Panting, perspiring, packed together with cheap trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the King, we at last staggered out on the Kohlslau platform utterly exhausted.

As we did so we heard a distant roar from the city.

Fritz turned an ashen gray, Spitz a livid blue.

"Are we too late ?" he gasped, as we madly fought our way into the street, where shouts of "The King! The King!" were rending the air.

"Can it be Black Michael ?" But here the crowd parted, and a procession, preceded by outriders, flashed into the square.