The bell rang on. At its first notes old Adelbert stopped, staggered, almost fell. Then he uncovered his head.
“Gone!” he said. “The old King! My old King!”
His face twitched. But the horror behind him drove him on through the kneeling crowd. Where it refused to yield, he drove the iron point of his wooden leg into yielding flesh, and so made his way.
Here, in the throng, Olga of the garderobe met him, and laid a trembling hand on his arm. He shook her off, but she clung to him.
“Know you what they are saying?” she whispered. “That the Crown Prince is stolen. And it is true. Soldiers scour the city everywhere.”
“Let me go,” said old Adelbert, fiercely.
“They say,” she persisted, “that the Chancellor has made away with him, to sell us to Karnia.”
“Fools!” cried old Adelbert, and pushed her off. When she refused to release him, he planted his iron toe on her shapely one and worked his way forward. The crowd had risen, and now stood expectantly facing the Palace. Some one raised a cry and others took it up.
“The King!” they cried. “Show us the little King!”
But the balcony outside the dead King’s apartments remained empty. The curtains at the long windows were drawn, save at one, opened for air. The breeze shook its curtains to and fro, but no small, childish figure emerged. The cries kept up, but there was a snarl in the note now.