A torrent of red roses fell on me; one bloom lodged in my horse's mane, and I took it and stuck it in my coat. The marshal smiled grimly. I had stolen some glances at his face, but he was too impassive to show me whether his sympathies were with me or not.
"The red rose for the Elphbergs, marshal," said I gayly, and he nodded.
I have written "gayly," and a strange word it must seem. But the truth is that I was drunk with excitement. At that moment I believed—I almost—believed that I was in very truth the king; and, with a look of laughing triumph, I raised my eyes to the beauty-laden balconies again . . . and then I started. For looking down on me, with her handsome face and proud smile, was the lady who had been my fellow-traveler—Antoinette de Mauban; and I saw her also start, and her lips moved, and she leaned forward and gazed at me. And I, collecting myself, met her eyes full and square, while again I felt my revolver. Suppose she had cried aloud, "That's not the king!"
Well, we went by; and then the marshal turn-
