Instead, there was a dull ache and impotent rebellion at the injustice of the thing—­that Leopold should be reaping these great rewards, while he who had made it possible for him to be a king at all was to die on the morrow because of what he had done to place the Rubinroth upon his throne.

“Perhaps Lieutenant Butzow might find a way,” suggested the officer.  “He or your father; they are both fond of Mr. Custer.”

“Yes,” said the girl dully, “see Lieutenant Butzow—­he would do the most.”

The officer bowed and hastened from the apartment in search of Butzow.  The girl approached the window and stood there for a long time, looking out at the surging multitude that pressed around the palace gates, filling Margaretha Street with a solid mass of happy faces.

They cheered the king, the chancellor, the army; but most often they cheered the king.  From a despised monarch Leopold had risen in a single bound to the position of a national idol.

Repeatedly he was called to the balcony over the grand entrance that the people might feast their eyes on him.  The princess wondered how long it was before she herself would be forced to offer her congratulations and, perchance, suffer his caresses.  She shivered and cringed at the thought, and then there came a knock upon the door, and in answer to her permission it opened, and the king stood upon the threshold alone.

At a glance the man took in the pain and sorrow mirrored upon the girl’s face.  He stepped quickly across the room toward her.

“What is it?” he asked.  “What is the matter?”

For a moment he had forgotten the part that he had been playing—­forgot that the Princess Emma was ignorant of his identity.  He had come to her to share with her the happiness of the hour—­the glory of the victorious arms of Lutha.  For a time he had almost forgotten that he was not the king, and now he was forgetting that he was not Barney Custer to the girl who stood before him with misery and hopelessness writ so large upon her countenance.

For a brief instant the girl did not reply.  She was weighing the problematical value of an attempt to enlist the king in the cause of the American.  Leopold had shown a spark of magnanimity when he had written a pardon for Mr. Custer; might he not rise again above his petty jealousy and save the American’s life?  It was a forlorn hope to the woman who knew the true Leopold so well; but it was a hope.

“What is the matter?” the king repeated.

“I have just received word that Prince Peter has ignored your commands, sire,” replied the girl, “and that Mr. Custer is to be shot tomorrow.”

Barney’s eyes went wide with incredulity.  Here was a pretty pass, indeed!  The princess came close to him and seized his arm.

“You promised, sire,” she said, “that he would not be harmed—­you gave your royal word.  You can save him.  You have an army at your command.  Do not forget that he once saved you.”