to him. “Will you shake hands with me?” he asked, and grew red at his own heroism. “I shall certainly be dismissed for this,” he said proudly. Prokop learnt from Krafft that the report had spread through the castle like lightning that he, Prokop, was an anarchist, and that the heir to the throne was expected that very evening. . . . That they proposed to telegraph to His Excellence to postpone his arrival, and were holding a big family council about it.
Prokop approached the castle. Two flunkeys in the passage flew out of his path and pressed themselves against the wall, allowing this charged, clanging assailant to pass without a word. The family council was being held in the large hall. Oncle Rohn was anxiously walking up and down, the elder members were tremendously excited about the perversity of anarchists, the fat cousin was silent, and some other gentlemen were warmly advocating that soldiers should be sent against this wild person: he would either have to give himself up or be shot. At that moment the doors opened and Prokop crashed into the room. His eyes sought the Princess. She was not there, but all the rest of the company stood up rigid with terror, awaiting the worst. Prokop addressed Rohn in a hoarse voice: “I’ve only come to tell you that nothing will happen to the royal heir. Now you know.” He nodded sharply and walked out of the room as solid as a statue.
