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AN EDDY ON THE MOAT.
On the evening of Thursday, the sixteenth of October, the Constable of Zenda was very much out of humor; he has since confessed as much.

To risk the peace of a palace for the sake of a lover's greeting had never been wisdom to his mind, and he had been sorely impatient with "that fool Fritz's" yearly pilgrimage.

The letter of farewell had been an added folly, pregnant with chances of disaster.

Now disaster, or the danger of it, had come.