The ingratitude of kings bites not half so deep as the
ingratitude of the people. Tears filled his eyes, and he fumbled
his lips. There were only two bright spots in his futile life.
The first was his daughter, who read to him, who was the first
in the morning to greet him and last at night to leave him. The
second was the evening hour when the archbishop and the
chancellor came in to discuss the affairs of state.

"And Prince Frederick has not yet been heard from?" was his
first inquiry.

"No, Sire," answered the chancellor. "The matter is altogether
mysterious. The police can find no trace of him. He left
Carnavia for Bleiberg; he stopped at Ehrenstein, directed his
suite to proceed; there, all ends. The ambassador from Carnavia
approached me to-day. He scouts the idea of a peasant girl, and
hinted at other things."

"Yes," said the king, "there is something behind all this.
Frederick is not a youth of peccadilloes. Something has happened
to him. But God send him safe and sound to us, so much depends
on him. And Alexia?"

"Says nothing," the archbishop answered, "a way with her when
troubled."

"And my old friend, Lord Fitzgerald?"

The prelate shook his head sadly. "We have just been made