the opening that looked out upon the world. He
saw nothing but blue sky. Near the opening, looking down as if into the
valley below, stood the tall, gaunt figure of a man, thin-shouldered and
stooped. His back was to the captive, but King observed that the three
men, with two companions, who sat at the back of the cave, never removed
their gaze from the striking figure outlined against the sky.

Many minutes passed before the watcher turned slowly to take in the
altered conditions behind him. King saw that he was old; grey-haired and
cadaverous, with sharp, hawk-like features. This, then, was the "old
man," and he was not William Spantz. Unlike Spantz in every particular
was this man who eyed him so darkly, so coldly. Here was a highborn man,
a man whose very manners bespoke for him years at court, a life spent in
the upper world, not among the common people. Truxton found himself
returning the stare with an interest that brought results.

"Your name is King, I believe," came from the thin lips of the old man.
The tones were as metallic as the click of steel.

"Yes. May I inquire--"

"No, you may not inquire. Put a gag in his mouth. I don't care to hear
anything from him. Gag him and cut the rope from his feet. He may walk
from now on."

Three men sprang to do his bidding.

King felt in that instant that he was looking for the first time upon
the features of the Iron Count, Marlanx the dishonoured. He lay there
helpless, speechless for many minutes, glancing at this cruel tyrant.
Into his soul sank the conviction that no mercy would come from this
man, this hater of all men; justice would play no part in the final,
sickening tragedy. It was enough that Marlanx suspected him of being in
the way; to be suspected was to be condemned. The whole, hellish
conspiracy flashed through his brain. He closed his eyes with the horror
of it all.

Here was Marlanx on Graustark soil, conniving with cutthroats,
commanding them without opposition. What could it mean except a
swift-growing menace to the Crown--to the little Prince.

Marlanx was speaking. Truxton looked up, as at an executioner. The lean,
cruel face of that beautiful girl's husband was not far from his own;
the fiery eyes were burning into his. The Iron Count sat upon a boulder
near his feet.

"So you are the Quixote who would tilt at invisible windmills, eh? I
remember you quite well. We have met before. Perhaps you remember
meeting my eye in Dame Babba's cabin