news of his murder at the hands of a confederate of Rupert of Hentzau went forth to startle and appal the world. At a mighty price our task had been made easy: many might have doubted the living, none questioned the dead; suspicions which might have gathered round a throne died away at the gate of a vault. The King was dead. Who would ask if it were in truth the King who lay in state in the great hall of the palace, or whether the humble grave at Zenda held the bones of the last male Elphberg? In the silence of the grave all murmurs and questionings were hushed.
Throughout the day people had been passing and repassing through the great hall. There, on a stately bier, surmounted by a crown and the drooping folds of the royal banner, lay Rudolf Rassendyll. The highest officers guarded him; in the Cathedral the Archbishop said a mass for his soul. He had lain there three days; the evening of the third had come, and early on the morrow he was to be buried. There is a little gallery in the hall, that looks down on the spot where the bier stood; here was I on this evening, and with me Queen Flavia. We were alone together, and together we saw beneath us the calm face of the dead man. He was clad in the white uniform in which he had been crowned; the riband
