When Barney reached the river his hopes sank.  The bridge was gone—­dynamited by the Austrians in their retreat.  The nearest bridge was at the crossing of the main highway over ten miles to the southwest.  There, too, the river might be forded even if the Austrians had destroyed that bridge also; but here or elsewhere in the hills there could be no fording—­the banks of the Ru were perpendicular cliffs.

The misfortune would add nearly twenty miles to his journey—­he could not now hope to reach Lustadt before late in the afternoon.  Turning his horse back along the trail he had come, he retraced his way until he reached a narrow bridle path that led toward the southwest.  The trail was rough and indistinct, yet he pushed forward, even more rapidly than safety might have suggested.  The noble beast beneath him was all loyalty and ambition.

“Take it easy, old boy,” whispered Barney into the slim, pointed ears that moved ceaselessly backward and forward, “you’ll get your chance when we strike the highway, never fear.”

And he did.

So unexpected had been Maenck’s entrance into the room in the east transept, so sudden his attack, that it was all over before a hand could be raised to stay him.  At the report of his revolver the king sank to the floor.  At almost the same instant Lieutenant Butzow whipped a revolver from beneath his tunic and fired at the assassin.  Maenck staggered forward and stumbled across the body of the king.  Butzow was upon him instantly, wresting the revolver from his fingers.  Prince Ludwig ran to the king’s side and, kneeling there, raised Leopold’s head in his arms.  The bishop and the doctor bent over the limp form.  The Princess Emma stood a little apart.  She had leaped from the couch where she had been lying.  Her eyes were wide in horror.  Her palms pressed to her cheeks.

It was upon this scene that a hatless, dust-covered man in a red hunting coat burst through the door that had admitted Maenck.  The man had seen and recognized the conspirator as he climbed to the top of the limousine and dropped within the cathedral grounds, and he had followed close upon his heels.

No one seemed to note his entrance.  All ears were turned toward the doctor, who was speaking.

“The king is dead,” he said.

Maenck raised himself upon an elbow.  He spoke feebly.

“You fools,” he cried.  “That man was not the king.  I saw him steal the king’s clothes at Blentz and I followed him here.  He is the American—­the impostor.”  Then his eyes, circling the faces about him to note the results of his announcements, fell upon the face of the man in the red hunting coat.  Amazement and wonder were in his face.  Slowly he raised his finger and pointed.

“There is the king,” he said.

Every eye turned in the direction he indicated.  Exclamations of surprise and incredulity burst from every lip.  The old chancellor looked from the man in the red hunting coat to the still form of the man upon the floor in the blood-spattered marriage garments of a king of Lutha.  He let the king’s head gently down upon the carpet, and then he rose to his feet and faced the man in the red hunting coat.