“Openly,” said the Count. “Having been in exile a month, you can venture to return and throw yourself on Frederick’s mercy. We think he will receive you and permit you to remain—but, at least, it will give you two days in Dornlitz, and, if our plan does not miscarry, that will be quite ample.”
“Very good,” the Duke commented; “but my going will depend upon how I like your plot; let us have it—and in it, I trust you have not overlooked my fiasco at the Vierle Masque and so hung it all on my single sword.”
“Your sword may be very necessary, but, if so, it won’t be alone. We have several plans—the one we hope to——”
A light tap on the door interrupted him, and a servant entered, with the bright pink envelope that, in Valeria, always contained a telegram.
“My recall to Court,” laughed the Duke, and drawing out the message glanced at it indifferently.
But it seemed to take him unduly long to read it; and when, at length, he folded it, his face was very grave; and he sat silent, staring at the floor, creasing and recreasing the sheet with nervous fingers, and quite oblivious to the two who were watching him, and the servant standing stiffly at attention at his side.
Suddenly, from without, arose a mad din of horses’ hoofs and human voices, as the returning cavalcade dashed into the courtyard, women and men yelling like fiends possessed. And it roused the Duke.
“You may go,” to the footman; “there is no answer now.” He waited until the door closed; then held up the telegram. “His Majesty died, suddenly, this afternoon,” he said.
Count Bigler sprang half out of his chair.
“Frederick dead! the King dead!” he cried—“then, in God’s name, who now is king—you or the American?”