“News? What news?” cried Nadia and her friend together.
“Why, about the poor King. The engine-driver on the train from Bellaviste which passed through the station this morning told my husband what he had heard them saying last night. The wicked girl—for wicked she is, princess or no princess—whom he was going to marry went and ran off with some one else on the very day before the betrothal!”
“I wish her husband joy of her!” said Nadia’s friend, grimly. “A jilt like that will come to no good. After all, the poor young King is well rid of such a minx. But I was afraid you were going to say that something had happened to the King—and I see you were too,” she went on, looking at Nadia, from whose hand the pen had fallen. “That would have been bad for you; for Milos Drakovics, good patriot though he is, is a man of iron, and would never listen to a girl’s entreaties, especially on a matter that touched the discipline of the army. Well, we must alter the words of the petition. Perhaps the poor King’s heart will be softened by his trouble.”
Awkward as the transposition of sentiment might appear, the Thracian poetess was equal to the occasion, and the petition was successfully drawn out, with its wording altered to correspond with the change of circumstances. After the first shock of surprise and ineffable relief, Nadia wrote steadily on, without allowing herself time to think. Not until she was again in the train, with the farewells and good wishes of her kindly hostess ringing in her ears, did she permit herself to remember that Caerleon was once more free, that now there was no one who had the right to stand between him and herself. She knew that she ought to feel sorry that a scheme of so much excellence had failed, that such a cruel indignity had been put upon Caerleon in the face of all Europe, but she was not. She was silently, unspeakably glad, and all the morning as she sat listening patiently to her companion’s legends, and putting in appropriate remarks at intervals, her thoughts were of the spring of happiness which was rising again in her heart.
“You look better this morning,” the good woman observed complacently, as they neared Bellaviste. “No doubt it makes you feel more comfortable to have the written paper to depend upon in case you get flustered when you see his Majesty and can’t say a word. That was how my Elisaveta felt when the War Minister’s lady spoke to her one day at a military fête. Now be sure and let me hear how you get on. I wish you would come and eat some dinner with us, and let me take you afterwards to some place where you will be able to get a sight of his Majesty; but if you won’t, you won’t. Only, if you get into any trouble, ask for the quarters of Serge Georgevics, and even if I am gone home, you will find Elisaveta there, and she will help you in any way she can, for I am going to tell her all about you.”
It was with difficulty that even on the platform at Bellaviste Nadia released herself from her kind friend, but when she had delivered the bundles she had been helping to carry into the charge of Sergeant Georgevics, who was waiting to meet his mother-in-law, and had refused a second invitation to dinner, she found herself free. The sergeant told her that the King had already returned to the city, and was now receiving the Ministers at the palace, but that he would drive through the streets in the afternoon, that the townspeople might be gratified by a sight of him before he left the capital again for Tatarjé. There were, therefore, still two hours to spare before she could hope to see him, and she walked restlessly about the less frequented streets until she was tired, and then, fearing that she might be too exhausted to perform her task, went into a quiet restaurant for a cup of coffee and a roll. This frugal meal over, she made her way into the principal street, where she waited with all the patience she could command until the appearance of bodies of troops and police showed that the King might be expected to pass by before long. In spite of the failure of M. Drakovics to discover the nature of the plots hatched at Witska, he had learnt enough to make him anxious for the King’s safety, and the road was to be lined on either side with mounted soldiers and gendarmes by way of precaution. Crowds of people gathered on the pavement as time went on, and the windows and house-tops were as closely packed with spectators as on the day when the King had first entered his capital. The Thracians were resolved not only to demonstrate their sympathy with their monarch under the somewhat trying circumstances of his return from the Mœsian frontier, but also to testify their appreciation of the diplomacy of his advisers. This might well be said to have succeeded, in spite of the untoward event which had occurred, in obtaining for Thracia peace with honour, and hence no patriot stayed at home who could possibly get out into the streets. Nadia succeeded in maintaining a position in the front rank by dint of clinging to a lamp-post, and she peered anxiously between the soldiers in front of her to catch the first glimpse of the procession. At last the distant sound of mighty cheering arose, and as it came closer she caught sight of the glittering helmets and breastplates of the escort. Now she must act. Loosing her hold of the lamp-post, she slipped in between the horses of the two mounted men nearest her and tried to press to the front. But strict orders had been given to allow no one to pass the guards, and the man on her right caught her shoulder and turned her back.
“You can’t go any further, my girl. If you want to see the King, stand still where you are, and you will get a splendid sight of him as he passes. You don’t want to be introduced to him, do you?”
“I have a petition to present,” she said eagerly, disregarding the man’s rough humour. “I must give it into his hand.”
“A petition? Let me see it.”
Nadia gave it to him, and he scrutinised it carefully, upside-down, from the seal which the station-master’s wife had insisted on adding at the foot, in the idea that it gave the document an official appearance, to the loyal address at the head, turned it over, smelt it, and handed it back to her. He could not even read sufficiently to know that it was not in Thracian, but he was satisfied that it was not calculated to convey any harm to the King.