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
grey 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.
"Impossible!" I muttered. "I should be known."
"It's a risk--against a certainty," said Sapt. "If you shave, I'll wager
you'll not be known. Are you afraid?"
"Sir!"
"Come, lad, there, there; but it's your life, you know, if you're
known--and mine--and Fritz's here. But, if you don't go, I swear to you
Black Michael will sit tonight on the throne, and the King lie in prison
or his grave."
"The King would never forgive it," I stammered.
"Are we women? Who cares for his forgiveness?"
The clock ticked fifty times, and sixty and seventy times, as I stood in
thought.
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