CHAPTER VI.
THE SECRET OF A CELLAR.
We were in the king's dressing room—Fritz von Tarlenheim, Sapt, and I. I flung myself exhausted into an armchair. Sapt lit his pipe. He uttered no congratulations on the marvelous success of our wild risk, but his whole bearing was eloquent of satisfaction. The triumph, aided perhaps by good wine, had made a new man of Fritz.
"What a day for you to remember!" he cried. "Gad, I'd like to be a king for twelve hours myself! But, Rassendyll, you mustn't throw your heart too much into the part. I don't wonder Black Michael looked blacker than ever—you and the princess had so much to say to one another."
"How beautiful she is!" I exclaimed.
"Never mind the woman," growled Sapt. "Are you ready to start?"
"Yes," said I, with a sigh.
It was five o'clock, and at twelve I should be no
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