On this plain were assembled the populace of Tsalburg to witness the review of the major part of the troops of the country, some fifteen thousand. Prince Tertourgki had selected a place near the column as a saluting base, and the troops, when we arrived, were drawn up in review order. The column stood, as it were, a huge, gray sentinel between the Prince and the troops. “Some of the officers I could trust expect you!” the General cried. “Spur on to the troops. Now is our crisis. The Baron has tampered with some of the regiments, but to what extent I cannot say. If the troops receive you Ertaria is saved.” “Your true gambler risks all on a single throw!” I shouted, clapping spurs into my charger. It was a glorious gallop. My blood raced in my veins. My horse was maddened by the touch of the spur. I thundered on down the level turf. I saw the stir of surprise in the populace. I caught a waver of ranks as the troops craned forward to see me come. Then a flash of inspiration came to me. As I raced by the column I suddenly drew rein, flinging my horse back on his haunches. For a moment he lay crouched backward, and in that moment I had raised my sword in salute of the column. Then the charger leaped forward, and I rode to the front of the troops. Such a shout greeted me as I have never heard before. It roared about my ears like thunder. “Long live the King!” they cried, and the populace took up the words, “Long live the King!” I raised my hand and there was silence. “Comrades,” I shouted, “we all alike serve under Liberty. The statue of our dead heroes watches over King and people.” Again the air was rent. I turned. General Hartzel, following me, had just cantered up. On his grim, granite face was a smile like wintry sunshine. “General Hartzel,” I cried, “you will march the troops past in review order!” Then I cantered over to the saluting base. I was King! An old man in uniform was fidgeting about on a gray horse. At his side was a young officer, dark, almost swarthy, whispering eagerly. In a landau at the back sat a frock-coated gentleman with an order in his buttonhole. He had the broadness between the eyes of the Tartar. With him was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Out of her big black eyes shone the light of admiration. In a mist I saw again the small child in the garden, her wondering worship and the big English schoolboy. “Prince,” I cried, “will you do me the honor of taking the salute?” I spoke to him so as to force an answer. The unexpected compliment flustered him. “Your Majesty,” he faltered, “my usefulness is over.”