He turned to Thord.
“Sergius,” he said, “my task is finished—my confession made! The next Order of this meeting must come from you!”
Thord looked at him amazedly.
“From me? Are you not the King?”
“Only so long as the People desire it!” replied the monarch gently; “And are you not the representative of the People?”
Thord’s chest heaved. Burning tears stood in his eyes. The strangeness of the situation—the deliberate coolness and resolve with which this sovereign ruler of a powerful kingdom laid his life trustingly in his hands, was too much for his nerve.
“Lotys!” he said huskily; “Lotys!”
She rose at once and came to him, moving ghostlike in her white draperies, her eyes shining—her lips tremulous.
“Lotys,” he said, “The King is in our hands! You saved his life once—will you save it again?”
She raised her bent head, and the old courageous light flashed in her face, transfiguring its every feature.