The golden-curled Lilla, standing straight and slim in her black gown, stopped all this work of fortification with an imperious gesture.
“Desist!” she cried. “I, your princess, command it. The war is over. Yuri, the usurper, is dead.”
“Prove it,” snarled back the guards like a pack at bay, recoiling from her regal presence.
“Here is your proof!” Myles Cabot shouted, stepping forward and casting Yuri’s body down before them. “Your king is dead.”
“’Tis true,” one replied. “The king is dead.”
“Yuri is dead,” another echoed. “Long live King Kew!”
“Long live King Kew!” shouted all the palace thugs, just as the besiegers stormed over the barricade with leveled rifles.
But at the shouts within, and at the sight of their princess and their intrepid earth-man leader, they grounded their arms and, holding their left hands aloft, gave the Porovian greetings:
“Yahoo, Myles Cabot! Our regent has returned from Minos to rule over us!”
Then one guardsman had an idea. “Come,” he said, “let us mount to the upper terraces, haul down the yellow pennant of King Yuri, and restore the red banner of the Kew dynasty.”