, borrow, or buy a crown--you could make one with two or three of those gold plates from the _icons_, fastened together--and get Caerleon crowned without the smallest delay. Remonstrances from the Powers will be beginning to pour in by that time, of course; but they will have to follow you about the country, and you won’t open them until after the ceremony. Then you will regret that they arrived so late that, in the bustle and rush attendant upon the coronation, they remained unnoticed.”

“Oh, my friend, why were you not born a Thracian?” cried M. Drakovics, seizing Cyril in his arms, and imprinting a fervent kiss on each of his cheeks. “Your plan is almost perfect: it has only one drawback--that it is impossible. Every King of Thracia must be crowned in the chapel of St Peter at Bellaviste. It is a small, rude building, standing in the quadrangle of the palace, and in it Alexander Franza, first of the name--the patriot king--saw a vision of St Peter, the night before the great battle in which he burst the Roumi yoke. No other coronation would be valid in the opinion of the people, nor can the crown be legally removed from the chapel. It is kept in a great chest built into the wall, of which I hold one key, the Metropolitan another, and the king the third. I have it now to deliver to his Majesty, but none of the keys will open the box without the other two. Your brother cannot be crowned until we reach Bellaviste, for no make-shift crown would be tolerated by the Thracians.”

“It is an enormous pity,” said Cyril. “Time is everything to us just now. Why not disregard the superstition of the people, and spring on them a king ready crowned, and safe on his throne?”

“Ah, you do not know my countrymen,” said M. Drakovics, sorrowfully. “Such a thing would be an outrage, a defiance of their religious feelings. No, we must wait until we reach Bellaviste; but I will take your advice as to the protests from the Powers. What is your feeling about Scythia?”

“Send the same note to her as to the other Powers; but let it be well understood privately that if she makes one hostile movement, you are prepared to contest every inch of ground, and will at the same moment throw yourself upon the protection of Pannonia, who will be only too ready to interfere if there is any likelihood of war in the Balkans, and will be supported by her allies. Meanwhile, see that your army is ready to mobilise at the shortest notice, and look out for Scythian spies.”

“But that is my very point!” cried M. Drakovics. “These O’Malachys are Scythian spies, all of them. That is one imperative reason for their not being allowed to approach Bellaviste, and the other is that Madame O’Malachy is anxious to entrap the King into marrying her daughter.”

“Let us take the charges one at a time,” said Cyril, calmly. “The O’Malachy and his wife are spies--there is no doubt of that--but for that very reason I would not only welcome them to Bellaviste, but I would find room for them in the palace itself, if I could.”

“You are joking!” said M. Drakovics, in astonishment.

“Not at all, I assure you. Think a moment. The more completely we can treat the O’Malachy family as my brother’s guests, the better we can have them under observation. There is such a thing as a censorship even of private letters and telegrams in disturbed times, I believe; and it would be easier to work it with people we knew, and on whom we kept a constant watch, than with obscure persons whose doings might escape our attention. Again, expelled from Thracia, which is what I suppose you would suggest, the O’Malachys would linger just across the frontier, setting in motion a whole horde of spies, all of whom we could not hope to discover, while we could never be sure that they themselves had not re-entered the kingdom in some disguise. It certainly seems a bold thing to admit them into the very heart of our defences, but they would be clever if they managed to see more than they were meant to see.”

“But about Mademoiselle?” asked M. Drakovics, anxiously. “The King cannot marry her. He must form an alliance which will strengthen his throne.”

“You are right,--he must. But did you intend to tell him so? I know Caerleon a good deal better than you do, and you may take my word for it that as soon as you had finished your remarks he would go straight to Miss O’Malachy and lay the crown at her feet. So far as he is concerned, you must let the matter take its course. Nothing can be said to him.”

“But how, then, would you prevent it?” cried M. Drakovics. “Is the girl to be kidnapped and carried off?”

“My good sir--no! Do you want all Europe in a ferment, and Caerleon throwing up the kingdom to go and look for her? The O’Malachy and his wife would make the finest political capital possible out of such a tale. No; we must act merely by means of moral suasion, you and I and Miss O’Malachy.”

“Miss O’Malachy? The girl?” gasped M. Drakovics.

“Exactly--the young lady. You are a very clever man, M. Drakovics, but you have not had the advantage of spending a year in the British Embassy at Pavelsburg, and making an exhaustive study of Scythian society ladies. I know well enough the Cercle Evangélique in which Miss O’Malachy was brought up--not that it is in favour in high quarters, quite the contrary; but I was interested in it out of curiosity. Its members may be called fanatics--they certainly are not worldly-wise--and I am pretty sure that Princess Soudaroff has made her god-daughter as great an enthusiast as she is herself. Now you will see why I am ready to lay aside in her case the usual rule of considering every one a knave until he or she is proved otherwise, and why I expect her to do our business for us.”

“But how?”

“I will lay the case before her, and point out that Caerleon will ruin his cause and jeopardise his crown if he marries her. Then she will refuse him for his own sake.”

“Impossible, milord! Refuse a crown?”

“For his sake, I tell you. That’s what the girl is like. Well, will you leave it to me? If I fail, after fair trial, I give you full leave to break off the match in your own way.”

“I agree, milord, though I cannot believe you will succeed. No woman on earth would decline a crown, to be shared with the man whom, according to you, she loves passionately. But you shall try. By all means, milord, we work together, if you please.”

“I thought so,” laughed Cyril to himself, as M. Drakovics went out.

A little later, he saw from the balcony the O’Malachys’ travelling-carriage coming round to the door, and watched while the family took their places in it. Madame O’Malachy, gracious and graceful as ever, was nodding pleasantly to the landlady as the luggage was put up, and her husband was cracking a joke with the travelled waiter, through whom all communications with the authorities of the inn were obliged to be conducted. Louis, surly and unapproachable as usual, took his seat in the carriage without a word, and Nadia was equally silent as she sat upright by her mother’s side, her face covered with a thick veil, which aroused Cyril’s suspicions instantly.

“She has been crying,” he said. “What a pity her complexion isn’t like her mother’s, for a little powder and paint would put it all right in that case. What Caerleon can see in her I cannot imagine.”

In spite of his antipathy to the O’Malachys, he kept his place on the balcony and waved a farewell to the travellers, watching the carriage as it wound round the curves of the rough mountain road until it was finally out of sight, when he went back into the coffee-room to join Caerleon and M. Drakovics, who were discussing the question of the costume in which the new King was to make the journey to his capital. Evening dress and a tall hat formed M. Drakovics’s idea of the clothes suitable to the occasion; but Wright, who was assisting uninvited at the discussion, and who bore a grudge already against the Premier for inducing Caerleon to remain in Thracia, flatly declined to “make a tomfool” of his master by helping him to don a swallow-tail coat in the daytime. Caerleon himself thought it would be the proper thing to adopt the Thracian national dress, as a delicate compliment to the people; but M. Drakovics objected to this on the ground that the Thracians were expecting an Englishman, and would be disappointed if they found him dressed like themselves.

“Will your Majesty not wear your uniform?” he asked, offering another suggestion in his turn. “That of your Volunteer cavalry, I mean?”

“My Yeomanry uniform?” said Caerleon. “I haven’t got it here. In fact, I should have no right to wear it any longer if I had, for I resigned my commission before I left home, because the expenses connected with the troop were too much for me to meet in my present circumstances.”

“But your uniform’s ’ere, all the same, my lord,” said Wright. “If your lordship remembers, it was sent on with the ’eavy luggage before the troop was decided to be given up, in case there was any grand doin’s while your lordship were at the castle,” and he nodded vaguely in the direction which he imagined to be that of Château Temeszy.

“Oh, well, if you’ve got it, you may as well wear it, Caerleon,” said Cyril. “It’s only a cast-off now, after all, and if Ceylon coolies and African chiefs are allowed to sport discarded British uniforms, I don’t see why the King of Thracia shouldn’t.”

“Your comparisons are not exactly flattering to Thracia,” said Caerleon, “and I don’t think it’s quite the thing to sport the old uniform under the circumstances. Ordinary riding-togs are the best thing for a long ride like this, and if it’s absolutely necessary, one can add a top hat and a black coat before entering Bellaviste;” and to this decision he adhered, in spite of the Premier’s remonstrances and of Cyril’s jeers.

It had been arranged that the King and his companions were to ride the greater part of the way to Bellaviste, escorted by the Thracians who had accompanied M. Drakovics, and most of whom had brought horses with them; for although a railway from the frontier to the capital was nearly completed, it had not yet been opened for passenger traffic. It was a picturesque procession which wound down the mountain-side, headed by Caerleon and M. Drakovics; but when the level ground was reached the symmetry of the march was much disturbed, for the younger men among the Thracians broke the line out of pure gladness, racing their horses against one another, and riding hither and thither on either side of the main body. Whenever a village was reached, the inhabitants were summoned to the church by the ringing of the bell, and Caerleon, standing on the steps, was proclaimed king by M. Drakovics. Everywhere the people poured forth in delight to meet the party, bringing offerings of bread and salt, which were to be touched by the King and afterwards consumed by the givers.

On these occasions Cyril generally remained in the background, afraid of being caught laughing, as he told M. Drakovics, to the no small indignation of the Premier. Wright shared his objection to publicity, but for a different reason, feeling very uneasy in his mind as to the whole proceeding, now that he understood its import, and not at all sure that it was consistent with his duty to Queen Victoria to become a subject of Caerleon. There was an unhappy consciousness that something was wrong about his whole aspect, which would have afforded Cyril infinite amusement at any other time; but now, as from his commanding position on horseback he watched his brother’s close-cropped fair head towering above the unkempt locks of his new subjects, he was busy trying to enter into the feelings of the Thracians. Mothers brought their children to look at Caerleon, for good luck, as they said, “that their eyes might see the King’s face”; old men came tottering up to touch his coat or his riding-whip, and to call down blessings on his head. It was all too absurdly medieval, thought Cyril, as the office-bearers of the little towns came hurrying to take the oath of allegiance to their new King, and the peasants crowded round to entreat him to raise an army to conquer Scythia, in which every man of them would enlist. Why should they make all this fuss about an unimaginative Englishman, who merely looked uncomfortable when a more than usually fervent assurance of devotion was translated to him, and who could say nothing in return but that he would try to do his best for the people and the country? There could be no idea of Divine Right in this case, for how could such a sentiment consist with the popular election of the monarch? and as for loyalty, how could they feel loyalty to a man of whom they knew nothing but that he was an English prince, for whom M. Drakovics vouched as a suitable candidate for the throne? Cyril decided at last that they regarded Caerleon as the incarnation of the spirit of the late revolution, and as a bulwark against Scythia and the return of the House of Franza; but the Thracians themselves would probably have explained their delight much more simply by saying that they had a king at last, that he was young, good-looking, and fair-haired, and that he spoke courteously and looked like a soldier.

After three days spent in this kind of travelling the party came in sight of Bellaviste, and here they were met by what M. Drakovics called the “Sacred Band,” but which was known to military critics as the crack regiment of the Thracian army. It had been recruited on the classical principle, the men being divided into little groups of five or ten, all hailing from the same village, while in the same way each company represented a district, and each battalion a province.

“This regiment, your Majesty,” said M. Drakovics, as he presented the officers to Caerleon, “is the backbone of your army. Representative, from its composition, of the whole nation, it was the first to declare for freedom, and when it had done so, the doom of the House of Franza was sealed. I can assure you that the Sacred Band, to which, with your gracious permission, I will from to-day grant the honour of calling itself the Carlino Regiment, will prove to be the bulwark of your throne.”

The grant of its new name was received with great enthusiasm by the regiment, which was formed up for inspection, and when this ceremony was over, proceeded to escort the King into his capital. M. Drakovics, riding as usual beside his sovereign, pointed out the chief features of interest on the road. The city of Bellaviste itself was situated on a hill, which rose steeply from the river, but fell away gradually on the other sides. The highest portion of the hill was occupied by the palace, which with its gardens was surrounded by a strong wall capable of defence against a foe unprovided with artillery. Below this, on three sides, the houses of the town covered the slopes as far as the lowlands, while a broad rampart ran round the whole, set with towers at intervals.

“That is all our work since the revolution,” said M. Drakovics, pointing to this rampart with pride. “Under the Franzas, the money voted for fortifications was all spent on excavating and arming useless batteries along the river-front, which no foe would think of attacking, while the town was left defenceless.”

“I don’t think you are giving King Peter the credit he deserves,” said Cyril. “If his batteries on the river-face are well placed, he ought to be able to command the whole channel, and his position would be most important in view of a European war. Matters would be very much in his hands, for unless he chose, the Pannonian gunboats could not get out to sea, nor could the Scythian war-ships get up the river. The great danger would be that he might find himself taken in the rear. I suppose he meant to see to that when he had finished his batteries.”

“Our views were not so exalted, milord,” said M. Drakovics. “Safety was our great consideration, and when we were free our first thought was to erect a wall, which, if it could not stand against modern artillery, would at any rate serve to resist any insurrectionary force.”

“And to whom is the defence of the wall intrusted?” asked Caerleon. “To the Sacred Band?”

“No, indeed,” answered the Premier. “Their barracks are two miles away from the city, on that farther hill. The people were afraid that if their king had a regiment at his command in Bellaviste, he might use it to overthrow the constitution. The city is garrisoned by the city guard, which is entirely composed of young men belonging to Bellaviste families. One company of this forms the palace guard, with a very elaborate uniform and special rights. It was the favourite corps of King Peter Franza, and we scarcely expected that its members would be willing to fall in with the new state of things, particularly when we were forced to deprive them of some of their privileges. But the officers are all staunch--we took care of that.”

“Did your care extend to giving the palace guard as many occasions of discontent as possible?” asked Cyril. “You owed the success of your revolution to the co-operation of the army, and the army must be very dense if it has not learnt the lesson. What you will have to guard against in the future is a military revolt, and it sounds to the uninitiated as though you were carefully working one up.”

“We were obliged to deprive the guard as far as possible of its power of mischief, milord. In its former state it was a standing menace, but under its present officers it is excellently affected to the Government.”

At the gate of the city the Sacred Band handed over its escort duties to the guard, which was paraded for the King’s inspection, after which all the troops fell in for the march through the streets. The houses were gaily decorated, and the windows and roofs crowded with people, who welcomed Caerleon with shouts of joy. It was still early in the day, and M. Drakovics had arranged a programme of events. Orders had been sent forward to prepare for the coronation; but it was found impossible to complete the arrangements before the morrow, and all that could be done on this occasion was to visit the hall of the Assembly, in order to receive the loyal addresses of the Legislative body, and their oath of allegiance. Then followed the reception of addresses from the municipality of Bellaviste, and as many other local authorities as had been able to get them ready in time; after which came lunch at the Hôtel de Ville, and a state progress through the town. Further receptions followed this, and the events of the day concluded with a parade of the palace guard in the courtyard of the palace. It needed all M. Drakovics’s powers of persuasion to induce his sovereign to conduct a third inspection after his round of duties; but he represented so forcibly the disappointment which would be felt in the city if any slight were offered to the guard, that Caerleon yielded. They were a fine body of men, wearing a very handsome, if somewhat foppish, uniform, and their officers were seasoned old soldiers, whose aspect presented a curious contrast to that of the rank and file. One more speech, translated by M. Drakovics, was necessary here, and this duty performed, Caerleon entered his palace with a sigh of relief. Owing to the delay in the coronation arrangements, which included a state banquet, no special function had been fixed for that evening, except that the town was to be illuminated later on; and although M. Drakovics would have liked to linger at the palace and talk international politics, Caerleon’s disinclination for further conversation on the subject was so extremely pronounced that he found it impossible to remain, and the brothers were left alone together.

“Call this being king?” said Caerleon, when he and Cyril met at dinner in the comparatively small room which they had chosen out of the wilderness of state apartments as their dining-room when by themselves, for there were few regular court officials at present. The chief functionaries had all gone into exile with the late king, and it had not been possible to appoint their successors as yet, so that matters were in the hands of such of the less important officials as had adopted the cause of the revolution. These had not yet acquired the reverential obtuseness which would have enabled those whose places they had taken to maintain their position about the king as long as etiquette required, in spite of his disinclination for their society. Accordingly they effaced themselves obediently when their sovereign intimated that their attendance was not further desired that night, and it did not strike Caerleon that even the freedom he now enjoyed would have been impossible in a properly constituted court. “I call it being a slave, no less,” he went on. “What a luxurious beast old Franza must have been! I never saw anything like the rooms up-stairs. Well, if luxury could compensate him for all the bother and fuss, he deserved it.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head----’” began Cyril.

“Oh, shut up, and don’t quote moral platitudes,” said Caerleon, wearily. “I tell you what, Cyril, there are two things we’ll do. We’ll look out some attic place where we can smoke in peace, with two chairs in it and a rug on the floor, and we will break through that absurd rule of never going out without an escort. I mean to do the Haroun-al-Raschid business, and poke about a little _incog_.”

“All right,” said Cyril; “I’ll be Grand Vizier. We will get hold of a couple of fur caps and these Thracian cloaks with high fur collars, and have some fun. Shall we begin to-night with the illuminations, or are you fagged out?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Caerleon. “Root out some cloaks, will you? There are servants enough, and it’s a charity to give them something to do. It’ll be all right if we are in by eleven o’clock, when some of those chaps from the town are coming to serenade us.”

Through the medium of Wright, who was preparing very reluctantly to resign the care of his master’s personal belongings into the hands of the new servants and return to his natural sphere, the charge of the stables, Cyril procured the required disguises, and he and his brother wrapped themselves up and slipped out. The palace was built round a square courtyard, in the midst of which stood the rude little chapel of St Peter, where the workmen had been busied all day in making preparations for the coronation. As the servants were all at supper, and the guards in their own hall, only the sentries were to be seen, and Caerleon and Cyril stole along in the shadow, giving the password when it was demanded, and reaching the gardens in safety. A private gate, to which they alone possessed a key, supplied them with the means of exit, and they descended the steep street and mingled with the crowd which was admiring the illuminations. These were more ambitious than successful, and although the Thracians were full of delight, Cyril turned up his nose at the display, and commented on it in disparaging whispers.

“It _is_ rather slow here,” said Caerleon, stopping short suddenly. “Let us go and look up the O’Malachys.”

It was in Cyril’s mind to say, “I wondered how soon you would get to that,” but he held his tongue, and followed Caerleon to the Hôtel Occidental, the whereabouts of which the King had discovered in the course of his progress through the town. Keeping their cloaks well up to their faces, they passed through the hall without being recognised, and were conducted up-stairs to the O’Malachys’ sitting-room, where they found the Herr Oberst himself, Louis, and Nadia. Madame O’Malachy was suffering from a bad headache, and had gone early to her room.

“Indeed and ’tis very condescending in your Majesty to come and see us like this,” said the O’Malachy, when he had apologised for his wife’s absence. “Sure ’twas only an hour ago I was saying to Louie here, ‘What will we do about paying our respects to the King? Will we call upon um, or wait until he sends for us?’ And we couldn’t make up our minds about ut at all.”

“That’s not true,” said Cyril to himself. “I’m pretty sure you decided to wait until Caerleon came and looked you up, which you guessed he would do before long.”

“For pity’s sake,” said Caerleon, sinking into the chair which Louis pushed towards him, “leave the kingdom alone for a little while, O’Malachy. I am sick to death of it. Here, at any rate, let me have a little respite.”

“As you please,” said the O’Malachy, with a gracious wave of the hand. “I suppose a king may take a holiday like other people if he wants ut. You will find Liberty Hall here, whenever you like to look in.”

Caerleon sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. The room looked comfortable and home-like, very different from the gorgeous solitudes at the palace. The O’Malachy, white-haired and soldierly, with a sly twinkle in his eye, was the picture of a courteous host. Nadia sat close by, under the light, with her work; and Louis, buried in a Bellaviste weekly journal, seemed less out of harmony with his surroundings than usual. The place was a haven of rest. But rest in itself was not sufficient for complete happiness, and Caerleon’s state of contentment did not last long. Cyril, watching from the background, was no better pleased. Before the evening was over, he had lost patience altogether with Nadia. Why did she sit there stiffly, in the full blaze of the electric light, working with unremitting assiduity at some coarse and unlovely garment for the poor, and refusing to answer any remark except in monosyllables? She would not take Caerleon into the conservatory to show him the flowers, as he asked her, nor did she respond to her father’s suggestion that she should point out to him the view from the balcony. There she sat, never looking up, sewing away as if for dear life, and acting as an effectual damper on the conversation of the rest, while Cyril was longing for a smoke with Louis and his father, and one or two of the latter’s stories, which were not altogether suited for ladies’ ears. All that Caerleon wanted was to be left alone with her, but she succeeded in baffling all his efforts, and Cyril waxed furious over her foolishness. Did she really imagine that by dint of coyness and coldness she could keep her lover from making her an open avowal of his feelings? Surely she must know that he would insist upon a plain answer, and that it would be impossible to put him off for ever? Caerleon would hear her decision from her own lips at one time or another, and the sooner she dismissed him and bade him turn his mind to other subjects the better.

These thoughts were seething in Cyril’s brain all the evening; but Nadia remained unconscious of their import and as immovable as before. The only time she exhibited any animation was when the brothers rose to go.

“You have not seen much of this place yet,” she said to Caerleon as he bade her good-night, “but I have gone about a good deal yesterday and to-day. There is plenty for you to do. The drunkenness is awful. You have before you as much work as you can wish.”

A chuckle from Louis followed her eager speech, and Caerleon had no opportunity to say more than that he would give his best attention to the matter, before Cyril hurried him away. They passed through the streets almost in silence, reached the palace without attracting notice, and after enduring patiently a long performance from the town band, went to bed.