It was the King—King Karl XXII., fat, smiling, smoking, wrapped luxuriously in magnificent furs, and accompanied by his favourites, General Meyer and Robert Saunders.
The Grimlanders,—to do them justice,—never received their monarch without noise. They might hoot or they might cheer, they might throw garlands of flowers or nitro-glycerine bombs, but royalty is royalty, whether its representative be hero or villain, and it was never received in the silence of indifference. And at the present moment the throng was benevolent. The day was fine, the occasion interesting, and in the love of sport the Grimland public forgot its antipathy to permanent institutions.
"By the way," asked the King of General Meyer, when they had found their way to the royal enclosure overlooking the Rundsee, "did you secure our friend Bernhardt last night?"
General Meyer shook his head.
"We had a failure," he replied, "another failure."
The King received the news without any outward sign of displeasure. Only one who knew him well would have read the deep disappointment of his placid silence.
"I thought you had discovered where he lodged," he said at length.
"I had discovered the fox's earth," said Meyer, "but my hounds had not strong enough teeth to inconvenience him. I approached a certain Captain of the Guides, a young man of good family and approved courage. I offered substantial rewards, but the work was too dirty for his aristocratic fingers."
"Perhaps it would have been wiser to have approached someone of humbler birth," said the King drily.
"I was forced to that conclusion myself," sneered the General, "and I requisitioned the services of two of the biggest scoundrels who enjoy the privilege of being your Majesty's subjects. Their consciences were un-tender, but they failed, as canaille will, when they come to hand-grips with a brave man."