“Have you no honor?”

The pen dropped from her fingers as the expected condemnation came.  Every eye in the house was turned toward the white, twitching face of Gabriel of Dawsbergen.  He stood a little apart from his friends, his finger pointed throneward.  The Princess stared at the nemesis-like figure for an instant, as if petrified.  Then the pent-up fear crowded everything out of its path.  In sheer desperation, her eyes flashing with the intensity of defiant guilt, bitter rage welling up against her persecutor, she half arose and cried: 

“Who uttered those words?  Speak!”

“I, Gabriel of Dawsbergen!  Where is the prisoner, madam?” rang out the voice.

“The man is mad!” cried she, sinking back with a shudder.

“Mad, eh?  Because I do as I did promise?  Behold the queen of perfidy!  Madam, I will be heard.  Lorry is in this castle!”

“He is mad!” gasped Bolaroz, the first of the stunned spectators to find his tongue.

There was a commotion near the door.  Voices were heard outside.

“You have been duped!” insisted Gabriel, taking several steps toward the throne.  “Your idol is a traitress, a deceiver!  I say he is here!  She has seen him.  Let her sign that decree if she dares!  I command you, Yetive of Graustark, to produce this criminal!”

The impulse to crush the defiler was checked by the sudden appearance of two men inside the curtains.

“He is here!” cried a strong voice, and Lorry, breathless and haggard, pushed through the astonished crowd, followed by Captain Quinnox, upon whose ghastly face there were bloodstains.

A shout went up from those assembled, a shout of joy.  The faces of Dangloss and Allode were pictures of astonishment and—­it must be said—­relief.  Harry Anguish staggered but recovered himself instantly, and turned his eyes toward Gabriel.  That worthy’s legs trembled and his jaw dropped.

“I have the prisoner, your Highness,” said Quinnox, in hoarse, discordant tones.  He stood before the throne with his captive, but dared not look his mistress in the face.  As they stood there the story of the night just passed was told by the condition of the two men.  There had been a struggle for supremacy in the dungeon and the prisoner had won.  The one had tried to hold the other to the dungeon’s safety, after his refusal to leave the castle, and the other had fought his way to the halls above.  It was then that Quinnox had wit enough to change front and drag his prisoner to the place which, most of all, he had wished to avoid.

“The prisoner!” shouted the northern nobles, and in an instant the solemn throne room was wild with excitement.

“Do not sign that decree!” cried some one from a far corner.

“Here is your man, Prince Bolaroz!” cried a baron.

“Quinnox has saved us!” shouted another.

The Princess, white as death and as motionless, sat bolt upright in her royal seat.