The king drew back.
'The things are confoundedly noiseless,' said the king. 'It's like being
stalked by lean white cats.'
He peered again. 'That fellow is watching us,' he said.
And then suddenly he gave way to panic. 'Pestovitch,' he said, clutching
his minister's arm, 'they are watching us. I'm not going through with
this. They are watching us. I'm going back.'
Pestovitch remonstrated. 'Tell him to go back,' said the king, and tried
to open the window. For a few moments there was a grim struggle in the
automobile; a gripping of wrists and a blow. 'I can't go through with
it,' repeated the king, 'I can't go through with it.'
'But they'll hang us,' said Pestovitch.
'Not if we were to give up now. Not if we were to surrender the bombs.
It is you who brought me into this....'
At last Pestovitch compromised. There was an inn perhaps half a mile
from the farm. They could alight there and the king could get brandy,
and rest his nerves for a time. And if he still thought fit to go back
he could go back.
'See,' said Pestovitch, 'the light has gone again.'
The king peered up. 'I believe he's following us without a light,' said
the king.
In the little old dirty inn the king hung doubtful for a time, and was
for going back and throwing himself on the mercy of the council.
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