“You wear a sword, Von Ritz, which any monarch in Europe would hire at your own price.  Any government would let you name what titles and honors you wished in payment—­”

“Your Majesty!”

“Forgive me, I know your sword is not for sale.  I mean no such intimation.  I mean only that it has a value.  I mean you are a man, and the game to you is the large one of statecraft.  It is really you who rule this Kingdom.  Ah, yes, you remonstrate, but I tell you it is true, and the damnable shame is that it is not a Kingdom worthy of your genius!  You, Von Ritz, are the engine, the motive force—­but I—­in God’s holy name, what am I?”

He raised his hands questioningly, appealingly.

“You,” replied the older soldier calmly, “are the King.”

“Yes,” Karyl caught up the words almost before they had fallen from the lips of the other.  “Yes, I am the King.  I am the miserable, gilded figurehead out on the prow, which serves no end and no purpose.  I am the ornamental symbol of a system which the world is discarding!  I am a medieval lay figure upon which to hang these tinsel decorations, these ribbons!”

“Your Majesty is excited.”

“No, by God, I am only heartbroken—­and I am through!” The King’s hands dropped at his sides.  The passion died out of his voice and eyes, leaving them those of a man who is very tired.  For a moment there was silence.  It was broken by the American.

“Pagratide,” he asked, “why did you send for me?”

The King stood rigid with the illuminating shaft from the door touching into high-lights the polish of his boots and the burnish of his accouterments.  Finally he turned and in a voice now deadly quiet countered with another question.

“Benton, why did you save me?”

The American answered with quiet candor.

“I went into it,” he said, “because I feared the danger might threaten Cara.  Once in, only a murderer could have turned back.”

“So I thought.”  Karyl nodded his head, then he turned and paced restively up and down the path between the fountain and the balcony.  At last he halted fronting the American.

“I wish to God, Benton, you had let that traitor Lapas and his constituents touch their damned button.  I wish to God you had let them lift me, amid the stones of do Freres, into eternity!  But that wish is uncharitable to Von Ritz and the others who must have gone with me.”  The King broke off with a short laugh.  “After all,” he added, “of course, as you say, you couldn’t do it.”

Benton shook his head.  “No,” he said, “I couldn’t do it.”

Again Karyl paced back and forth, and again he stopped, facing the American.

“Benton, it is hard for two men to talk in this fashion.  Perhaps no two other men ever did.  I find myself a jailer to the woman I love—­Oh, yes, I am also imprisoned by Royalty but that does not alter matters.”  The voice shook.  The gauntleted hands were tightly gripped, but the speaker went steadily on.  “And you love her!”