"Do you mean, then," he asked, "that the assassin has done his work?"
"No. Prince Peter, it appears, changed his plans and returned to Serajoz by another route."
"Thank God! Then everything will be all right."
"I don't know," said Larescu, shaking his shaggy head. "The assassin has followed him on the road. But I think the prince had start enough, from what I hear, to get to Serajoz a good few hours before the assassin could come up with him. Nevertheless, someone should go to the capital immediately."
"Yes, you are right," broke in the Canadian. "I shall go myself. Find me a guide back through the mountains."
CHAPTER XXIV
THE NEW KING
King Alexander of Ironia stood in an embrasure of the royal council room. He appeared to be gazing over the crowded, turbulent Lodz, but in reality he saw nothing; nor did the wild clamour that rose from the mob-ridden square in front of the palace reach his ears. The King stared into space while angry emotions ran riot in his mind. Adamant determination, black anger and futile longing for strength to combat his aroused subjects, filled the brain of the baffled monarch. A truly royal figure he appeared, standing there alone by the window—arms folded on his breast, mouth set in ominous lines, staring out into space as silent and as motionless as bronze.
Back in the council room a number of men were seated around a long table, conversing in low tones and furtively regarding the solitary figure of the monarch.
"His Majesty will never give in," said Danilo Vanilis, the shrewdest and strongest of the King's councillors. "I know him. He has sworn not to fight Potsdam—and he will die rather than break his pledge."