"Can you make anything of it?" asked Nick, noting my glance.
"All Greek to me," I replied; "Has it something to do with your country?"
"Yes. It is an official command to Grand Duke—that is, I should say it is a summons to Nicholas Fremsted "to be present at the Cathedral in Nischon on New Year's Day, January 1, 19—, to bear witness and attest to the legality of the coronation of Prince Raoul as King of Bharbazonia," said Nick, reading the scroll. "It is signed by Oloff Gregory, the present king, who is eighty-two years old, and desires to abdicate."
At last the secret of Nick's nationality was out, but I was not concerned with that so much as I was with the fear that I was to lose him so soon.
"Of course you are going?" I asked.
"Yes; I gave my word to the General."
"I have never heard of this country of Bharbazonia; where is it, Nick?"
"No, of course not," said he. "It is one of the many small provinces of southeastern Europe which is generally summed up and dismissed with the expression—one of the Balkan states. My country threw off the yoke of the Turks about the same time Bulgaria obtained her freedom at the Battle of Shipka Pass, thanks to Russian intervention and their great fighting chief Grand Duke Alexoff. During that struggle Bharbazonia sent her best fighting men and all her money to Bulgaria's aid and many of the fiercest battles for the extermination of the red fez were waged in the mountains which surround the Fatherland. When the treaty was signed Bulgaria and Bharbazonia were free. Gregory was made king and the nobles, banished by the Turks, returned from exile in friendly Russia and resumed control of the land of their forefathers."
"Was the General's news the first you had of the proposed abdication?"
"No, I knew of it; but did not feel called upon to be present. He convinced me that it was my duty."