“You seem to have found a way, Leopold,” she whispered, pressing his arm close to her.  “Kings usually do.”

“It is not because I am a king that I found a way, Emma,” he replied.  “It is because I am an American.”

She looked up at him with an expression of pleading in her eyes.

“Why do you persist?” she cried.  “You have come into your own, and there is no longer aught to fear from Peter or any other.  To me at least, it is most unkind still to deny your identity.”

“I wonder,” said Barney, “if your love could withstand the knowledge that I am not the king.”

“It is the man I love, Leopold,” the girl replied.

“You think so now,” he said, “but wait until the test comes, and when it does, remember that I have always done my best to undeceive you.  I know that you are not for such as I, my princess, and when I have returned your true king to you all that I shall ask is that you be happy with him.”

“I shall always be happy with my king,” she whispered, and the look that she gave him made Barney Custer curse the fate that had failed to make him a king by birth.

An hour later darkness had fallen upon the little city of Lustadt, and from a small gateway in the rear of the palace grounds two horsemen rode out into the ill-paved street and turned their mounts’ heads toward the north.  At the side of one trotted a led horse.

As they passed beneath the glare of an arc-light before a cafe at the side of the public square, a diner sitting at a table upon the walk spied the tall figure and the bearded face of him who rode a few feet in advance of his companion.  Leaping to his feet the man waved his napkin above his head.

“Long live the king!” he cried.  “God save Leopold of Lutha!”

And amid the din of cheering that followed, Barney Custer of Beatrice and Lieutenant Butzow of the Royal Horse rode out into the night upon the road to Tafelberg.

When Peter of Blentz had escaped from the cathedral he had hastily mounted with a handful of his followers and hurried out of Lustadt along the road toward his formidable fortress at Blentz.  Half way upon the journey he had met a dusty and travel-stained horseman hastening toward the capital city that Peter and his lieutenants had just left.

At sight of the prince regent the fellow reined in and saluted.

“May I have a word in private with your highness?” he asked.  “I have news of the greatest importance for your ears alone.”

Peter drew to one side with the man.

“Well,” he asked, “and what news have you for Peter of Blentz?”

The man leaned from his horse close to Peter’s ear.

“The king is in Tafelberg, your highness,” he said.

“The king is dead,” snapped Peter.  “There is an impostor in the palace at Lustadt.  But the real Leopold of Lutha was slain by Yellow Franz’s band of brigands weeks ago.”