“My God, boy, are you mad?  Do you think other men have never loved and sacrificed themselves for duty—­kept unuttered, locked in their hearts, things they were hungry to say?...  Do you think that your hard task of Kingship is yours to play with—­to desert?...  Why, boy, I’ve taught you your manual of arms, I’ve drilled you, trained you, watched you grow from childhood.  My heart has beaten with joy because you were free of every degenerate trace that has marked and scarred Europe’s cancerous Royalty!  I’ve seen you come clean-hearted, straight-minded into man-hood; prepared you to show the world what a Kingdom can be with a clean King—­a strong King!  I’ve fitted you to bear a burden which only a man could bear—­to remind the world that ‘King’ means the Man Who Can—­and I thought you could do it!” He paused only to draw a long breath, then hastened on again.  “Yes, your task is thankless.  Your Principality is small, but it is a keystone in Europe’s arch.  It is such Princelings as you who must send clean blood down to the thrones of to-morrow....  Is that not enough?...  Have I built a King, day by day, year by year, idea by idea, only to see him wither and crumple under the first blast?  Go on with your task, in God’s name!  Probably they will murder you ... assassination may at the end be your reward, but only the coward fears the outcome!  For God’s sake, Karyl, don’t desert me under fire!”

He paused with a gesture eloquent of appeal.  When next he spoke his voice was slow, deliberate.

“And the other picture!  The cafe tables of Paris are crowded with Royalty that has been; with the miserable children of conquered and abdicated Kings!”

The King dropped exhaustedly to the bench, his fore-arms on his knees, his gloved fingers hanging limp.  After a moment he rose again and went to Cara.

“I want to fight for you,” he said simply.  “I want to free you first—­then fight for you.”

“Karyl,” she answered gently, “if you do this, you will enslave my soul, and my imprisonment will be only harder.  You will make me a wrecker of governments—­a traitor to my duty.”

The King turned and looked out to sea.

“I must think,” he said in a tired voice.  “Perhaps it is only a matter of time.  Delgado is free.  Perhaps I shall not have to present him with my throne.  Conceivably he may come and take it.”

Von Ritz approached again and took Karyl’s hand.  To him a King was, at last analysis, only the best product of the King-maker’s craft.  He was a King-maker—­before him stood a tired boy whom he loved.

“You will fight,” he said, “and you will fight with hell’s fury.  The first step will be to recapture this Pretender.  With him in hand—­”

“Which is in itself impossible,” retorted Karyl.

At the window appeared the young Captain who had been left at the hotel.  His hand was at his forehead in salute.  Von Ritz went to meet him and in a moment returned for Benton.  Together the two men went out.  Five minutes later they had come again into the garden.  With them came Manuel Blanco.