"Ulrich," she implored, "I want your help. The whole city is on my side; will you alone stand between me and my ambition? Help me now, and I can give you rewards beside which the King's Prize you failed to win yesterday will seem a trivial and empty honour." "I want no bribes," said the Captain between his teeth. "I will make you captain of my body-guard," pursued the Princess in tones of soft entreaty. "It will be your sacred duty to guard my person day and night. Ulrich, for the sake of the old days at Weissheim, will you let me pass?" An anarchy of tangled emotions rioted through the Captain's brain. He half-closed his eyes, and his whole form tottered like that of a drunken man. "Ulrich!" breathed the Princess. There was a moment's silence, a life-time of twenty seconds, during which the blood left the Captain's face and crowded his bursting heart. Then came the jangling crash of steel on stone. Captain Ulrich von Hügelweiler had thrown his sword on to the steps of the prison-house. "Soldiers, present arms!" he called out in a hoarse voice; and between the ranks of saluting infantry the Princess and her followers passed into the Strafeburg. CHAPTER SIXTEEN KING AND CANAILLE "Where is George Trafford?" asked Mrs. Saunders of her husband. It was just on ten o'clock, ten minutes, in fact, after Trafford had bluffed an exit from the Neptunburg; and Mrs. Saunders was sitting in the Rubens room in the company of Frau von Bilderbaum. To retire to bed in the present unsettled state of affairs was unthinkable, and the two women,--so unlike in temperament and feature, yet linked by the subtle bond of wifehood,--sat, to their mutual comfort, in the great state-room opening on to the palace courtyard. Disturbances were common things at Weidenbruck, but to-night there was an extra pressure in the atmosphere. The air was full of fever and unrest, pregnant with some issue of decisive import. A dull anxiety was written on the women's faces; their eyes seemed watching, their ears expectantly listening for something. The tension was almost unbearable in its strained silence, and Mrs. Saunders hailed her husband's advent with a sigh of relief. "Where is George Trafford?" she asked again. "I don't know," replied Saunders, "but he's not where I intended him to be--locked in my dressing-room with a brandy and soda, and a pack of cards to play patience with."