've only begun," said the general. "This kind of king is municipal,
now; but he's going to be national. And then, good-by, Republic!"

"The only thing like it," March resumed, too incredulous of the evil
future to deny himself the aesthetic pleasure of the parallel, "is
the rise of the Medici in Florence, but even the Medici were not mere
manipulators of pulls; they had some sort of public office, with some
sort of legislated tenure of it. The King of New York is sovereign by
force of will alone, and he will reign in the voluntary submission of
the majority. Is our national dictator to be of the same nature and
quality?"

"It would be the scientific evolution, wouldn't it?"

The ladies listened with the perfunctory attention which women pay to
any sort of inquiry which is not personal. Stoller had scarcely spoken
yet; he now startled them all by demanding, with a sort of vindictive
force, "Why shouldn't he have the power, if they're willing to let him?"

"Yes," said General Triscoe, with a tilt of his head towards March.
"That's what we must ask ourselves more and more."

March leaned back in his chair, and looked up over his shoulder at
Stoller. "Well, I don't know. Do you think it's quite right for a man to
use an unjust power, even if others are willing that he should?"

Stoller stopped with an air of bewilderment as if surprised on the point
of saying that he thought just this. He asked instead, "What's wrong
about it?"

"Well, that's one of those things that have to be felt, I suppose.
But if a man came to you, and offered to be your slave for a certain
consideration--say a comfortable house, and a steady job, that wasn't
too hard--should you feel it morally right to accept the offer? I don't
say think it right, for there might be a kind of logic for it."

Stoller seemed about to answer; he hesitated; and before he had made any
response, the curtain rose.

XXXIV.

There are few prettier things than Carlsbad by night from one of the
many bridges which span the Tepl in its course through the town. If
it is a starry night, the torrent glides swiftly away with an inverted
firmament in its bosom, to which the lamps along its shores and in the
houses on either side contribute a planetary splendor of their own. By
nine o'clock everything is hushed; not a wheel is heard at that dead
hour; the few feet shuffling stealthily through the Alte Wiese whisper
a caution of silence to those issuing with a less guar