Thus his grenadiers bore him on their shoulders, lighted by torches, through the streets that were now thronged, for the rumour had now gone forth that the King was dead, and troops had been called out to keep order. Beside him walked Armfelt in his suit of shimmering white satin, weeping at once for his King and for himself, for he knew that he was of those who must fall with Gustavus. And, knowing this, there was bitter rage in his heart against the men who had wrought this havoc, a rage that sharpened his wits to an unusual acuteness.
At last the King was once more in his apartments awaiting the physicians who were to pronounce his fate, and Armfelt kept him company among others, revolving in his mind the terrible suspicion he had formed.
Presently came Duke Charles, the King's brother, and Benzelstjerna with the list of those who had been present at the ball.
“Tell me,” he asked, before the list was read to him, “is the name of Ankarstrom included in it?”
“He was the last to sign, Sire,” replied the chamberlain.
The King smiled grimly. “Tell Lillesparre to have him arrested and questioned.”
Armfelt flung forward. “There is another who should be arrested, too!” he cried fiercely. And added, “Bjelke!”
“Bjelke?”
The King echoed the name almost in anger at the imputation. Armfelt spoke torrentially. “It was he persuaded you to go against your own judgment when you had the warning, and at last induced you to it by offering to assume your own domino. If the assassins sought the King, how came they to pass over one who wore the King's domino, and to penetrate your own disguise that was like a dozen others? Because they were informed of the change. But by whom—by whom? Who was it knew?”
“My God!” groaned the unfortunate King, who had in his time broken faith with so many, and was now to suffer the knowledge of this broken faith in one whom he had trusted above all others.