Toron and Cabot both collapsed limply, and looked at each other with pity in their eyes.
“I, too, have suffered and am not myself,” said the young prince in extenuation.
“Toron, cousin of my wife, forgive me,” replied Myles.
Whereat Poblath, the philosopher, to relieve the strained situation, hastily suggested: “Come, Myles Cabot, tell us all that has happened to you these many days since we last saw you in my mangool at Kuana.”
Cabot roused himself.
“But no,” said he, “for I want first to hear the tale of my good friend Prince—er, King—Toron.”
“Yes, yes, tell him,” said Poblath hurriedly.
The boyish contender for the throne looked inquiringly around the circle, and, receiving several nods of approval, began:
“It happened this way, Myles. The instant that my uncle was shot dead by my murderous brother at the Peace Day exercises, my first thought was of my beloved cousin, the Princess Lilla. I did not even stop to consider that the assassination had given me a claim to the throne. If I had paused, it might have occurred to me that the proper place to strike a blow for her safety was right there in the stadium, in an attack on the pretender Yuri. But, as it was, I had but one idea: Northward!”
“I have had that idea myself,” Cabot interjected with a smile.