But he declined. “To-morrow,” he said.
“And in the meantime?”
“If Count Epping is still in the Castle, we will let him hold it.”
The Princess nodded in approval. “Doubtless that is wiser,” she said, “though quite unprecedented; none but the King ever holds that key, save when he rides to war.”
“We are dealing with a situation that has no precedents,” he smiled; “we must make some.”
As he went toward the bell, a servant entered with a card.
“Admit him,” he said.... “It is Epping,” he explained.
The Prime Minister of Valeria was one of those extraordinary exceptions that occasionally occur in public officials; he had no purpose in life but to serve his King. Without regard to his own private ends or personal ambition, he had administered his office for a generation, and Frederick trusted him as few monarchs ever trusted a powerful subject. To the Nation, he was honesty and justice incarnate, and only the King and the Princess Royal excelled him in popularity and respect. Seventy years had passed over the tall and slender figure, leaving a crown of silver above the pale, lean face, with its tight-shut mouth, high cheek bones and faded blue eyes; but they had brought no stoop to the shoulders, nor feebleness to the step, nor dullness to the brain.
He saluted Armand with formal dignity; then bent over Dehra’s hand, silently and long—and when he rose a tear was trembling on his lashes. He dashed it away impatiently and turned to the Archduke.
“Sire,” he said—and Armand, in sheer surprise, made no objection—“I have brought the proclamation announcing His late Majesty’s death and your accession. It should be published in the morning. Will it please you to sign it now?”