His whole guilt lay in preferring the king's death to
his own--a crime perhaps in most men, but hardly deserving a
place in Rupert's catalogue. All this I can admit now, but on
that night, with the dead body lying there before us, with the
story piteously told by Herbert's faltering voice fresh in our
ears, it was hard to allow any such extenuation. Our hearts cried
out for vengeance, although we ourselves served the king no more.
Nay, it may well be that we hoped to stifle some reproach of our
own consciences by a louder clamor against another's sin, or
longed to offer some belated empty atonement to our dead master
by executing swift justice on the man who had killed him. I
cannot tell fully what the others felt, but in me at least the
dominant impulse was to waste not a moment in proclaiming the
crime and raising the whole country in pursuit of Rupert, so that
every man in Ruritania should quit his work, his pleasure, or his
bed, and make it his concern to take the Count of Hentzau, alive
or dead. I remember that I walked over to where Sapt was sitting,
and caught him by the arm, saying:
"We must raise the alarm. If you'll go to Zenda, I'll start for
Strelsau."
"The alarm?" said he, looking up at me and tugging his moustache.
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