prince carlo was seated at a small, round, mahogany table in the centre of his shadow-haunted room. before him lay a not uninviting repast. cold meat, cut-up peaches, bread, butter, iced coffee, and a dish containing a kind of pickle known only to rexanians strove in vain to tempt his appetite. rukacs had spread the table silently, but with an air of deference that was grateful to the captive prince. no word had been spoken between them, but in his very silence rukacs seemed to do homage to the youth’s rank, a rank that the conspirator recognized in practice while in theory he denied its existence.

evolution has not yet placed man so far above the lower order of animals that he does not in his heart of hearts acknowledge the tendency of nature to ratify the monarchical idea. he finds beneath him in the scale of being the bees setting up a queen and the herds of wild cattle paying homage to a king bull. he discovers that the prevailing conception of a future world, even among democrats, pictures god upon his throne, surrounded by celestial courtiers. whether he looks up or down, therefore, man’s eye rests upon the concrete manifestations of the abstract idea of royalty, and, sweeping the whole range of existence, he sees a throne beneath his feet and dreams of[116] another somewhere beyond the stars. the old cry, “le roi est mort, vive le roi,” may have in it the germs of universal truth that a nation of freemen would do well to heed. the substitution of a political “boss” for an hereditary ruler may be a step forward, but there are those to whom it looks like reaction illustrating the very nature of things.

prince carlo of rexania sipped his coffee and pondered certain questions related to the propositions just laid down. whatever of weakness there had been in the voluptuous dreams that had tempted him from the stern path of duty in the afternoon had disappeared, and his mind now dwelt wholly upon the obligations he owed to his people, his forefathers, and himself. as the thought of his physical helplessness at that moment stung him into a gesture of angry impatience, rukacs crossed the room and closed the window that looked out upon the balcony, the window that prince carlo had vainly attempted to open on the night of his arrival. rukacs understood the secret of its fastenings, and silently, almost stealthily, took an unnecessary precaution against his captive’s escape. the manner in which the rexanian performed this task proved that he was, at bottom, ashamed of the rôle he was playing at the moment.

“if you desire anything, your—your royal highness,” he faltered, as he recrossed the room and placed a hand upon the door opening into the hall, “will you kindly rap three times upon the floor?” the conspirator’s flushed face bore outward evidence of his interior agitation. rukacs loved freedom too well to make a graceful jailer.

[117]

prince carlo bowed in acknowledgment of his captor’s words, and on the instant found himself alone, the grating sound of a rusty key again serving to emphasize the chilling fact that he, the heir-apparent to the throne of rexania, was a prisoner in a land whose political stock in trade is liberty.

there was something oppressive in the sudden silence. prince carlo glanced furtively around the room. he had become used to the depressing characteristics of the apartment, and the antic shadows that lurked in the far corners and hovered around the curtains of the bed no longer affected his nerves. but at this moment the uncanny spirit of the old house seemed to whisper to him in threatening tones. his overwrought fancy pictured the stealthy assassin creeping through the damp corridors and dodging behind crumbling curtains in his search for blood. a door creaked on its hinges in some distant corner of the house; he started as though the sound carried with it a menace he must heed.

presently the reaction came, and a smile of self-pity played about his clean-cut mouth. with an impatient gesture, he brushed his damp hair back from his brow and poured some of the iced coffee into a glass. he was about to raise the draught to his lips, when the conviction seized him that somebody’s eyes were resting upon him. a shiver went through his frame, and he replaced the goblet upon the table with trembling hand. courageous though prince carlo was by nature, there was a weird, uncanny influence at work, as it seemed to him, to disturb the balance of his nervous system.

[118]

annoyed at himself, the youth arose from the table, and, resting one hand upon the coverlet, glanced toward the window. on the instant his eyes met the burning gaze of ludovics, who crouched outside the window, enraged to find it locked. for a moment neither the prince nor the madman moved. then, with one bound, the latter smashed his way through the glass, and cut and bleeding, a ghastly, crimson incarnation of all that is hideous in the cult of the assassin, he faced prince carlo across the table, while the lamp flickered threateningly as the night breeze swept through the window into the room.

the two men stood motionless, gazing into each other’s eyes. the blood-stained madman, representative of all that is most horrible in the effort of man to escape from the tyranny of tradition and to seek higher things, faced the incarnation of reaction, the embodiment of obsolete prerogatives and time-dishonored claims. the man who was in the right was mad; he who was in the wrong was sane. thus did they represent, as they stood facing each other in the dim light of that wind-beset chamber, ages of human history.

the glare in ludovics’ eyes faded slowly as he looked upon the pale, strong, beautiful face of the youth who had assumed in his wild fancy the figure of a tyrant who held wild revelry at the expense of the people in a palace here at hand. what gleam of reason returned to his crazy mind, who shall say? there was no bacchanalian carnival surrounding the prince; only a simple supper, untasted, spread before him. he was not mocking[119] ludovics, but only looking at him with sad, splendid eyes that stirred the distraught soul of the madman to its depths. beneath their gaze ludovics seemed to collapse and slink away. he turned, with a low cry, that echoed through the room like the wail of a spirit damned, and stumbled towards the window.

prince carlo stood motionless at the table, watching the retreating form of the madman. suddenly ludovics drew himself erect and turned again to face the prince. raising his pistol slowly until the muzzle rested against his forehead, ludovics said, in voice so calm that it seemed to come from a man whose mind was absolutely normal:

“your majesty, i salute you. accept my homage.”

on the instant he pulled the trigger and sent a bullet crashing through his crazy brain.