“Antonio!” she repeated, rousing him with a touch on his sleeve. “Come, let us find Hera and go down to receive his Majesty.” He looked out over the throngs far up the Corso, and saw Sandro speeding toward them. In the quick sweep of his eye he noted too, that the soldiers at the Venetian Gate were forming in marching order, leaving the people free to break their lines along the street sides. And as he followed Donna Beatrice from the window he was aware of a changed note in the murmur of the crowds--a note that was not of glad acclaim. In the group near the orchestra were the Cardinal and Hera with an arm about her chum of the Brianza, the little Marchioness of Tramonta, and near them Don Riccardo and Mario Forza. While they listened to the music Donna Beatrice and Tarsis were searching for Hera. Before they came upon her the motor car was panting in the court and Sandro had started up the staircase with his tidings. CHAPTER XII AN UNBIDDEN GUEST THE inarticulate voice of the crowd had grown to a roar and the ominous note Tarsis caught was now a distinct expression of horror. It rose above the tittle-chat, the tinkling of wine-glasses, the laughter and all the clack and fizzle of the gay assemblage, sending the guests to the windows and bringing the music to a stop. Hera took the arm of her husband, and they started for the staircase. A few steps and they were face to face with Sandro. “I beg your pardon, Signore,” he said, his lips twitching. “What is it?” Tarsis asked. “I have to tell you, Signore, that his Majesty will not be here”--an odd fling of cynicism, innocent as it was untimely, born of the servant’s awe of his master rather than of an instinct to break the news by degrees. Tarsis looked as if he would strike the man. He moved closer to him, fists clinched at his side. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “The King is dead!” Those within hearing echoed the words, pressing nearer to Sandro, and from the windows, by which the news had come from the street, guests swept toward the group about Tarsis, exclaiming, “The King is slain!” Tarsis gripped Sandro’s arm. “Tell what you know!” he commanded him. “I know only this, Signore,” he began--and the jewelled women and decorated men narrowed the circle about him: “I got it from a customs guard at the gate. His Majesty had just started from the athletic grounds. A young workman walked up to the carriage and shot him at three paces.” “At three paces!” several women repeated, shocked anew by this detail of the crime. “What kind of man is the assassin?” “The guard said he is a silk-weaver and an anarchist. That was the rumor from Monza. They have him in charge.” At the word anarchist, Tarsis, with a quick movement, turned from Sandro and set his gaze on Mario Forza. The act was so marked that every eye followed his. Mario returned a steady look, and for a moment they stood thus, to the amazement of all.