“‘I have no desire to be reckoned among the “unco guid,” and it has always been my belief that young men will be young men. Still, I am not sorry that my Temperance friends should have the chance of learning the true character of the gay Lothario whom the criminal inertness of a Tory Government has permitted to establish himself on the throne of Thracia. We have heard a good deal lately about the superior morality of this gentleman. His people have all been made suddenly sober--not by Act of Parliament, but by his “royal” decree; he has sacrificed a large part of his income for the purpose of buying up licences, and he is about to put the finishing touch to his catalogue of good deeds by making a love-match with the wealthy and beautiful daughter of a neighbouring sovereign. Perhaps it will be news for some of my readers to learn that this so-called “King” is bound by every tie of honour to marry a Scythian lady of noble family, whose acquaintance he made before seizing upon the throne, and whom he subsequently abandoned in the most heartless manner, and under circumstances of peculiar cruelty. What does the Nonconformist conscience think of this? Scythia has a long account already outstanding against this choice specimen of the British aristocracy, and when the day of reckoning comes, the swords of her soldiers will not leap from their scabbards with the less alacrity for the remembrance of his behaviour towards their countrywoman.’” The time occupied in reading the paragraph through afforded Cyril the opportunity of collecting his thoughts, for he had guessed its drift from the very first sentences. Now he threw down the paper and cried hotly-- “I hope to goodness Caerleon has not seen this! If he has, he will simply go off to Scythia at once, and marry the girl whether she wishes it or not.” “Then the story is true?” shouted the King, half rising from his chair, the veins in his forehead swelling. “Like most lies, it rejoices in a substratum of truth,” answered Cyril, coolly. “Be good enough to explain to me exactly what you mean,” said the King, his fury in a measure disarmed by the young man’s serenity. “The facts are very simple,” returned Cyril. “During our tour in Hungary, we made the acquaintance of a Scythian officer and his family. The only daughter was a most estimable young lady, and my brother fell deeply in love with her. We may presume that his affection was not returned--at any rate, when he proposed to her, she refused him. That’s all, unless she has changed her mind by this time.” “And you can assure me, on your honour as a nobleman, that there is no other foundation for this--this tale?” Cyril drew himself up. “I have not the honour to understand your Majesty. Is it possible that you can for a moment have believed the story to be true?” “There was some justification for such a belief, in this printed paper and in the anxiety of my English friends,” said the King, drily.