“If that be the case,” said Norman of Torn, “we shall have war and fighting in real earnest ere many months.”

“The cowards!” muttered Barney as the enemy’s shot announced his sinister intention; “they might have hit your highness.”

He was fully dressed and in armor, as he had been when struck down, but his helmet was gone, as were also his sword and dagger.

“As God is my judge, your majesty,” cried Peter of Blentz, “this man was shot by an Austrian firing squad in Burgova over a week ago.”

“Outlaw or Devil,” said a stern voice behind them, “Roger Leybourn owes you his friendship for saving the honor of his home.”

“We have thought of everything,” interrupted Barney. “A throne means less to us than you may imagine, count; but the honor of Lutha means a great deal.”

“I be no madman, Your Majesty. Never did brain work more clearly or to more certain ends,” replied the man.

“You may trust me, sire,” he whispered.

“The king is dead,” he said. “Long live the king!”

“Let the King of Lutha,” he said, “be the first to salute Lutha’s queen.”