The prince touched his pocket. “You know the contents of this?”
“I know only my orders.” He again saluted. “Shall I ride with you?”
“If you please.”
The captain gave his horse to one of his men to be led, and the two got into the sleigh. The prince then remembered that his children would be expecting every minute up to the last the reprieve that now was not to come. They ought to be spared that long suspense with its climax of disappointment, but he knew it was useless to ask to speak with them.
He was aware that the governor was behind them, though he pretended ignorance of the fact. “I was examining two condemned prisoners,” he remarked to the captain, but for the governor’s ear. “They asked a slight favour of me which I promised to consider. Will you have one of your men tell the governor to inform them that I can do nothing for them.”
“I will see they are told,” eagerly put in the governor.
The captain looked as if he half considered this to be a breach of orders; but the prince gave him no chance to object.
“Let us start,” he said quickly.
The sleigh moved off through the arched gateway, two officers riding beside it, and the rest of the troop following at a distance. To Governor Kavelin, and to all whom they passed, the cavalcade seemed merely an escort of honour. But beneath the prince’s calm surface he was revolving frantic measures. He thought of telling the captain at his side that the condemned ones were his children, and begging his aid; but he knew the captain had his orders and would dare not disobey. He thought of rising in his sleigh and crying out to the people, but he knew this would not avail to save his children. This would do nothing but spectacularly publish his own disgrace. So he rode on with closed lips, a cold, proud figure.
The three officers accompanied him into his office, where Drexel sat waiting. As they entered, Drexel sprang up.