“You are an Englishman—therefore you have courage.”
It was transcendent flattery. A throne!
“It is madness, my General,” I said. His eyes sparkled.
“It is the madness we love,” he said softly. “And it is for the country, my country. The poor fool will come back. Don’t let it be too late. Keep the throne for him—and for us, for the Ertarian children unborn that they be not born the slaves of the Muscovite. You have read the history of Poland?”
“It is folly, but—” I commenced.
“The train starts tonight, my Prince, at eleven. The West Station. I will make all things ready.” The General looked out at the winking sun. The real Prince was kidnapped, but in his dire need Fate had tossed him a pseudo one.
It was the wildest of folly, of course, but once seriously embarked upon, it was remarkable how smoothly it ran. I returned to the hotel, paid my bill, sent my valet home to England, and met the General at the station. I entered the first-class compartment a private English gentleman—even my poor little title left in the custody of my lawyers in Ely Place—and across the Ertarian frontier I stepped out Paul V.
We alighted at a small station. There were three or four anxious-looking men on its slender platform. They were dressed in the frock coat of ceremony. One man only was conspicuous in a gorgeous uniform. It reminded me of my own Havensea livery. I was preparing to be royally gracious to him when Hartzel whispered he was the station-master. It was a brilliant morning; the sun lay on the white caps of the mountain pass and glistened; big butterflies painted the field; the air was clear, rarified. I was in excellent spirits.
The General watched the absurd little engine puff its way onward. Then he turned to me, took off his hat, knelt and kissed my hand. The spectacle of my man of granite kneeling, his honest, ugly face figured by emotion, struck me strangely.
“To my God, my Country and my King are my life and my honor dedicated,” he said, the quaint old formula of allegiance in Ertaria. The frock coats went through the same performance. It lacked the earnestness of the General and had a note of anxiety. They looked as though they were expecting a troop of Cossacks over the edge of the pass and were nervous. But the ceremony marked a step in the game. Until then I was in a transition state. I was no longer Lord Havensea, but I had not yet become King until I had stepped out of my uncomfortable compartment into a kingdom.