r police
department is so inefficient." Dangloss writhed beneath this thrust.
Yetive's eyes went to him, for an instant, sorrowfully. Then they
dropped to the fatal document which Gaspon had placed on the table
before her. The lines ran together and were the color of blood.
Unconsciously she took the pen in her nerveless fingers. A deep sob came
from the breast of her gray old uncle, and Gaspon's hand shook like a
leaf as he placed the seal of Graustark on the table, ready for use.

"The assassin's life could have saved you," went on Bolaroz, a vengeful
glare coming to his eyes.

She looked up and her lips moved as if she would have spoken. No words
came, no breath, it seemed to her. Casting a piteous, hunted glance over
the faces before her, she bent forward and blindly touched the pen to
the paper. The silence was that of death. Before she could make the
first stroke, a harsh voice, in which there was combined triumph and
amazement, broke the stillness like the clanging of a bell.

"Have you no honor?"

The pen dropped from her fingers as the expected condemnation came.
Every eye in the house was turned toward the white, twitching face of
Gabriel of Dawsbergen. He stood a little apart from his friends, his
finger pointed throneward. The Princess stared at the nemesis-like
figure for an instant, as if petrified. Then the pent-up fear crowded
everything out of its path. In sheer desperation, her eyes flashing
with the intensity of defiant guilt, bitter rage welling up against her
persecutor, she half arose and cried:

"Who uttered those words? Speak!"

"I, Gabriel of Dawsbergen! Where is the prisoner, madam?" rang out the
voice.

"The man is mad!" cried she, sinking back with a shudder.

"Mad, eh? Because I do as I did promise? Behold the queen of perfidy!
Madam, I will be heard. Lorry is in this castle!"

"He is mad!" gasped Bolaroz, the first of the stunned spectators to find
his tongue.

There was a commotion near the door. Voices were heard outside.

"You have been duped!" insisted Gabriel, taking several steps toward the
throne. "Your idol is a traitress, a deceiver! I say he is here! She has
seen him. Let her sign that decree if she dares! I command you, Yetive
of Graustark, to produce this criminal!"

The impulse to crush the defiler was checked by the sudden appearance of
two men inside the curtains.

"He is here!" cried a strong voice, and Lorry, breathless and haggard,
pushed through the aston