“Otto!” they cried. And again, “Otto.”
The little King had turned quite pale with excitement.
Late in the evening Nikky Larisch went to the Council room. The Council had dispersed, and Mettlich sat alone. There were papers all about him, and a glass of milk that had once been hot stood at his elbow. Now and then, as he worked, he took a sip of it, for more than ever now he must keep up his strength.
When Nikky was announced he frowned. Then, very faintly, he smiled. But he was stern enough when the young soldier entered. Nikky came to the point at once, having saluted. Not, when you think of it, that he should have saluted. Had he not resigned from the service? Was not his sword, in token of that surrender, still on the table and partly covered with documents. Still he did. Habit, probably.
“I have come,” he said, “to know what I am to do, sir.”
“Do?” asked the Chancellor, coldly.
“Whether the Crown—whether the King is safe or not,” said Nikky, looking dogged and not at all now like the picture of his mother. “I am guilty of—of all that happened.”
The Chancellor had meant to be very hard. But he had come through a great deal, and besides, he saw something Nikky did not mean him to see. He was used to reading men. He saw that the boy had come to the breaking-point.
“Sit down,” he said, “and tell me about it.”
But Nikky would not sit. He stood, looking straight ahead, and told the story. He left nothing out, the scene on the roof, his broken promise.