"Not I," said Nick; "they were too tired."
"But when the grooms assured us that you had mounted your friends from the stable and we counted the horses, we knew there was little use searching around the premises. Marbosa was furious, as you may well imagine. He swore that he'd kill the Prince when he overtook him. Marbosa is a man of his word, as we all know. My roan is a good horse, but he is not equal to eighty miles in a day."
"He was caught then?" said Nick.
"Probably," said the General. "At all events I would not be surprised if some one else were made king of Bharbazonia to-day."
"Novgorod?" asked Nick.
"Novgorod," said the General, with a look I did not understand. "Now get dressed, you two, as quickly as possible."
"A pretty stew Marbosa is getting us into," growled Nick, but the General went away without replying. I longed to tell dear old Nick that the Duke had failed in his effort to capture the Prince, but I felt that the time was not yet. Silently I thanked God for our lucky escape from Marbosa's awful temper. It had been more serious than we thought.
When he finally struggled into it, Nick looked every inch a king himself in his father's court dress. It was a Grand Duke's uniform, he told me, of scarlet with green facings. The double-breasted coat reached to the knees and fitted him splendidly, although to my modest American taste there was too much gold braid and "ginger-bread" about it. Close-fitting knee boots with wide fluted tops joined the coat at the knee and almost hid the tight trousers beneath; they had green stripes down the side. A military helmet of green with scarlet and gold trimmings, a lengthy sword that trailed like the General's upon the ground, numerous medals and insignia of ancient orders pinned upon his breast, made Nicholas of Framkor look as if he had come into his own.
My own neat-fitting dress suit and silk hat were very republican compared with Nick's kingly costume, but Nick said it was perfectly correct to wear it to the coronation; that he had often ridden through the streets of Berlin so attired at eleven o'clock in the morning to make a formal call.
"Oh, king," I cried mockingly, "have mercy upon thine humble subject. Deign to cast one kingly, kindly eye upon his plebeian, tear-stained countenance, before thou shalt send him to his deserved doom."