"I suppose so," said I.
Old Sapt, who seemed as fresh as a daisy, had lit his pipe and was puffing hard at it.
"If he's not crowned to-day," said he, "I'll lay a crown he's never crowned."
"But, Heavens, why?"
"The whole nation's there to meet him; half the army—aye, and Black Michael at the head. Shall we send word that the king's drunk?"
"That he's ill," said I, in correction.
"Ill!" echoed Sapt, with a scornful laugh.
"They know his illnesses too well. He's been 'ill' before!"
"Well, we must chance what they think," said Fritz helplessly.
"I'll carry the news and make the best of it." Sapt raised his hand.
"Tell me," said he: "do you think the king was drugged?"
"I do," said I.
"And who drugged him?"
"That damned hound, Black Michael," said Fritz between his teeth.
