Frederick looked at him, sternly for a moment.

“It is unnecessary, sir, for me to particularize,” he said.  “You know your crimes and their purpose—­so do I. The Court has no present need of plotters and will be the better for your absence.  It has been over long since you visited your titular estates, and they doubtless require your immediate attention.  You are, therefore, permitted to depart to them forthwith—­and to remain indefinitely.”

Lotzen’s hand rose in salute.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he answered.

The King bowed to Mrs. Spencer.

“Madame, I bid you good evening and good-bye,” he said.

She curtsied low.

“I thank Your Majesty for your gracious consideration,” she said.

Then she stepped quickly toward me and held out her hand.

“Will you not say farewell, Armand—­as in the days, long past?” she asked.

I knew the Princess was looking; but I was in a generous mood.  I took her hand and bowed over it.

“Captain Dalberg bids farewell to Colonel Spencer’s wife,” I said.

Then I followed the King.

A week has passed since the night in the Gallery.  Madeline Spencer has gone—­forever from my path, I trust.  His Royal Highness, the Duke of Lotzen, has taken a long leave, and is sojourning on his mountain estates for the benefit of his health.  There has been another supper of six at the Inn of the Twisted Pines—­with four bottles of Imperial Tokay; and, afterward, a charming ride home in the moonlight.

To-night, there is to be a great State Dinner at the Palace, whereat His Majesty will formally announce the betrothal of the Princess Royal of Valeria and Field Marshal, the Grand Duke Armand.

So much I know—­and, surely, it is enough; and far more than enough.  Yet, having that fixed and settled, there is another matter touching which Dehra and I have a vast curiosity: 

What says the great, brass-bound Laws of the Dalbergs?  Has the Order of Succession been changed?  Will I supplant Lotzen as the Heir Presumptive?

But, on that, His Majesty is silent; and the Book is locked.  Nor does even the Princess venture to inquire.  Perchance, he is reserving it for a surprise at the Dinner, to-night.  Perchance, he thinks I have honor sufficient.

Yet, none the less, do I wonder; and, I confess it, none the less do I hope.  Nor is the hope for myself alone—­for, to be an Archduke of Valeria is rank enough for any man—­but, also, for her whom I love, and the Nation loves, and who was born to wear a Crown.

And, for her dear sake, do I pray, with all humility, yet, somehow, with the confidence of Right, that, in my unworthy self, the Line of stubborn old Hugo may come to its own again.