And suddenly he burst into one of his grating chuckles:
"By Jove, we've shaken up Black Michael!"
"Come, come!" I repeated impatiently.
"And we'll shake him up a bit more," he added, a cunning smile broadening on his wrinkled, weather-beaten face and his teeth working on an end of his grizzled mustache. "Aye, lad, we'll go back to Strelsau. The king shall be in his capital again to-morrow"
"The king?"
"The crowned king!"
"You're mad!" I cried
"If we go back and tell the trick we played what would you give for our lives?"
"Just what they're worth," said I.
"And for the king's throne? Do you think that the nobles and the people will enjoy being fooled as you've fooled them? Do you think they'll love a king who was too drunk to be crowned, and sent a servant to personate him?"
"He was drugged—and I'm no servant."
"Mine will be Black Michael's version."
