I did as I was bid. A moment later Sapt looked in, nodded, grinned, and introduced an extremely smart and deferential young gentleman, who came up to my bedside, bowing again and again, and informed me that he was of the household of the Princess Flavia, and that her Royal Highness had sent him especially to inquire how the king's health was after the fatigues which his Majesty had undergone yesterday.
"My best thanks, sir, to my cousin," said I; "and tell her Royal Highness that I was never better in my life."
"The king," added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for its own sake), "has slept without a break all night."
The young gentleman (he reminded me of Osric in "Hamlet") bowed himself out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim's pale face recalled us to reality—though, in faith, the farce had to be reality for us now.
"Is the king dead?" he whispered.
"Please God, no," said I. "But he's in the hands of Black Michael!"
