“I am,” answered the arch-conspirator, simply. “I have been for some years past.”
The prince forgot for a moment that he was anything but a son, soon to be fatherless, a son who had not been too loyal or obedient at the end.
“Tell me—tell me,” he implored, “is there no hope? Are you sure?”
“There is no hope, Prince Carlo, unless a famous specialist from Paris can perform a miracle. To-morrow I shall know what this man has done for the king.”
A sob broke from the overburdened heart of the youth, and tears of honest sympathy filled the eyes of his countrymen. Suddenly Prince Carlo sprang up, his face ghastly in its pallor and his eyes aglow with the fervor of his hope.
“You will let me go to him? My countrymen, for the love of God, for the love you bore your fathers, let me go to him! I must—I must see him before he dies.”
Posadowski’s lips trembled and his voice faltered, as he said, “We cannot let you go, Prince Carlo unless—unless——” His voice failed him.
“Unless what?” whispered the prince eagerly.
“Unless you will promise us to abdicate the instant your father dies.”