though how the latter
managed to escape from the plain, and ultimately to track his enemy to
Zaarfburg, is not quite clear. One thing is certain, however. He must
have discovered Rodriguez, possibly in Rio de Janeiro, have heard from
him of the curious marks Max had cut upon his chest, after leaving the
plain, and having convinced himself that they referred to the cache of
diamonds, he had determined to spare no effort to get possession of the
information he required. Unfortunately for his own schemes, he fell ill
in Pannonia, _en route_ to Zaarfburg. Finding himself unable to push on,
Rodriguez was dispatched to the city in hot haste. On the night of his
arrival the body was stolen from the clockmaker's house, with the
assistance of one of the family, who had been heavily bribed. Pretending
that it was the body of his brother, who had perished in the war, he
brought it to the capital, and to the house where Moreas lay hidden in
the Buchengasse. There the latter was able to read the signs, which were
unintelligible to Rodriguez, for the reason that he was not familiar
with the topography of that villainous plain. What happened after that
is only conjecture. Doubtless, the two men had quarrelled, when
Rodriguez, taking advantage of an opportunity that presented itself,
stabbed the other in the back, and then fled for his life. And so ends
the life story of my brother, the man I loved best in the world; he who,
had he lived, would have been Maximilian, King of Pannonia.

And now, as it is possible there may be some who have been induced to
take an interest in myself and my fortunes, let me bring my long story
to a close by saying that if there is any country in Europe that boasts
a happier sovereign than does Pannonia, I do not know it. No man's life,
however, is altogether free from trouble; but in these days, thank God,
I fancy I have less than most men. I have a good wife and happy, healthy
children, the eldest of whom, little Max, bids fair to equal his
ever-lamented uncle, the National Hero, in disposition and good looks.
In one thing, however, he differs from poor Max; low down between his
eyebrows are two curious little lines, that form something not unlike a
cross.

"Superstition or not," says my sweet wife, "I can only say that I am
glad it is there."

Then for my edification she proceeds to recite the old distich:--

"Pannonia's King shall surely sit
So long as Michael's cross doth fit."

THE EN