With impatient fingers Gustavus snapped the seal and unfolded the letter. Awhile he stood reading, very still, his brows knit.
Then, with a contemptuous “Poof!” he handed it to his secretary.
At a glance Bjelke recognized the hand for that of Colonel Lillehorn, one of the conspirators, whose courage had evidently failed him in the eleventh hour. He read:
SIRE,—Deign to heed the warning of one who, not being in your service, nor solicitous of your favours, flatters not your crimes, and yet desires to avert the danger threatening you. There is a plot to assassinate you which would by now have been executed but for the countermanding of the ball at the opera last week. What was not done then will certainly be done to-night if you afford the opportunity. Remain at home and avoid balls and public gatherings for the rest of the year; thus the fanaticism which aims at your life will evaporate.
“Do you know the writing?” Gustavus asked.
Bjelke shrugged. “The hand will be disguised, no doubt,” he evaded.
“But you will heed the warning, Sire?” exclaimed, Armfelt, who had read over the secretary's shoulder, and whose face had paled in reading.
Gustavus laughed contemptuously. “Faith, if I were to heed every scaremonger, I should get but little amusement out of life.”
Yet he was angry, as his shifting colour showed. The disrespectful tone of the anonymous communication moved him more deeply than its actual message. He toyed a moment with a hair-ribbon, his nether lip thrust out in thought. At last he rapped out an oath of vexation, and proffered the ribbon to his valet.
“My hair, Francois,” said he, “and then we will be going.”