“I think your lordship will now see that it is expedient to submit without further resistance,” said General Sertchaieff smoothly, as he tied a handkerchief round his wounded arm. Caerleon made no answer, for he had caught Wright’s eye, and seen his free hand stealing towards the ankle of one of the men who held him, and in another instant two of the captors had gone down with a crash, and Caerleon was on his feet and hitting out furiously, while Wright made herculean but unavailing efforts to join him. But the struggle was hopeless from the first, for Caerleon could not even get his back against the wall, and he was dragged down by sheer weight of numbers, and bound firmly with the tasselled cord torn from a curtain. “I don’t think you will get that undone,” said Louis, bending over him and testing the knots, then, with that tendency towards the theatrical which besets a certain class of Irishmen in moments of excitement, he kicked him heavily, adding, “That is for my sister.” “Nasty coward!” growled Wright. “’It a man when ’e’s down that you don’t dare touch when ’e’s up, and bring in a young lady’s name about it, you precious blackguard, do!” “Captain O’Malachy,” interrupted General Sertchaieff, as Louis advanced threateningly towards his unconquerable assailant, “if you will be so good as to take three men and secure the person of the Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, I will wait here with the prisoners for your return.” Louis departed instantly, to return before long with a laugh. “No fighting there. He accepts the situation with great philosophy,” he said, and Caerleon felt oddly disappointed. Something had given him the idea that he might reckon on Prince Otto Georg for support at this crisis. “Your presence is now required down-stairs, milord,” said General Sertchaieff. “If you will give yourself the trouble of walking, it will be as well; otherwise we must take you.” Choosing the less of the two evils, Caerleon allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and conducted down the stairs to his study by his captors, wondering vaguely whether a scaffold and a block would meet his eyes on entering. Nothing of the kind was visible, however, although the room was crowded with people--officers of the palace and city guards mostly, with a sprinkling of civilians, principally officials connected with the Ministry of War, and a number of men of foreign appearance, who were evidently exiles returned from Scythia. On the writing-table lay a document, which General Sertchaieff presented to Caerleon as a formal deed of abdication, and demanded his signature. “I thought you had done with that foolery,” said Caerleon. “I have told you already that I won’t abdicate.” “Milord,” said the War Minister, impressively, “we are anxious not to shed blood, but we are not men to be trifled with; and if you refuse to sign the paper, Captain O’Malachy has his orders.”