"Do I look otherwise?" he cried; but he could not maintain his gravity any longer, and burst into a merry peal of laughter. "Do you think I would do anything like that? Anything against the man who once wore this for me?" and he pulled out the little mask that he had begged of me that day on the road. "I know more now than I did then of the danger you ran for my sake. Can’t you guess my riddle?" His eyes were dancing with pleasure and mischief, and he put on the mask, and then thrust his hands into mine. "This is not the only mask I’ve worn to-day, you see. Can’t you guess? Have I really beaten you? That’s glorious; and I thought it all out myself," he cried, laughing in high glee. I began to see daylight then, and laughed with him. "I am not afraid of anything you would think of, sire." "But you were afraid, you know. I saw it in your face just now, and I could hardly keep it up. I like you too much to wish to hurt you, even in play." "You said the senorita’s punishment carried partial imprisonment for life." "A golden prison, senor, for this," he cried, laughing again as he held up the fourth finger of the left hand. "Senorita Sarita Castelar is to be exiled from Spain, never to return; never, never, never. But Lord Glisfoyle’s wife, Carlist or not Carlist, will always be able to return," he added, slily, "because Lord Glisfoyle, my Englishman, will always be welcome here. Now do you understand it all?" "And thank your Majesty from the bottom of my heart," I replied, earnestly. "Have I kept my word?" he added, almost wistfully. "As a King should, generously," I said. "And you forgive me my prank—though you could not guess my riddle?" "It is a riddle, sire, of which the answer could not be better." "Then I hope Spain and I will always have one firm friend in England," he said, very seriously, as he put his hand again in mine. "Till the end of my life, your Majesty;" and taking his hand I was pressing my lips upon it when he checked me. "No," he said, smiling. "I am not the King to you. We are friends, and friends don’t kiss hands, they shake them in your England. Good-bye, my friend, my Englishman of Podrida." "Good-bye," I answered, holding his hand in a firm clasp. Then he led me, still holding my hand, to the door. "You are to go there, but—" and his voice shook slightly as he added—"don’t forget me, even there; even when you find what you so much desire." He opened the door, and I saw Sarita waiting for me. I went to her with quickly beating heart. "Good-bye again," came in a whisper, as the boy King closed the door softly behind me, and opened up at the same time all the new smiling love-life that lay ahead for us two. THE END.