Free The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope Page A

he exclaimed.
    â€œIt’s only a scratch,” said I, “but—” I paused.
    He rose to his feet with a bewildered air. Holding my hand, he looked me up and down, and down and up. Then suddenly he dropped my hand and reeled back.
    â€œWhere’s the King? Where’s the King?” he cried.
    â€œHush, you fool!” hissed Sapt. “Not so loud! Here’s the King!”
    A knock sounded on the door. Sapt seized me by the hand.
    â€œHere, quick, to the bedroom! Off with your cap and boots. Get into bed. Cover everything up.”
    I did as I was bid. A moment later Sapt looked in, nodded, grinned, and introduced an extremely smart and deferential young gentleman, who came up to my bedside, bowing again and again, and informed me that he was of the household of the Princess Flavia, and that her Royal Highness had sent him especially to enquire how the King’s health was after the fatigues which his Majesty had undergone yesterday.
    â€œMy best thanks, sir, to my cousin,” said I; “and tell her Royal Highness that I was never better in my life.”
    â€œThe King,” added old Sapt (who, I began to find, loved a good lie for its own sake), “has slept without a break all night.”
    The young gentleman (he reminded me of “Osric” in Hamlet) bowed himself out again. The farce was over, and Fritz von Tarlenheim’s pale face recalled us to reality—though, in faith, the farce had to be reality for us now.
    â€œIs the King dead?” he whispered.
    â€œPlease God, no,” said I. “But he’s in the hands of Black Michael!”

CHAPTER 8
A Fair Cousin and a Dark Brother
    A real king’s life is perhaps a hard one; but a pretended king’s is, I warrant, much harder. On the next day, Sapt instructed me in my duties—what I ought to do and what I ought to know—for three hours; then I snatched breakfast, with Sapt still opposite me, telling me that the King always took white wine in the morning and was known to detest all highly seasoned dishes. Then came the Chancellor, for another three hours; and to him I had to explain that the hurt to my finger (we turned that bullet to happy account) prevented me from writing—whence arose great to-do, hunting of precedents and so forth, ending in my “making my mark,” and the Chancellor attesting it with a superfluity of solemn oaths. Then the French ambassador was introduced, to present his credentials; here my ignorance was of no importance, as the King would have been equally raw to the business (we worked through the whole
corps diplomatique
in the next few days, a demise of the Crown necessitating all this bother).
    Then, at last, I was left alone. I called my new servant (we had chosen, to succeed poor Josef, a young man who had never known the King), had a brandy-and-soda brought to me, and observed to Sapt that I trusted that I might now have a rest. Fritz von Tarlenheim was standing by.
    â€œBy heaven!” he cried, “we waste time. Aren’t we going to throw Black Michael by the heels?”
    â€œGently, my son, gently,” said Sapt, knitting his brows. “It would be a pleasure, but it might cost us dear. Would Michael fall and leave the King alive?”
    â€œAnd,” I suggested, “while the King is here in Strelsau, on his throne, what grievance has he against his dear brother Michael?”
    â€œAre we to do nothing, then?”
    â€œWe’re to do nothing stupid,” growled Sapt.
    â€œIn fact, Fritz,” said I, “I am reminded of a situation in one of our English plays— The Critic —have you heard of it? Or, if you like, of two men, each covering the other with a revolver. For I can’t expose Michael without exposing myself—”
    â€œAnd the King,” put in Sapt.
    â€œAnd, hang me if Michael won’t expose himself, if he tries to expose me!”
    â€œIt’s very pretty,” said