dead master and of
us. He carried to England by word of mouth--for we dared write nothing
down--the truth concerning the King of Ruritania and Mr. Rassendyll.
It was to be told to the Earl of Burlesdon, Rudolf's brother, under
a pledge of secrecy; and to this day the earl is the only man besides
ourselves who knows the story. His errand done, James returned in order
to enter the queen's service, in which he still is; and he told us that
when Lord Burlesdon had heard the story he sat silent for a great while,
and then said:

"He did well. Some day I will visit his grave. Tell her Majesty that
there is still a Rassendyll, if she has need of one."

The offer was such as should come from a man of Rudolf's name, yet I
trust that the queen needs no further service than such as it is our
humble duty and dear delight to render her. It is our part to strive
to lighten the burden that she bears, and by our love to assuage her
undying grief. For she reigns now in Ruritania alone, the last of all
the Elphbergs; and her only joy is to talk of Mr. Rassendyll with those
few who knew him, her only hope that she may some day be with him again.

In great pomp we laid him to his rest in the vault of the kings of
Ruritania in the Cathedral of Strelsau. There he lies among the
princes of the House of Elphberg. I think that if there be indeed any
consciousness among the dead, or any knowledge of what passes in the
world they have left, they should be proud to call him brother. There
rises in memory of him a stately monument, and people point it out to
one another as the memorial of King Rudolf. I go often to the spot, and
recall in thought all that passed when he came the first time to Zenda,
and again on his second coming. For I mourn him as a man mourns a
trusted leader and a loved comrade, and I should have asked no better
than to be allowed to serve him all my days. Yet I serve the queen, and
in that I do most truly serve her lover.

Times change for all of us. The roaring flood of youth goes by, and the
stream of life sinks to a quiet flow. Sapt is an old man now; soon my
sons will be grown up, men enough themselves to serve Queen Flavia. Yet
the memory of Rudolf Rassendyll is fresh to me as on the day he died,
and the vision of the death of Rupert of Hentzau dances often before
my eyes. It may be that some day the whole story shall be told, and men
shall judge of it for themselves. To me it seems now as though all had
ended well. I