"God save His Majesty from ill," she answered, "but I think he is very human—and handsome." She blushed uneasily. A merry peal of laughter from the group about the King drew their attention. Leaning her elbow on the cloth, the girl turned her head to learn the cause of the hilarity. Carter, thankful for the opportunity, employed the pause in studying Trusia. The Duchess's eyes were sparkling like some lustrous jet. The deep flush of the jacqueminot burned in her cheeks as she smilingly regarded Natalie, the heroine of the jest. Was all this scintillation a mask, he wondered, or had the coming of the King—the remembrance of her vow—driven the recollection of that momentary surrender in Paris from her heart? He sighed. The girl next him turned in apology.
"Forgive me, monsieur, for forgetting you. But Her Grace—is she not beautiful? When she makes us girls forget, is it any wonder the youths of Krovitch are oblivious of our poor existence?"
"She has had many suitors, then?" Carter to save him could not refrain from the question.
"A legion," she answered; "but all have withdrawn nobly in favor of the King. Even Paul Zulka and Major Sobieska. They are transferring to him their lives and their swords to please her."
A slight commotion at the head of the table again caused them to turn their heads in that direction. The King was rising.
"He is going to announce his betrothal," suggested the girl at Carter's side. Carter's face grew grim and white. But such was not the royal intent. Being assured that all present understood French, King Stovik in a short speech thanked the people of Krovitch for their devotion to his House. He promised that, if destiny placed him on their throne, he would treat his power as a trust for them.
"For this day at least we give ourselves over to the joy of meeting you. To-morrow comes the fearful care of kings. You have labored faithfully, to-night be merry," he said in conclusion. He lifted a bubbling glass from the table. "Our battle cry, my lords, is 'God and Krovitch.'"
There was an hysteric outburst. Men and women leaped to their feet to drain the toast. When the King regained his seat the cheers subsided. Slowly, impressively Trusia arose at his side, the light of inspiration radiating from her glorious self like the warm light that comes from the sun.
"There can be only one other toast after that, my people," she said. "God save the King." Like a real prayer, solemn and soul-felt, arose a responsive, "God save the King." Then deliberately, that the glasses might never be profaned with a less loyal toast, the guests snapped the fragile stems between their fingers and cast the dainty bowls to the floor in tinkling fragments.
At a signal from Stovik the banquet was over. He arose, and, taking Trusia by the hand, escorted her to the great hall to lead the cotillion with him. The royal pair having departed, the guests arose and, in the order of their precedence, filed into the ballroom in the train of their King.