“I go,” he said. “If necessary I offer up myself as a fatted calf, a sacrifice, a burnt ewe lamb upon the altar of liberty. I say to the people--to my people ‘Damn it, cut off my head.’ It’s what they will do.” “Dear me,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Dear me. I trust not. I hope not. You will have the support, the moral support, of all the Allies. I should be sorry to think--we should all be sorry----” The king, who was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, struck a fine attitude, laying his hand on his breast. “It will be as I say,” he said. “Gorman knows. Corinne, though she says ‘No, no, never,’ she knows. The people of Megalia, what are they? I will tell you. Butchers and pigs. Pork butchers. To them it is sport to kill a king. But you say ‘Go,’ and Gorman says ‘Go.’ And the cause of Europe says ‘Go.’ And Corinne she also. Good. The Prime Minister of Megalia trots out his hatchet. I say ‘By Jove, here is my neck.” Sir Bartholomew Bland-Pottertan was greatly affected. He even promised that a British submarine would patrol the Megalian coast with a view to securing the king’s safety. He might perhaps have gone on to offer a squadron of aeroplanes by way of body-guard, but while he was speaking, Madame burst into the room. She was evidently highly excited. Her face, beneath its coating of powder, was flushed. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her hair--a most unusual thing with her--appeared to be coming down. She rushed straight to the king and flung her arms round his neck. “Konrad,” she said, “my Konrad. You shall not go to Megalia. Never, never will I say ‘Be a King.’ Never shall you live with those so barbarous people. I said ‘Go.’ I admit it. I was wrong, my Konrad. Behold!” She released the king from her embrace, fumbled in her handbag and drew out a small leather case. She opened it, took out a magnificent looking pendant. She flung it on the ground and trampled on it. Gorman stepped forward to rescue the emeralds. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Hang it all! Don’t. Give the thing back if you like, but don’t destroy it. Those stones must be immensely valuable.” “Valuable!” Madame’s voice rose to a shriek. “What is valuable compared to the safety of my Konrad? Valuable? They are worth ten pounds. Ten pounds, Gorman! I took them to Goldstein to-day. He knows jewels, that Goldstein. He is expert and he said ‘They are shams. They are worth--at most ten pounds.’” Gorman stared for a moment at the stones which lay on the floor in their crushed setting. Then he turned to Sir Bartholomew. “You don’t mean to say,” he said, “that you were such a d----d ass as to send Madame sham stones?” Sir Bartholomew’s face was a sufficient answer to the question. Gorman took him by the arm and led him out of the room without a word. “You’d better go home,” he said. “Madame Ypsilante is violent when roused, and it is not safe for you to stay. But how could you have been such an idiot----!”