“It’s yours without the earning, but good-by—!” She shuddered.  “What does it all mean?” she asked in bewilderment.  “What was it you discussed?”

“Listen,” he commanded.  “Tell Von Ritz or Karyl that Lapas is a traitor and a prisoner in the observatory; that Louis is at his lodge and that the Countess Astaride is a conspirator in a plot to assassinate the King.  Tell them that a percussion cap and key connect the magazines of do Freres with the city.”

The Princess looked at him with eyes that slowly widened in amazed comprehension.  “I understand,” she whispered.  “And the flag—­see, it is coming down—­that means?”

He dropped on one knee and lifted her fingers to his lips.  “It means that you are to be crowned Queen in Galavia to-morrow,” he answered with a groan.  “Long live the Queen!”

CHAPTER XIII

CONCERNING FAREWELLS AND WARNINGS

“To-morrow!” repeated the girl with a shudder.

Both stood silent under such a strain as cannot be long sustained.  At the crunch of branch underfoot and the returning Blanco’s, “Senor!  Senor!” both started violently.

“Look, Senor,” exclaimed the Spaniard.  “The King has entered the fortress.”  Then, seeing that the eyes of both man and girl turned at his words from an intent gaze, not on the town but the opposite hills, he added, half-apologetic:  “I shall go, Senor, and look to my prisoner.  If you need me, I shall be there.”

With the same stricken misery in her eyes that they had worn as she passed in her carriage, Cara remained motionless and silent.

The bottom of the valley grew cloudy with shadow.  The sun was kissing into rosy pink the snow caps of the western ridge.  A cavalcade of horsemen emerged at last from do Freres and started at a smart trot for the Palace.  Cara pointed downward with one tremulous finger.  Benton nodded.

“Safe,” he said, but without enthusiasm.

“I must go.”  Cara started down the path and the man walked beside her as far as the battered gate which hung awry from its broken columns.  Over it now clambered masses of vine richly purple with bougonvillea.  She broke off a branch and handed it to him.  “Purple,” she said again, “is the color of mourning and royalty.”

Blanco noted the coming of evening and realized that it would be well to reach the level of the city before dark.  He knew that if Lapas was to be turned over to Karyl’s authorities, steps to that end should be taken before he was discovered and released by those of his own faction.  He accordingly made his way back to the gate.

Benton was still standing, looking down the alley-way which ran between the half ruined lines of masonry.  His shoulders unconsciously sagged.

The Spaniard approached quietly and stood for a moment unwilling to interrupt, then in a low voice touched with that affectionate note which men are not ashamed to show even to other men in the Latin countries, he said:  “Senor Benton!”