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 state carriages. The King and Queen still failed to appear in public, and the Palace still rose inviolate inside the walls of the Royal City. Months passed, fourteen months.

When rumours began, the A.'s neglected to act. Inertia had served them so well that they did not know how to relinquish it. But rumours continued, and after many consultations they devised a pageant that had the feeblest effect. It was not true, they said, that the old King and Queen had died a year ago. But it was true that they were dead. They had died that very minute. Alas! Woe, oh woe! Here were their urns. Their little son was now King. Here he was. Agathocles had been appointed Regent. Here was the will. Agathoclea—here she was—would continue to be nurse. The people, sceptical and sullen, watched the display, which took place in a high gallery of the Palace, overhanging the town. The actors made their bow, and gathering up the exhibits retired. All went on as usual for a little longer.

It was the misgovernment of Agathocles that brought things to a crisis: that, and the report that of the two urns only one contained human remains: the other, which was supposed to hold the Queen, was a dummy. Perhaps the little boy would vanish next. They must see him, touch him. And they stormed the Palace. It was in vain that the Regent parleyed, threatened, or that Agathoclea repeated that she was the royal nurse. The soldiers joined the people, and they broke gate after gate. At last the Regent cried, "Take him!" and, flinging their King at them, fled. The child was already in tears. They put him on a