The Traitors. E. Phillips Oppenheim
“You forget that I have been an exile from Theos ever since I was a child,” Brand answered. “I can understand a word or so here and there, but that is not sufficient. It is necessary that I should have an exact and precise comprehension of your proposals.”
Domiloff took up the document.
“I will make a copy myself,” he said. “It will not take long. I hope that you will soon find your recollection of the language revive, Prince. You will find the people sensitive about it.”
Domiloff seated himself at the table, and for some time there was silence in the room except for the scratching of his pen. Brand lounged in the easy-chair—amused himself by speculating as to the end of his adventure. Presently there was a sharp tap at the door. A messenger entered, and conversed for awhile with Domiloff in Russian. He was dismissed with a few rapid orders. Domiloff turned round in his chair and faced Brand.
“Prince Ughtred,” he said, “I have disturbing news from the capital. The disorder in the city is so great that the Powers must intervene at once unless some decisive step be taken. I have finished my translation. Sign it and you shall enter into your kingdom before sunset.”
Brand smiled.
“I will give you my answer,” he said, “in ten minutes.”
Domiloff bowed.
“I shall await your decision, Prince,” he said. “Only remember this. To-night there must be a King of Theos or a Protectorate.”
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