is head. "Cowardice, my lord? Nothing of the sort.
Prudence, I should call it. By the by, the judge and a few others are
coming over." He chuckled softly. "We thought we might talk you out of a
meal."

The Viceroy grinned widely. "Nothing easier. I suspected all you
hangers-on would come around for your handouts. Come along, my friend;
we'll have a drink before the others get here."

* * * * *

There were nearly twenty people at dinner, all, presumably, friends of
the Viceroy. At least, it is certain that they were friends in so far as
they had no part in the assassination plot. It was a gay party; the
Viceroy's friends were doing their best to cheer him up, and were
succeeding pretty well. One of the nobles, known for his wit, had just
essayed a somewhat off-color jest, and the others were roaring with
laughter at the punch line when a shout rang out.

There was a sudden silence around the table.

"What was that?" asked someone. "What did--"

"_Help!_" There was the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairway from
the lower floor.

"_Help! The Southerners have come to kill the Viceroy!_"

From the sounds, there was no doubt in any of the minds of the people
seated around the table that the shout was true. For a moment, there was
shock. Then panic took over.

There were only a dozen or so men in the attacking party; if the
"friends" of the Viceroy had stuck by him, they could have held off the
assassins with ease.

But no one ran to lock the doors that stood between the Viceroy and his
enemies, and only a few drew their weapons to defend him. The others
fled. Getting out of a window from the second floor of a building isn't
easy, but fear can lend wings, and, although none of them actually flew
down, the retreat went fast enough.

Characteristically, the Viceroy headed, not for the window, but for his
own room, where his armor--long unused, except for state
functions--hung waiting in the closet. With him went Sir Martin.

But there wasn't even an opportunity to get into the armor. The rebel
band charged into the hallway that led to the bedroom, screaming:
"_Death to the Tyrant! Long live the Emperor!_"

It was personal anger, then, not rebellion against the Empire which had
appointed the ex-commander to his post as Viceroy.

"Where is the Viceroy? Death to the Tyrant!" The assassins moved in.

Swords in hand, and cloaks wrapped around their left arms, Sir Martin
and the