from her, for when that evening I reached out
my little hand and snatched a bit of cake from the dish, Krak caught my
wrist, saying gravely,

"Kings must not snatch, Augustin."

"Victoria, what do you get when you are a king?" I asked my sister that
night. I was hardly eight, she nearing ten, and her worldly wisdom
seemed great.

"Oh, you have just what you want, and do what you like, and kill people
that you don't like," said she. "Don't you remember the Arabian Nights?"

"Could I kill Krak?" I asked, choosing a concrete and tempting
illustration of despotic power.

Victoria was puzzled.

"She'd have to do something first, I suppose," she answered vaguely. "I
should have been queen if you hadn't been born, Augustin." Her tone now
became rather plaintive.

"But nobody has a queen if they can get a king," said I serenely.

It is the coronation day that stands out in memory; the months that
elapsed between my accession and that event are merged in a vague
dimness. I think little difference was made in our household while we
mourned the dead King. Krak was still sharp, imperious, and exacting.
She had been my mother's governess, and came with her from Styria. I
suppose she had learned the necessity of sternness from her previous
experience with Princess Gertrude, for that lady, my mother, a fair,
small, slim woman, who preserved her girlishness of appearance till the
approach of middle age, was of a strong and masterful temper. Only Krak
and Hammerfeldt had any power over her; Krak's seemed the result of
ancient domination, the Prince's was won by a suave and coaxing
deference that changed once a year or thereabouts to stern and
uncompromising opposition. But with my early upbringing, and with
Victoria's, Hammerfeldt had nothing to do; my mother presided, and Krak
executed. The spirit of Styria reigned in the nursery, rather than the
softer code of our more Western country; I doubt whether discipline were
stricter in any house in Forstadt than in the royal palace.

They roused me at eight on my coronation day. My mother herself came to
my bedside, and knelt down for a few minutes by it. Krak stood in the
background, grim and gloomy. I was a little frightened, and asked what
was afoot.

"You're to be crowned to-day, Augustin," said my mother. "You must be a
good boy."

"Am I to be crowned king, mother?"

"Yes, dear, in the cathedral. Will you be a good king?"

"I'll be a great king, mother," said I. The Ar