“And what do you intend doing now?” asked Barney.

“I intend placing you upon the throne of your ancestors, sire,” replied Butzow; “nor will Peter of Blentz dare the wrath of the people by attempting to interpose any obstacle.  When he sees Leopold of Lutha ride into the capital of his kingdom at the head of even so small a force as ours he will know that the end of his own power is at hand, for he is not such a fool that he does not perfectly realize that he is the most cordially hated man in all Lutha, and that only those attend upon him who hope to profit through his success or who fear his evil nature.”

“If Peter is crowned today,” asked Barney, “will it prevent Leopold regaining his throne?”

“It is difficult to say,” replied Butzow; “but the chances are that the throne would be lost to him forever.  To regain it he would have to plunge Lutha into a bitter civil war, for once Peter is proclaimed king he will have the law upon his side, and with the resources of the State behind him—­the treasury and the army—­he will feel in no mood to relinquish the scepter without a struggle.  I doubt much that you will ever sit upon your throne, sire, unless you do so within the very next hour.”

For some time Barney rode in silence.  He saw that only by a master stroke could the crown be saved for the true king.  Was it worth it?  The man was happier without a crown.  Barney had come to believe that no man lived who could be happy in possession of one.  Then there came before his mind’s eye the delicate, patrician face of Emma von der Tann.

Would Peter of Blentz be true to his new promises to the house of Von der Tann?  Barney doubted it.  He recalled all that it might mean of danger and suffering to the girl whose kisses he still felt upon his lips as though it had been but now that hers had placed them there.  He recalled the limp little body of the boy, Rudolph, and the Spartan loyalty with which the little fellow had given his life in the service of the man he had thought king.  The pitiful figure of the fear-haunted man upon the iron cot at Tafelberg rose before him and cried for vengeance.

To this man was the woman he loved betrothed!  He knew that he might never wed the Princess Emma.  Even were she not promised to another, the iron shackles of convention and age-old customs must forever separate her from an untitled American.  But if he couldn’t have her he still could serve her!

“For her sake,” he muttered.

“Did your majesty speak?” asked Butzow.

“Yes, lieutenant.  We urge greater haste, for if we are to be crowned today we have no time to lose.”

Butzow smiled a relieved smile.  The king had at last regained his senses!

Within the ancient cathedral at Lustadt a great and gorgeously attired assemblage had congregated.  All the nobles of Lutha were gathered there with their wives, their children, and their retainers.  There were the newer nobility of the lowlands—­many whose patents dated but since the regency of Peter—­and there were the proud nobility of the highlands—­the old nobility of which Prince Ludwig von der Tann was the chief.