Bolaroz stood before her, dark and uncompromising.  She saw the futility of her plea.

“I have not forgotten, most noble petitioner, that you are ruler here, not I. Therefore I am in no way responsible for the conditions which confront you, except that I am an honest creditor, come for his honest dues.  This is the twentieth of November.  You have had fifteen years to accumulate enough to meet the requirements of this day.  Should I suffer for your faults?  There is in the treaty a provision which applies to an emergency of this kind.  Your inability to liquidate in gold does not prevent the payment of this honest debt in land, as provided for in the sixth clause of the agreement.  ’All that part of Graustark north of a line drawn directly from east to west between the provinces of Ganlook and Doswan, a tract comprising Doswan, Shellotz, Varagan, Oeswald, Sesmai and Gattabatton.’  You have two alternatives, your Highness.  Produce the gold or sign the decree ceding to Axphain the lands stipulated in the treaty.  I can grant no respite.”

You knew when that treaty was framed that we could raise no such funds in fifteen years,” said Halfont, forgetting himself in his indignation.  Gaspon and other men present approved his hasty declaration.

“Am I dealing with the Princess of Graustark or with you, sir?” asked Bolaroz, roughly.

You are dealing with the people of Graustark, and among the poorest, I. I will sign the decree.  There is nothing to be gained by appealing to you.  The papers, Gaspon, quick!  I would have this transaction finished speedily,” cried the Princess, her cheeks flushing and her eyes glowing from the flames of a burning conscience.  The groan that went up from the northern nobles cut her like the slash of a knife.

“There was one other condition,” said Bolaroz, hastily, unable to gloat as he had expected.  “The recapture of the assassin who slew my son would have meant much to Graustark.  It is unfortunate that your police department is so inefficient.”  Dangloss writhed beneath this thrust.  Yetive’s eyes went to him, for an instant, sorrowfully.  Then they dropped to the fatal document which Gaspon had placed on the table before her.  The lines ran together and were the color of blood.  Unconsciously she took the pen in her nerveless fingers.  A deep sob came from the breast of her gray old uncle, and Gaspon’s hand shook like a leaf as he placed the seal of Graustark on the table, ready for use.

“The assassin’s life could have saved you,” went on Bolaroz, a vengeful glare coming to his eyes.

She looked up and her lips moved as if she would have spoken.  No words came, no breath, it seemed to her.  Casting a piteous, hunted glance over the faces before her, she bent forward and blindly touched the pen to the paper.  The silence was that of death.  Before she could make the first stroke, a harsh voice, in which there was combined triumph and amazement, broke the stillness like the clanging of a bell.