CHAPTER XIX
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After a brief inspection, a cry of surprise rose to his lips.
"Good Lord!... there he is! Frederick-Christian."
It was indeed the King—a prisoner in the hollow foundations of the Singing Fountains.
"Sire, Sire!"
The King slept on. But his sleep seemed troubled; he breathed in gasps.
"Sire! Sire! Wake up! I have come to save you! Upon my word, that is what might be called a royal sleep."