A dazed look settled on the youth’s face for an instant.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he asked, hoarsely, “that you would take my word for such a thing as that?”
A murmur born of suppressed excitement, perhaps of protest, broke from the conspirators, but Posadowski raised his hand for silence.
“We would take your word, Prince Carlo. There is not a Rexanian in all the world who would not.”
The youth’s face twitched with the effort he made to suppress the emotion of mingled astonishment and gratitude that filled his soul.
“And yet,” he cried, “you would take from me my throne, deny my right to lead the people I love, who love me! What madness blinds your eyes? Would you bring ruin on the land you pretend to cherish? Think you that there is in Rexania a republican leader whose word you would accept as you would take mine? But I am too deeply grieved at the news you give me to argue with you now. Plain as your inconsistency is to my eyes, this is not the time to point it out to you. Please leave me for a while. I must think—think—think. Wait just one moment. Do not leave me with a false hope in your heart. Though my father—God be with him!—were dying a thousand deaths, I would not, could not, blindly sacrifice the trust that falls to my care to gratify your will, and gain my worthless freedom. Better for me, better for you, better for Rexania, that I sink beneath the waters of yonder sun-kissed sea than go hence a false and recreant prince, damned for all time as a traitor, a coward, a renegade. Leave me to my sorrow and my tears. Go, and may the God that loves our fatherland speak to your hard hearts and lead you from the error of your ways. Go!”
Silently the four conspirators turned and left Prince Carlo to his lonely grief. Their faces were pale with the conflicting emotions that tried their souls. The gigantic Posnovitch trembled, as if with cold.
“He’s grand,” he muttered, as the quartette reached the lower hall. “He’s every inch a king.”