"What can it mean?" asked Trusia, whose heart beat wildly with a surmise she dare not voice.
The crest of the mountain was reached. The city lay spread before them. Over the Government buildings floated the Lion of Krovitch. The standard, waving gently in the breeze, seemed beckoning them to approach.
"The city is ours," burst simultaneously from their lips. The train in one headlong descent drew up at the station at Schallberg.
Looking out they could see a multitude of eager, expectant faces turned trainward. All Schallberg and most of the surrounding country had congregated to welcome their sovereign.
In the front rank Carter espied his former friends, while last but not least a jubilant Carrick awaited his alighting. A guard was drawn up about the platform on which stood the little group of officers.
Urged to the front, King Stovik was the first to step into view of the throng. Recognizing him, the officers drew their swords and raised them high above their heads.
"Long live King Stovik!" they cried.
For the life of a sigh there was a silence while the multitude realized that this man was their King. Then a pandemonium of cheers shattered the air. A roar of two centuries of repressed loyalty greeted him. He would indeed have been of meagre soul not to have been touched by such devotion. Handkerchiefs, hats, and flags were waved by his people—his people—at sight of him. What could be the limited fame of an artist compared to the devotion of an entire people for their sovereign? He stood erect, proudly lifting his hat to the full height of his arm in dignified response. There came a mightier cheer.
"Long live Stovik Fourth!"
"God save the King of Krovitch!"