“The plan is this.  It is to happen at the Fortress do Freres this afternoon while the King inspects the arsenal.  Now, in fifteen minutes!” He pointed down toward the city.  “See, the cortege leaves the Palace!  Lapas was to be here at the rock—­the blessed Saints help him!  He is hobbled to his telescope.”  Swiftly he rehearsed the story as it had come from the lips of Lapas.

Benton was studying the Duke’s lodge with his glasses.  “There is a flag flying on the west tower,” he muttered.

He turned slowly toward the Princess.  Outstanding veins were tracing cordlike lines on his temples.  His fingers trembled as he focused the glasses.

Blanco looked slowly from one to the other.  Suddenly he threw back both shoulders and his eyes grew bright in full comprehension of the situation he had discovered.

“Senor!” he whispered.

“Yes?” echoed the American in a dull voice.

“Senor—­suppose—­suppose I have confused the signals?” The tone was insinuating.

Benton’s mind flashed back to a Sunday School class of his childhood and his infantile horror for the tale of a tempter on a high mountain offering the possession of all the world if only—­if only—­

He took a step forward.  Speech seemed to choke him.

“In God’s name!” he cried, “you have not forgotten?”

The Spaniard slowly shook his head and smiled.  The expression gave to his face a touch of the sinister.  “No—­but it is yet possible to forget, Senor.  I serve no King, I serve you.  Sometimes a mistake is the truest accuracy. Quien sabe?”

The Andalusian looked at the girl who stood puzzled and waiting.  “Sometimes in the Plaza de Toros, Senor,” he went on, speaking rapidly and tensely, “the throngs cry, ‘Bravo, matador!’ and toss coins into the ring.  Yet in a moment the same throngs may shout until their throats are hoarse:  ‘Bravo, toro!’ A King is like a bull in the ring, Senor—­he has a fickle fate.  To me he is nothing—­if it pleases them—­it is their King—­let them do as they wish.”  He shrugged his shoulders.

Benton straightened.  “Manuel,” he said with a strained tone, “the flag comes down.”

The Andalusian smiled regretfully, and once more shrugged his shoulders.

“As you say, Senor, but are you sure you wish it so?”

“Manuel, I mean that!” said the American with a steadied voice.  “And for God’s sake, Manuel,” he added wildly, “throw the rope over the gorge when you have done it!”

For a moment Benton stood rigid, his hands clenched together at his back as he watched the quick step of the Andalusian climbing to the flag-staff.  At last he turned dully and looked down where he could see the royal cortege, not yet half-way along the road to the fortress, then he went over to the girl’s side.

“Cara,” he said, “I have earned the right to kiss you good-by.”