As they emerged up a flight of stairs into the main hall of the palace they saw a frantic throng of palace guards piling tables, chairs, and other furniture into a barricade across one of the doorways. Evidently the troops of Emsul and Hah Babbuh had penetrated the palace and had driven the defenders back to this point. The golden-curled Lilla, standing straight and slim in her black gown, stopped all this work of fortification with an imperious gesture. “Desist!” she cried. “I, your princess, command it. The war is over. Yuri, the usurper, is dead.” “Prove it,” snarled back the guards like a pack at bay, recoiling from her regal presence. “Here is your proof!” Myles Cabot shouted, stepping forward and casting Yuri’s body down before them. “Your king is dead.” “’Tis true,” one replied. “The king is dead.” “Yuri is dead,” another echoed. “Long live King Kew!” “Long live King Kew!” shouted all the palace thugs, just as the besiegers stormed over the barricade with leveled rifles. But at the shouts within, and at the sight of their princess and their intrepid earth-man leader, they grounded their arms and, holding their left hands aloft, gave the Porovian greetings: “Yahoo, Myles Cabot! Our regent has returned from Minos to rule over us!” Then one guardsman had an idea. “Come,” he said, “let us mount to the upper terraces, haul down the yellow pennant of King Yuri, and restore the red banner of the Kew dynasty.” From one of the balconies above came a boyish voice: “It has already been done, Myles Cabot.” Every one looked up, and there stood Yuri’s younger brother, the loyal Prince Toron, wearing the insignia of admiral of the Cupian Air Navy. “I hope you don’t mind, Myles,” he said as he descended. “I made myself admiral on my own hook. You see, while all the bees were here at Kuana bombing your men, I captured the air base at Wautoosa with a crowd of ex-aviators whom I had assembled for that purpose. “We had been hiding in the woods for several sangths, with spies at Wautoosa to inform us when there was an opening. When the time came we walked right in, killed a few old bees who were on guard, reconditioned the planes which have lain in storage ever since my brother seized the throne, painted them with silver paint, flew up here to Kuana, and put the bees out of business. “The silver paint was my own idea, and I must say it seemed to work. The bees couldn’t see us at all against the silver sky. The plaza and the fields beyond are strewn with dead and dying Hymernians, and my men are tracking down the survivors.” And he would have chattered on in his boyish excitement, had not one of the soldiers brutally interrupted with: “Thy brother lies dead, O Toron.”