gay and jovial prince whom Michael's villains had caught in the hunting-lodge. There was worse than this. As time went on, the first impulse of gratitude and admiration that he had felt towards Mr. Rassendyll died away. He came to brood more and more on what had passed while he was a prisoner; he was possessed not only by a haunting dread of Rupert of Hentzau, at whose hands he had suffered so greatly, but also by a morbid half-mad jealousy of Mr. Rassendyll. Rudolf had played the hero while he lay helpless. Rudolfs were the exploits for which his own people cheered him in his own capital. Rudolf's were the laurels that crowned his impatient brow. He had enough nobility to resent his borrowed credit, without the fortitude to endure it manfully. And the hateful comparison struck him nearer home. Sapt would tell him bluntly that Rudolf did this or that, set this precedent or that, laid down this or the other policy, and that the King could do no better than follow in Rudolfs steps. Mr. Rassendyll's name seldom left his wife's lips, but when she spoke of him it was as one speaks of a great man who is dead, belittling all the living by the shadow of his name. I do not believe that the King discerned that truth which his wife spent her days in hiding from him; yet he was uneasy if Rudolf’s name were mentioned by Sapt or myself, and from the
