“There’s none within ten miles, and a thousand doctors wouldn’t take him to Strelsau today. I know the look of it. He’ll not move for six or seven hours yet.”
“But the coronation!” I cried in horror.
Fritz shrugged his shoulders, as I began to see was his habit on most occasions.
“We must send word that he’s ill,” he said.
“I suppose so,” said I.
Old Sapt, who seemed as fresh as a daisy, had lit his pipe and was puffing hard at it.
“If he’s not crowned today,” said he, “I’ll lay a crown he’s never crowned.”
“But heavens, why?”
“The whole nation’s there to meet him; half the army—ay, and Black Michael at the head. Shall we send word that the King’s drunk?”
“That he’s ill,” said I, in correction.