He went back to his room, and returned with his own sword, while Wright unearthed Cyril’s; and armed with these elaborate if not particularly dependable instruments of warfare, they prepared to start on their voyage of discovery.
“Haven’t you got a weapon of any sort, Wright?” asked Caerleon of the groom.
“Buckle, your Majesty,” returned Wright, unfastening the strap round his waist. “’E ain’t bad at a pinch.”
Thus unsatisfactorily accoutred, they set out along the corridor. The electric light was burning brightly, but, as Wright had said, there was not a human being to be seen. It felt almost uncanny to be marching noiselessly over the thick carpets, in the blaze of light, without hearing a sound or uttering a word, and Cyril and Wright caught themselves glancing apprehensively at the open doors of dark rooms and at the heavy folds of portières. As for Caerleon, he was far too much incensed against the guards on account of what he conceived to be their dereliction of duty to have any thought of supernatural terrors, or even of the more palpable danger of a possible enemy lurking to intercept him. His intention was to go straight to the guard-room and give the guards a thorough fright, which would teach them not to confide too trustfully in their sovereign’s drowsiness on another occasion. The head of the great staircase was reached without encountering any further suspicious circumstances; but Wright, looking out into the courtyard from a window, pointed out to Cyril in a whisper that there were no lights visible there. They began to descend the stairs, and as they did so, there was a sound of footsteps in the hall beneath, and several men appeared from the direction of the entrance. Both parties caught sight of each other at the same moment, and halted suddenly, Caerleon, Cyril, and Wright half-way between the head of the stair and the landing in the middle, the others on the lowest step. They were General Sertchaieff, Louis O’Malachy, and half-a-dozen stalwart troopers of the palace guard. For a moment astonishment kept every one silent, then Caerleon recovered himself.
“May I ask the meaning of this, General? What brings you to the palace at this hour, in the company of a man who is a traitor and a spy?”
“Milord Caerleon,” returned the War Minister, “I am deputed by the National Convention to inform you that Thracia has returned to her true allegiance. The city is in the hands of the patriotic supporters of the exiled King, and you might well expect that no mercy would be shown you. Our gracious monarch, however, abhors bloodshed, even in the case of an adventurer whose usurpation began in fraud, and has been maintained by means of force and treachery, and it has been decided, in accordance with his expressed wish, to spare your life on condition of your abdicating and leaving the country instantly.”
“And you are the person to bring me this message?” said Caerleon. “I hope I am to understand that you have been compelled to do so by force?”
“Milord,” said General Sertchaieff, “your question touches my honour. I am acting of my own free will as the agent of my rightful sovereign, King Peter II.”
“X.!” cried Cyril. “What fools we have been!” But the veins on Caerleon’s forehead were swelling, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eye.
“Then you are a perjured traitor,” was his answer to General Sertchaieff. “As for abdicating, I’ll do nothing of the sort, and I’ll leave the country just as soon as you can get me out of it, and not before.”