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him, and laid his head on his arms on the table.
    And we drank pleasant dreams to his Majesty—and that is all I remember of the evening. Perhaps it is enough.

CHAPTER 4
The King Keeps His Appointment
    Whether I had slept a minute or a year I knew not. I awoke with a start and a shiver; my face, hair and clothes dripped water, and opposite me stood old Sapt, a sneering smile on his face and an empty bucket in his hand. On the table by him sat Fritz von Tarlenheim, pale as a ghost and black as a crow under the eyes.
    I leapt to my feet in anger.
    â€œYour joke goes too far, sir!” I cried.
    â€œTut, man, we’ve no time for quarrelling. Nothing else would rouse you. It’s five o’clock.”
    â€œI’ll thank you, Colonel Sapt—” I began again, hot in spirit, though I was uncommonly cold in body.
    â€œRassendyll,” interrupted Fritz, getting down from the table and taking my arm, “look here.”
    The King lay full length on the floor. His face was red as his hair, and he breathed heavily. Sapt, the disrespectful old dog, kicked him sharply. He did not stir, nor was there any break in his breathing. I saw that his face and head were wet with water, as were mine.
    â€œWe’ve spent half an hour on him,” said Fritz.
    â€œHe drank three times what either of you did,” growled Sapt.
    I knelt down and felt his pulse. It was alarmingly languid and slow. We three looked at one another.
    â€œWas it drugged—that last bottle?” I asked in a whisper.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Sapt.
    â€œWe must get a doctor.”
    â€œThere’s none within ten miles, and a thousand doctors wouldn’t take him to Strelsau today. I know the look of it. He’ll not move for six or seven hours yet.”
    â€œBut the coronation!” I cried in horror.
    Fritz shrugged his shoulders, as I began to see was his habit on most occasions.
    â€œWe must send word that he’s ill,” he said.
    â€œI suppose so,” said I.
    Old Sapt, who seemed as fresh as a daisy, had lit his pipe and was puffing hard at it.
    â€œIf he’s not crowned today,” said he, “I’ll lay a crown he’s never crowned.”
    â€œBut heavens, why?”
    â€œThe whole nation’s there to meet him; half the army—ay, and Black Michael at the head. Shall we send word that the King’s drunk?”
    â€œThat he’s ill,” said I, in correction.
    â€œIll!” echoed Sapt, with a scornful laugh. “They know his illnesses too well. He’s been ‘ill’ before!”
    â€œWell, we must chance what they think,” said Fritz helplessly. “I’ll carry the news and make the best of it.”
    Sapt raised his hand.
    â€œTell me,” said he. “Do you think the King was drugged?”
    â€œI do,” said I.
    â€œAnd who drugged him?”
    â€œThat damned hound, Black Michael,” said Fritz between his teeth.
    â€œAy,” said Sapt, “that he might not come to be crowned. Rassendyll here doesn’t know our pretty Michael. What think you, Fritz, has Michael no king ready? Has half Strelsau no other candidate? As God’s alive, man the throne’s lost if the King show himself not in Strelsau today. I know Black Michael.”
    â€œWe could carry him there,” said I.
    â€œAnd a very pretty picture he makes,” sneered Sapt.
    Fritz von Tarlenheim buried his face in his hands. The King breathed loudly and heavily. Sapt stirred him again with his foot.
    â€œThe drunken dog!” he said; “but he’s an Elphberg and the son of his father, and may I rot in hell before Black Michael sits in his place!”
    For a moment or two we were all silent; then Sapt, knitting his bushy grey brows, took his pipe from his mouth and said to me:
    â€œAs a man grows old he believes in Fate. Fate sent you here. Fate sends you now to Strelsau.”
    I staggered back, murmuring