He was in time to see Maurice lurch into the arms of Captain von Mitter, who had barred the way to the private apartments.
“Carewe!... What has happened? God's name, you are soaked in blood!” Von Mitter held Maurice at arm's length. “A battle?”
“Aye, a battle; one man is dead and another soon will be!” A transient lucidity beamed in Maurice's eyes. “We were betrayed by the native troops; they ran to meet Madame.... Marshal Kampf, Prince Frederick, and the cuirassiers are prisoners.... I escaped. Beauvais, gave chase.... Wanted to kill me.... He gave me this. I ran him through the throat.... Knew him in South America.... He's dead! Inform the archbishop and her Highness that Madame is nearing the city. The king—”
“Hush!” said von Mitter, with a finger on his lip; “hush! The king died at six o'clock. God rest his soul!” He crossed himself. “A disgraceful day! Curse the scheming woman, could she not let us bury him in peace? Prince Frederick's father refused to send us aid.”
“I am dying,” said Maurice with a sob. “Let me lie down somewhere; if I fall I am a dead man.” After a pause: “Take me into the throne room. I shall last till Madame comes. Let her find me there.... The brandy!”
Scharfenstein held the flask to the sufferer's lips.
“The throne room?” repeated von Mitter, surprised at this strange request. “Well, why not? For what is a throne when there is no king to sit on it? You will not die, my friend, though the cut is a nasty one. What is an arm? Life is worth a thousand of them! Quick! help me with him, Max!” for Maurice was reaching blindly toward him.
The three troopers who had followed Scharfenstein came up, and the five of them managed to carry Maurice into the throne room, and deposit him on the cushions at the foot of the dais. There they left him.
“Bad!” said von Mitter, as he came limping out into the corridor. “And he made such a brave show when he left here this afternoon. I have grown to love the fellow. A gallant man. I knew that the native troops were up to something. So did the Colonel. Ach! I would give a year of my life to have seen him and Beauvais. To kill Beauvais, the best saber in the kingdom—it must have been a fight worthy of the legends. A bad day! They will laugh at us. But, patience, the archbishop has something to say before the curtain falls. Poor young man! He will lose his arm, if not his life.”
“But how comes he into all this?” asked Scharfenstein, perplexedly.