"Aye," said Sapt, "that he might not come to be crowned. Rassendyll here doesn't know our pretty Michael. What think you, Fritz— has Michael no king ready? Has half Strelsau no other candidate? As God's alive, man, the throne's lost if the king show himself not in Strelsau today. I know Black Michael."
"We could carry him there," said I.
"And a very pretty picture he makes," sneered Sapt.
Fritz von Tarlenheim buried his face in his hands. The king breathed loudly and heavily. Sapt stirred him again with his foot.
"The drunken dog!" he said. "But he's an Elphberg and the son of his father, and may I rot in hell before Black Michael sits in his place!"
For a moment or two we were all silent; then Sapt, knitting his bushy gray brows, took his pipe from his mouth and said to me:
"As a man grows old he believes in Fate. Fate sent you here. Fate sends you now to Strelsau."
I staggered back, murmuring, "Good God!"
Fritz looked up with an eager, bewildered gaze.
