“Good for you, old chap,” returned Cyril. “I say, I suppose I shall have to call you ‘your Majesty’ now--in public, that is. Behind the scenes, the augurs may wink as they please. Well, I bag the post of your private secretary, at any rate. That will enable me to give your Majesty a good wigging when I think it called for, and to keep you from getting into trouble. Well, now that your royal mind is made up, I’m off. Ta, ta.” When the two young men entered the coffee-room in the morning, M. Drakovics advanced to meet them, far too anxious as to the result of their conference to let the matter rest until after breakfast, as Caerleon had intended. The Premier’s face was worn and haggard with anxiety, and his voice shook as he asked-- “May I inquire whether your Majesty has decided what course you will take?” “Yes,” said Caerleon. “I have made up my mind to accept the crown.” He had no time to say more, for, to his horror and Cyril’s delight, M. Drakovics fell at his feet and covered his hands with kisses, while he tried in vain to induce him to rise. Cyril recovered himself first. “Perhaps we might postpone any further raptures until after breakfast,” he suggested, mildly. “Even kings have appetites,--their brothers certainly have.” “One moment!” cried M. Drakovics, rising and going towards the window. “Your majesty cannot tell what a load you have taken from my heart,” he added, huskily, turning again to Caerleon. “I am satisfied now as to the future of my country. But I must tell the people. They have been as anxious as myself, and they will rejoice as I do.” He stepped out on the balcony, and addressed the crowd of Thracians, who had again gathered in front of the house. A tremendous shout burst from them when he had finished speaking. Turning round with blazing eyes he beckoned to Caerleon. “Show yourself to your people, your Majesty. Speak a few words to them--I will interpret--and they will love you for ever.”