The constable, without a word of greeting, snatched the envelope from the hand of the messenger and tore it open. He read it hastily, muttering under his breath “Good God!” Then he turned suddenly round and began to walk quickly back to James, who, seeing himself beaten in the race, had dropped to a walk. But the messenger had his cares as well as the constable. If the constable’s thoughts were on a crown, so were his. He called out in indignant protest:
“I have never drawn rein since Hofbau, sir. Am I not to have my crown?”
Sapt stopped, turned, and retraced his steps. He took a crown from his pocket. As he looked up in giving it, there was a queer smile on his broad, weather-beaten face.
“Ay,” he said, “every man that deserves a crown shall have one, if I can give it him.”
Then he turned again to James, who had now come up, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Come along, my king-maker,” said he.
James looked in his face for a moment. The constable’s eyes met his; and the constable nodded.
So they turned to the lodge where the dead king and his huntsman lay. Verily the fate drove.