The American strolled over to the shaded margin which was unspoiled by the light.  He brushed back the hair from his forehead and let the sea breeze play on his face.

Finally a light sound behind him called his attention inward.  The King and Von Ritz stood together in the doorway.  Both were in dress uniform.  Karyl, even at the side of the soldierly Von Ritz, was striking in the white and silver of Galavia’s commanding general.  Across his breast glinted the decorations of all the orders to which Royalty entitled him.

The King, with a deep breath not unlike a sigh, came forward to the fountain.  There he halted with one booted foot on the margin of the basin and his white-gauntleted hands clasped at his back.  He had not yet seen Benton, who now stepped out of the shadow to present himself.  As he came into view Karyl raised his eyes and nodded with a smile.

“Ah, Benton,” he said, “so you came!  Thank you.”

The American bowed.  He wished to observe every proper amenity of Court etiquette.  He was still chagrined by the memory of his rudeness to Von Ritz, yet he was determined that if Karyl had sent for him as the Count Pagratide, he must receive him on equal terms and without ceremony.

“Certainly,” he replied.  Then with a short laugh he added:  “I have never before been received by a crowned head.  If my etiquette proves faulty, you must score it against my ignorance—­not my intention.”

“I sent for you,” said Karyl slowly, as the eyes of the two men met in full directness, “and you were good enough to come.  I am a crowned head—­yes—­that is my damned ill-fortune.  Let us, for God’s sake, in so far as we may, forget that!  Benton, back there—­” his voice suddenly rose and took on a passionate tremor as he lifted one gauntleted hand in a sweep toward the west—­“back there in your country, where you were a grandee of finance and I an impecunious foreigner, there was no ceremony between us.  If we can forget this livery”—­Karyl savagely struck his breast—­“if you will try to forget that you are looking at a toy King, fancifully trimmed from head to heel in braid and medals—­then perhaps we can talk!”

“Your Majesty—­” demurred Von Ritz in a tone of deep protest.

The King swept his arm back as one who brushes an unimportant intruder into the background.

“And we must talk,” went on Karyl vehemently, “as two men, not as one man and a puppet.”

The American stood looking on at the violence of the King’s outburst with a sense of deep sympathy.  Again the Colonel stepped forward with an interposed objection.

“If I may suggest—­” he began in an emotionless inflection which fell in startling contrast with the surcharged vehemence of the other.  Then he halted in the midst of his sentence as Karyl wheeled passionately to face him.

“My God, Colonel!” cried the King.  “There is not a debt of gratitude in life that I do not owe to you—­I and my house!  I am crushed under my obligations to you.  You have been our strength, our one loyal support, and yet there are times when you madden me!” The officer stood waiting, respectful, impersonal, until the flood of words should subside, but for a while Karyl swept agitatedly on.