CHAPTER XXII.
Prince Carlo’s face was pale and drawn and his eyes gleamed feverishly as he turned from the ghastly sight in front of him and gazed at the Rexanians who had thronged upstairs and into the room. Their presence was a relief to him at that moment.
Posadowski pushed forward through the crowd of silent and awe-stricken men. Approaching the prince, he said:
“Your royal highness, believe me, we did not know that this man,” pointing to the prostrate form of the suicide, “had left the city.”
Prince Carlo turned toward the group, whose white faces in the flickering light thrown out by the wind-pestered lamp seemed to haunt the room like ghosts. The youth’s countenance was stern and menacing. He had held up a hand and haughtily enforced silence upon the cowed conspirators.
“You know not, my countrymen,” said Prince Carlo, in a low, penetrating voice, and speaking in the Rexanian tongue, “how deep is the grief that stirs my soul. Yonder madman sought my life. His murderous hand was turned against himself. Who shall say what power it was that intervened to save me from his wrath? Do you call it chance? If such it was, there is no God. But in my heart of hearts I know that in this room we see the impress of a mighty hand. The fiat of the King of kings has been obeyed. You plot to thwart His will. As well attempt to wound the stars with stones! You hold me here a prisoner. You think, blind, feeble children, that you can mould a nation’s destiny, can dictate to the Omnipotent the future of a race: look upon the bloody form of that unhappy man and learn the lesson that God reigns. Listen! There is a voice that tells me that I must mount my father’s throne. It tells me that in the universal plan that makes for higher things the part that I must take lies far from hence. I am no tyrant: I do not crave the awful power that he who wields a sceptre may usurp. My countrymen, I will be frank with you. To live in peace in this fair land, to lose my name and all the burdens that it bears, to forget that on my shoulders the welfare of a nation rests—ah, this were sweet. But a sterner fate is mine. I must go back to the land we love so well. I must some day take up the weary task that falls from my father’s tired hands. I must sacrifice all things that most men love to the long service of a people not yet fitted for self-government. Think you that this is selfishness? I tell you that, if my love of country and of duty were not greater than my love of self, no power on earth could force me back to Rexania—to the land that offers me a throne upon which no man can sit to-day in peace. A crown? A crown of thorns awaits me. Power? Only so long as it is used in the service of God and my people. Homage? The only homage that makes glad the heart of kings comes from those who praise the man rather than the monarch. Think not, my countrymen, that I am pleading to you for freedom. Whether you grant it or withhold it now, it is sure to come. But when I am gone you will reflect that I go not to a bed of roses, but to a couch made of iron, around which mighty shadows lurk. Pardon me for so long detaining you, but remember me in the days to come as one who forgives you in your errors, and who bears you no ill-will.”
While the prince had been speaking, two men had joined the group at the doorway, Ned Strong and Norman Benedict. They gazed with amazement on the scene before them. Pushing his way through the yielding throng, Ned Strong stood before the prince.
“Count Szalaki,” he exclaimed, extending his hand, “this is the last place on earth in which I had expected to find you. But, as your host, I give you welcome.”
“Mr. Strong!” cried Prince Carlo, in astonishment: “I do not understand. You say I am your guest?”