“To the capital, sir. Prince Ughtred of Tyrnaus, our future King, is there. We go to greet him.”
The two men exchanged quick glances as they rode on.
“I do not understand it,” Reist admitted. “Our coming is unannounced. A certain amount of secrecy was necessary. Something strange seems to have happened.”
By degrees their progress along the narrow road grew more and more difficult. The country folk thronged the thoroughfare, gay in picturesque holiday attire, many of them singing a strange national air which stirred in Ughtred’s heart some faint echo of far-away recollections. He watched them eagerly, and his heart swelled with pride. A fine, stalwart race, with the free swinging walk of mountaineers, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, with cheeks as brown as berries. His dormant patriotism, already awakened by his long ride through the beautiful, dimly-familiar country, beat in his heart. He would rule these people as his children, and though he died sword in hand the yoke of the conqueror should never bow their shoulders. It was a great task—a great heritage.
A train, brilliant with lights, glided serpent-like over the high viaduct to their left. A murmur arose from amongst the people.
“The Prince,” they cried. “The Prince.”
“What does it mean?” Ughtred asked.
“God only knows,” Reist answered, bewildered.
At the station a cordon of soldiers blocked the way. The two men spurred on into the front ranks. Amongst a thunder of acclamation they saw Domiloff and Brand in his brilliant uniform take their places in the waiting carriage. They were speechless.
“To the palace,” Reist cried at last. “Come, Ughtred; there’s some damned underhand plotting going on.”