“I regret that I am obliged to place you in a cell, sir, and under guard.  Believe me, I am sorry this happened.  I am your friend,” said the old man, gloomily.

“And I,” cried Quinnox.

“But what is to become of me?” cried poor Anguish, half in tears.  “I won’t leave you, Gren.  It’s an infernal outrage!”

“Be cool, Harry, and it will come out right.  He has no proof, you know,” said the other, wringing his friend’s hand.

“But I’ll have to stay here, too.  If I go outside these walls, I’ll be killed like a dog,” protested Harry.

“You are to have a guard of six men while you are in Edelweiss, Mr. Anguish.  Those are the instructions of the Princess.  I do not believe the scoundrels—­I mean the Axphain nobles—­will molest you if you do not cross them, When you are ready to go to your hotel, I will accompany you.”

Half an hour later Larry was in a cell from which there could be no escape, while Anguish was riding toward the hotel, surrounded by Graustark soldiers.  He had sworn to his friend that he would unearth the murderer if it lay within the power of man.  Captain Dangloss heard the oath and smiled sadly.

At the castle there was depression and relief, grief and joy.  The royal family, the nobility, even the servants, soldiers and attendants, rejoiced in the stroke that had saved the Princess from a fate worse than death.  Her preserver’s misfortune was deplored deeply; expressions of sympathy were whispered among them all, high and low.  The Axphainians were detested—­the Prince most of all—­and the crime had come as a joy instead of a shock.  There were, of course, serious complications for the future, involving ugly conditions that were bound to force themselves upon the land.  The dead man’s father would demand the life of his murderer.  If not Lorry, who?  Graustark would certainly be asked to produce the man who killed the heir to the throne of Axphain, or to make reparation—­bloody reparation, no doubt.

In the privacy of her room the stricken Princess collapsed from the effects of the ordeal.  Her poor brain had striven in vain to invent means by which she might save the man she loved.  She had surrendered to the inevitable because there was justice in the claims of the inexorable Duke and his vindictive friends.  Against her will she had issued the decree, but not, however, until she had learned that he was in prison and unable to fly the country.  The hope that delay might aid him in escaping was rudely crushed when her uncle informed her of Lorry’s whereabouts.  She signed the decree as if in a dream, a nightmare, with trembling hand and broken heart.  His death warrant!  And yet, like all others, she believed him guilty.  Guilty for her sake!  And this was how she rewarded him.

Mizrox and his friends departed in triumph, revenge written on every face.  She walked blindly, numbly to her room, assisted by her uncle, the Count.  Without observing her aunt or the Countess Dagmar, she staggered to the window and looked below.  The Axphainians were crossing the parade ground jubilantly.  Then came the clatter of a horse’s hoof and Captain Quinnox, with the fatal papers in his possession, galloped down the avenue.  She clutched the curtains distractedly, and, leaning far forward, cried from the open window: