“Wait!” he said; “there is another decree that comes before the ritual. Attend!—
“‘Section one hundred thirty-second.—Whereas, for the first time in a thousand years the Dalberg has no son: It is hereby decreed that the succession as Head of the House of Dalberg, and, ipso facto, to the Crown of Valeria, together with all their hereditary titles, powers, possessions and privileges, shall be vested in our only child and daughter, Dehra, Princess Royal of Valeria. And all and every decree conflicting therewith is hereby specifically revoked and annulled.’”
And now the swords were up again, and the Archduke’s with them, and the wild huzza roared through the Palace and far into the Park; and Bernheim and Moore, coming down the corridor, dashed into the library and stopped, amazed; then joined in, knowing that it must mean victory.
But Dehra, herself, pale-faced, tear-eyed and trembling, turned and flung her arms around Armand’s neck.
“It’s wrong, dear! it’s wrong!” she cried; “you are the King!—you are the Dalberg!”
“No, sweetheart, it is right!” he said, releasing her arms, and bowing over her hand until his lips touched it. “Praise God! it is right.”
Then he stepped back and flashed his sword above her head; and all the others sprang to meet it, and locked there, a canopy of steel.
“Valeria hails the Head of the House of Dalberg as the Queen!” he cried.
And from every throat came back the answer:
“We hail the Dalberg Queen!”