PUNIC FAITH.
Matters came to a crisis on a certain dreadful evening when the
Prince of Dardania, who was staying at one of his palaces a short
distance on the other side of the frontier, dined at the castle. An
invitation had been sent him, with what the King congratulated himself
was a refinement of cruelty, that he might see with his own eyes how
complete was the ruin of his hopes, and the scheme met with a success
of which its originator had not dreamed. Whether through malice or
through nervousness, Princess Ottilie overacted her part enormously
that night, insomuch that she awakened doubts even in the mind of
Prince Alexis, and thrilled Caerleon with a new horror. Perhaps she
had changed her mind, and would after all refuse to release him,--and
what would be his position in such a case? It comforted him to see
that the Queen managed to exchange a few whispered words with the
Prince, as he took his leave after an evening of chilling neglect, but
he himself had an account to settle with Princess Ottilie. The next
morning the pair had “words” in the conservatory, and Caerleon
informed his _fiancée_ succinctly that he had no intention of being
used as an instrument of torture with which to harass Prince Alexis.
“If you try it on again, I shall simply make the whole thing known,”
he said.
“You threaten me?” wept the Princess.
“Not if you behave decently,” he answered, with a roughness which only
his desperate situation could excuse; “but if a man is supposed to be
engaged, he has a right to have a voice in the proceedings of his--of
the lady. The fact is, you think you can go as far as you like with
me, and I won’t have it. You wouldn’t dare to carry on in this way
with my brother Cyril, or any other man, because you know he might
respond, and then you would get into trouble. But as I consider myself
virtually engaged to some one else, and was soft-hearted enough to
believe what you told me in the forest, you think you can make as big
a fool of me as you like; but I’m not going to stand it.”
“You are brutal,” sobbed Princess Ottilie. “As you say, any other man
would feel honoured to be treated in the way I treat you.”
“Let him,” said Caerleon. “I don’t; and I tell you plainly, it’s not
to go on.”
“You are a monster to talk to me like this, at any rate,” she said,
drying her eyes. “Now that you have delivered your lecture, and I have
listened, I will only say one thing, that I would never allow my
prince to speak to me as you have done.”
She vouchsafed no other expression of penitence, and even this remark
Caerleon understood to be intended more as a hit; nor did his lecture
seem to have had much effect upon her conduct, for when later in the
day Cyril, on finding Princess Ottilie alone, noticed the heaviness of
her eyes, and ventured to hope that she was not suffering from
headache, she told him frankly that she had been crying, and gave him
to understand that her tears were due to a doubt as to Caerleon’s real
feelings towards her. A good deal of diplomacy was needed to soothe
her apprehensions, and when Cyril left her, with his mind made up to
seek Caerleon and warn him to be more careful, he found himself seized
upon by the King, who was strongly of the opinion that something was
wrong. Why did Caerleon look so gloomy? and why had he made the
Princess cry that morning? were his unanswerable questions; and
although Cyril, with what he told himself was perfect truth, urged
that he could not imagine any reason why his brother, who was
notoriously an advocate of love-matches, should engage himself to the
Princess against his will, he was obliged to fall back on Caerleon’s
imaginary unworthiness and low opinion of himself as an explanation.
He saw that the King was only half satisfied, and the next day he was
forced to feel that this tendency towards mistrust had made itself
evident at a very inopportune moment.
Hosts and guests alike at Schloss Herzensruh breakfasted in their own
rooms, and it was immediately after the early meal that Cyril received
an intimation that the King desired his attendance as soon as
possible. The wording of the message struck him as peculiar; but he
finished his dressing hurriedly, and presented himself in the study.
To his astonishment, he found King Johann surrounded by piles of
newspaper packets bearing English stamps, which had just arrived by
post. Several of them had been opened, and Cyril was surprised to see
that each contained a copy of that well-known weekly, ‘Mendacity,’
dated two or three days back. Furthermore, on looking at those still
unopened, he recognised in each case the cover of ‘Mendacity.’
“Lord Cyril,” said the King, and Cyril was surprised to see that the
fussy little man could look really kingly, “I have sent for you
because all the arrangements for my daughter’s engagement have been
conducted through you, and also because I was anxious not to trouble
your brother if this matter is susceptible of explanation. You see
these papers? I think every one of my English friends has sent me a
copy, and the same paragraph is marked in each. Perhaps you will
kindly read it.”
He put one of the papers into Cyril’s hand, and he read the marked
paragraph:--
“‘I have no desire to be reckoned among the “unco guid,” and it has
always been my belief that young men will be young men. Still, I am
not sorry that my Temperance friends should have the chance of
learning the true character of the gay Lothario whom the criminal
inertness of a Tory Government has permitted to establish himself on
the throne of Thracia. We have heard a good deal lately about the
superior morality of this gentleman. His people have all been made
suddenly sober--not by Act of Parliament, but by his “royal” decree;
he has sacrificed a large part of his income for the purpose of buying
up licences, and he is about to put the finishing touch to his
catalogue of good deeds by making a love-match with the wealthy and
beautiful daughter of a neighbouring sovereign. Perhaps it will be
news for some of my readers to learn that this so-called “King” is
bound by every tie of honour to marry a Scythian lady of noble family,
whose acquaintance he made before seizing upon the throne, and whom he
subsequently abandoned in the most heartless manner, and under
circumstances of peculiar cruelty. What does the Nonconformist
conscience think of this? Scythia has a long account already
outstanding against this choice specimen of the British aristocracy,
and when the day of reckoning comes, the swords of her soldiers will
not leap from their scabbards with the less alacrity for the
remembrance of his behaviour towards their countrywoman.’”
The time occupied in reading the paragraph through afforded Cyril the
opportunity of collecting his thoughts, for he had guessed its drift
from the very first sentences. Now he threw down the paper and cried
hotly--
“I hope to goodness Caerleon has not seen this! If he has, he will
simply go off to Scythia at once, and marry the girl whether she
wishes it or not.”
“Then the story is true?” shouted the King, half rising from his
chair, the veins in his forehead swelling.
“Like most lies, it rejoices in a substratum of truth,” answered
Cyril, coolly.
“Be good enough to explain to me exactly what you mean,” said the
King, his fury in a measure disarmed by the young man’s serenity.
“The facts are very simple,” returned Cyril. “During our tour in
Hungary, we made the acquaintance of a Scythian officer and his
family. The only daughter was a most estimable young lady, and my
brother fell deeply in love with her. We may presume that his
affection was not returned--at any rate, when he proposed to her, she
refused him. That’s all, unless she has changed her mind by this
time.”
“And you can assure me, on your honour as a nobleman, that there is no
other foundation for this--this tale?”
Cyril drew himself up. “I have not the honour to understand your
Majesty. Is it possible that you can for a moment have believed the
story to be true?”
“There was some justification for such a belief, in this printed paper
and in the anxiety of my English friends,” said the King, drily.
“If that is the case, I think your Majesty has shown pretty plainly
that the prospect of a marriage between my brother and the Princess
does not meet with your approval,” said Cyril, with awful coldness.
“If your Majesty will permit me, I will communicate the fact to him,
and we will leave the castle at once.”
“No, no! you are too hasty,” said King Johann, quickly. “It is surely
only natural that I should resent such an aspersion on the character
of my future son-in-law. Surely, too, I may complain of a want of
openness on your part. Why have I heard nothing of this prior
attachment?”
“One is not particularly anxious to publish it abroad that one’s
brother has made a fool of himself,” said Cyril, frankly. “I don’t
mind acknowledging that I was glad to hush the matter up. But Caerleon
insisted on telling the Princess all about it, and I know that he did
so before their engagement took place. No doubt that is one reason for
his looking so seedy lately. Of course he felt that it wasn’t quite
fair for a man with an experience of that kind fresh in his memory to
seek the love of a whole-hearted, unworldly young girl like her Royal
Highness.”
This was carrying the war into the enemy’s camp with a vengeance, and
the King climbed down from his high horse somewhat hastily.
“I do not complain so much of the concealment of the matter from
myself, as of the fact that other persons have been allowed to obtain
a knowledge of it,” he said, wisely waiving the question of Princess
Ottilie’s inexperience in affairs of the heart. Cyril made no remark,
but accepted the words as confirmation of a suspicion which had
occurred to him once or twice, that King Johann’s ignorance was merely
official, and that he had all along been aware of the existence of
Nadia, although he had acquiesced discreetly in the silence hitherto
maintained with regard to her. “How do you suppose that the news
reached England?” the King went on.
“From a Scythian source, no doubt,” answered Cyril, promptly.
“Dickinson, the editor of ‘Mendacity,’ hunts up the scandals of all
nations for his wretched rag. I suppose you have no Scythian newspaper
of last week?”
“I remember now that one was sent me. It is evident that I have not so
many kind friends in Scythia as in England. I put it on one side, for
I do not myself read Scythian easily; and I thought--the Queen--about
this marriage--things might be said----”
“As matters stand, it is a very good thing you did not,” said Cyril,
answering the thought rather than the words. “Her Majesty might have
misunderstood the whole affair. We all know that ladies are often apt
to take strong prejudices, unfortunately.”
“Will you read it, and see what it says?” suggested the King.
“I don’t know much Scythian, but I might manage to puzzle it out,”
said Cyril; and the King brought out a crumpled paper, which the two
studied painfully for some minutes.
“Ah, here it is!” cried Cyril, and he began to translate rapidly and
freely: “‘The Carlino-O’Malachy affair, of which so much has lately
been heard in society, appears likely to have far-reaching
consequences.’ Then there comes pretty much what we have just read in
‘Mendacity.’ Then it goes on: ‘With a view to obtaining authoritative
information on the subject, a representative of this journal called
yesterday upon Colonel O’Malachy, who was paying a flying visit to the
city, and left this morning. Colonel O’Malachy is a veteran soldier,
wearing a medal for distinguished services, and the order of the
Byzantine Empire. He has served in----’ oh, that doesn’t signify. ‘The
gallant officer maintained an attitude of strict reserve, but admitted
that the published accounts of the Thracian usurper’s conduct are
substantially true. The publicity which had been given to the matter
was, however, quite contrary to his wishes and those of his family,
for it was not, he said, the custom of a house which numbered kings
among its ancestors to submit its wrongs to the arbitrament of a court
either of law or of public opinion. Let but an appeal be made to arms,
and he would trust to meet the English filibuster face to face on the
soil he has seized, and to sheathe the sword, which had drunk Moslem
blood in ’77, in his treacherous heart.’”
“That conclusion is rather fine,” observed Cyril. “I always knew that
the O’Malachy was about as picturesque an old villain as remains
unhung in these degenerate days; but I did not know he was quite
capable of these heroics.”
“Perhaps a telegram which I received before you came in may throw some
light upon the matter,” said the King. “It is from our Minister at
Pavelsburg, telling me that this very paper had been warned by the
censor, at his request, for publishing unauthorised news. He added
that the news related to the King of Thracia.”
“Only warned? not suspended?” said Cyril. “That shows they were not
sorry to have it believed, then. Well, I fear we can do nothing to
bring Scythia to a sense of the error of her ways; but I think I can
put a spoke in Dickinson’s wheel.”
“I am about to indite a formal complaint to the British Government,”
said the King. “It is intolerable that a newspaper should be allowed
to libel the sovereign of a neighbouring country in this way,
especially when it is remembered that he is on the point of connecting
himself with my family.”
“I’m afraid that will scarcely do,” said Cyril. “You see, for one
thing, Caerleon isn’t exactly the sovereign of a neighbouring
country--at least, no one seems quite to know whether he is a
sovereign at all, or not.”
“But that will be satisfactorily settled before long,” said the King.
“If Pannonia supports us at Czarigrad in pressing anew for our
recognition from Roum it will be, but not otherwise,” said Cyril,
shortly. “But this uncertainty disposes of any idea of appealing to
the British Government. What we have to do is to work upon Dickinson
in a way he can understand.”
“And what is that?” asked King Johann.
“I know a man on the staff of the ‘Universe,’” answered Cyril, “and it
will give him and his chief the purest pleasure to make Dickinson take
a back seat over this business. I shall simply send him one little
fact, and he will work it up with a few flourishes about Dickinson’s
abnormal faculty for discovering mares’ nests, and a passing remark or
two on the subject of his descent from the man who hated Aristides.”
“But what is the fact?” asked the King, eagerly.
“Merely this, that the brother of the much-injured lady is still an
officer in my brother’s guard, and dined at our table, quite in a
friendly spirit, the night before we left Bellaviste. If the O’Malachy
had any sense of dramatic consistency, he would have ordered him to
resign his commission; but as the idea hasn’t struck him, we are all
right.”
“But the mere demonstration that the charge he has brought against
your brother is an absurdity will not affect this Dickinson,” said the
King.
“Oh yes, it will. The very suggestion that he has been taken in by
such a ridiculous story will be a sufficient punishment for him.”
“But if the aim of his journal is to circulate lies, he cannot have
any regard for the truth,” objected the King.
“He cares very much about his reputation as a shrewd man of the
world,” said Cyril. “And you musn’t judge his paper from its title.
That is Dickinson’s little joke. He calls it ‘Mendacity’ on the _lucus
a non lucendo_ principle, from a theory of his that the name is
intended to indicate what the paper is not. The ‘Times,’ he says, is
behind the times; the ‘Standard’ lags in the rear, instead of leading;
and it is just the same with his paper--in each case the contents
contradict the name. But some people think that there is more truth in
the title than anywhere inside the cover.”
“So it would appear,” said the King.
“We are rather proud of Dickinson at home,” Cyril went on. “He is a
purely English product, and _fin de siècle_ at that. No other nation
can rival his peculiar humour.” The King looked as though he, at any
rate, found it difficult also to appreciate the bent of Mr Dickinson’s
genius. “But the ‘Universe’ will have him on toast this time with a
vengeance,” continued Cyril, cheerfully. “I suppose we may consider
the little affair agreeably settled, sir? Perhaps I may remark that
the sooner our application at Czarigrad is granted the easier we shall
find it to deal with cases of this kind.”
“Naturally,” said the King, “before I took any steps whatever to
promote a marriage between my daughter and your brother, it was
understood that Pannonia would at once do her best to secure the
recognition of your rights from Roum.”
This was a most satisfactory assurance, and Cyril went away well
pleased. The morrow was the day fixed for the betrothal--a ceremony
which, according to German ideas, would be wellnigh as indissoluble as
marriage itself--and it struck him that the Emperor of Pannonia would
probably consider it a pleasing and friendly act to begin to press the
claims of Thracia on the Roumi Government immediately, in order to
obtain Caerleon’s recognition by the suzerain Power as a graceful
wedding-gift to the betrothed pair. All seemed to be prospering with
Cyril’s schemes, and he prepared with a light heart for his departure
from Schloss Herzensruh. It was considered more correct that the King
of Thracia should arrive on Mœsian soil from his own territory on the
morning of the betrothal, and the brothers were therefore to return to
their shooting-box for the night. Caerleon’s state of mind was a
pitiable one. The time fixed for his penance had all but dragged out
its weary course, and yet he saw no hope of obtaining his release.
What was he to do if no means of escape offered itself during the one
day that was left? He was firmly resolved under no circumstances to
take upon him the solemn vows of betrothal; but how was he to refuse
to do so without either casting a slur on Princess Ottilie or
betraying her secret? It is absurd, even humiliating, to be obliged to
confess it, but the idea of flight presented itself to him more than
once in tempting colours.
The first break in the clouds became visible at the mid-day meal,
which might be considered either as a late breakfast or as an early
lunch, and at which Princess Ottilie did not appear. She was not very
well, her mother said, and had decided to remain in her room for the
day; and she herself sent a special message to Caerleon to the effect
that her indisposition was caused by grief regarding the anxiously
expected Paris dress, which had indeed arrived, but was horribly cut,
and made her look hideous. King Johann received the excuse with
considerable seriousness, and remarked that his daughter had an
undisciplined mind, and he hoped that Caerleon would teach her to be
less frivolous when they were married; but it was evident that he
regarded the cause of the illness as amply sufficient under the
circumstances, and Caerleon recalled with some amusement the
Princess’s words in the forest. He could afford to be amused now, for
he guessed that Princess Ottilie intended on the morrow to urge her
indisposition as a reason for postponing the betrothal; and, although
the means were not such as he would have chosen, he was so nearly
desperate by this time as to be ready to snatch at any prospect of
escape. Hence he also was able to leave the castle cheerfully, and
even to endure with patience the chaff in which Cyril indulged as they
rode through the forest, although it dealt chiefly with
engagement-rings and loss of bachelor freedom, and similar well-worn
and appropriate themes.
The afternoon passed quickly, in its unwonted freedom from the
Princess’s rather exacting society, and with the dusk arrived M.
Drakovics, who had journeyed from Bellaviste expressly for the purpose
of being present at the betrothal ceremony. Much to Caerleon’s relief,
he made no pretence of congratulation, and displayed no special
interest in the event of the morrow; but immediately after dinner
produced a vast pile of reports and returns on the subject of the new
liquor laws, and invited the King to go through them with him.
Caerleon was only too glad to welcome any work that promised to
distract his mind from the gnawing anxiety which assailed him whenever
he reflected that it was possible that Princess Ottilie might not be
able to carry out her plan after all, and he threw himself into the
task with avidity. With Cyril it was otherwise. He was consumed by an
intense restlessness, a haunting fear lest some unforeseen catastrophe
should interfere with his schemes just as they were on the point of
realisation; and he wandered from room to room, pausing now and then
to turn over with unquiet fingers the documents which the other two
were perusing so strenuously.
“What’s up, Cyril? Anything wrong?” asked Caerleon at last.
“Only the fidgets, as old nurse used to say when I was a kid. I’m as
much excited as if it was I who was going to be betrothed to-morrow
instead of you. I can’t keep quiet. I think I shall go for a walk.”
“Now? at this time of night?”
“Rather. I feel as if I had an inexhaustible fund of energy to work
off. By the by, have those rubies arrived yet?”
“Yes. Wright went to fetch them from the town this afternoon. He was
just in time to meet the Vienna express.”
“Did you send him on to Schloss Herzensruh with them?”
“No; of course not. I’m going to take them with me in the morning.”
“What an outer barbarian you are!” cried Cyril. “Do you expect
Princess Ottilie to put them on in public? She must have them in time
to study the effect properly in the glass, and admire herself in them.
Give them to me, and I’ll take them to her at once.”
“You don’t mean that you would carry that case of jewels through the
forest alone at night?”
“Who is to know that I am carrying it? It will go into my pocket.
Besides, there are no robbers here; it’s a regular Forest of Arden, a
most suitable place for a betrothal. So trot out the box.”
“A little later in the year the forest will be dangerous on account of
the wolves; but they have not come down from the mountains yet, and
Milord Cyril will be in no danger,” said M. Drakovics, who found
Cyril’s restless peregrinations very trying.
“That reminds me,” said Caerleon gloomily, as he unlocked one of the
table-drawers and took out the jewel-case; “there came a message this
morning from one of the mountain villages, saying that several people
have been killed by a large solitary wolf, which can neither be
trapped nor shot. They think it’s a were-wolf, and they sent to beg me
to come up and try to shoot it. It seems that my Express rifle has
made a name for itself, and there’s some superstition about the King’s
bullet, besides. It’s a horrid bother that I can’t go. I suppose I
shall have to let Prince Alexis know. One can’t leave the people to be
decimated on the chance of my having a day off some time next week.
There you are, Cyril, if you are bent on going. Don’t lose those
rubies, or I’ll tell the man to send in the bill to you.”
Cyril was already in the hall donning his fur-lined coat and cap; and
putting the case in his pocket, he started on his lonely walk. Autumn
was passing into winter, but there was no snow on the ground as yet,
and the dry leaves crackled pleasantly under his feet as he struck
into the moonlit path between the tall black tree-stems. For a short
time he walked fast and steadily, in order to exorcise the feeling of
excitement which possessed him; then he slackened his pace a little,
and as the stillness of the forest made itself felt, began to whistle.
He was tramping vigorously along, with his hands thrust deep in his
pockets, when it seemed to him that he saw the figure of a man on the
path some distance in front of him. The shadows cast by the moonlight
from the tree-trunks were so perplexing that he could not be sure that
his eyes had not deceived him; but his blood kindled with an
excitement which was by no means disagreeable, as he assured himself
that his revolver was in its usual pocket. If there was a man in front
of him he had passed completely out of sight, and Cyril scanned
narrowly the straight stems on either side of the path as he walked
on, assuring himself that he was looking for some distorted tree which
must have taken the shape of a human figure in the moonlight. No such
trunk appeared, however; but at the next turn of the path he caught
sight of a tall man leaning against a tree. His hand went to his
revolver instantly; but he recognised the Prince of Dardania, and
stepped back with a laugh.
“What! you here?” both exclaimed simultaneously. Cyril recovered
himself first. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of taking midnight
rambles on Thracian territory,” he said. “Are you meditating a woful
sonnet?” He stopped hurriedly, remembering that the quotation was
rather an unhappy one under the circumstances, and reflecting that
there could be little doubt that Prince Alexis had been taking a last
look at the abode of the lady of his love before she was lost to him
for ever.
“Not exactly,” returned the Prince, with some hesitation. “In fact, I
was wondering whether I might ask you to do me a good turn. But
perhaps your own business is urgent?”
“Oh, I am not love, only love’s messenger,” said Cyril, carelessly. “I
am taking a small parcel to Schloss Herzensruh from my brother.”
“Then, if you will, you can give me the very help I need,” said the
Prince, turning and walking by Cyril’s side. “You see me, as you say
in England, in a hole. The fact is, my dear Mortimer, I am in love.”
Cyril’s first remark was fortunately only uttered mentally, for it was
not of a sympathetic character. “I hardly see how I am to help you,”
he added aloud.
“No?” said the Prince; “but I do. Perhaps you may be surprised to hear
that I love a lady of the Queen of Mœsia’s household?”
“A lady of the household!” cried Cyril. “But I thought----”
“That I was in love with the Princess? But, my dear friend, a screen
is sometimes necessary. At any rate, both the Queen and the Princess
know the truth now.”
“Then I suppose that’s the secret of the snubbing you got the other
night? It certainly was tremendous. I was really sorry for you.”
“Well,” pursued the Prince, “the Queen has treated me better than I
could have dared to hope. She is so good as to give her sanction to my
plans for a private marriage to-night.”
“But why private?” asked Cyril.
“My friend, I have Ministers, who interest themselves unduly in my
affairs at times. I wish to present my marriage to them as an
accomplished fact.”
“I see; and no doubt the Queen thinks that a public wedding might
encourage the rest of her ladies to go and do likewise, a consummation
which would scarcely meet her views. Well, if the ruling power is so
propitious, why don’t you go in and win?”
“That is all that I desire. I have everything prepared at my
summer-palace five miles away, the chapel ready, witnesses, Greek and
Lutheran clergy to perform the ceremony. But how shall I reach my
bride? King Johann has peopled the forest in the neighbourhood of the
castle with gamekeepers and frontier-guards, and if I am seen, all is
lost. The news would be carried to him immediately, and he bears such
a grudge against me that he would spare no pains to discover my object
and to thwart it.”
“But still, I don’t see what you want me to do,” said Cyril.
“Merely this, to bring my bride from the castle, and escort her to me
here. I have two good horses waiting, one with a lady’s saddle, and it
will not take you long.”
“But do you think I am going to compromise myself in this way out of
pure philanthropy?” said Cyril. “I insist on being asked to the
wedding.”
“Then I fear that you will be obliged to escort the bride all the way
to my house, while I start off on foot,” said the Prince, “for I have
not brought another horse.”
“The honour is only too great,” returned Cyril. “I am determined that
nothing shall do me out of my share of the fun. Why, I daresay you
have never even thought of getting hold of any one to propose the
health of the bridal pair, and I’ve been told I’m rather good at that
sort of thing.”
“No; I have not, indeed,” said the Prince. “You are in earnest? Then I
will give you your directions, and part from you here. When you have
delivered your message, and left the castle, knock three times at the
postern-door close to the angle of the wall on this side. If the
mistress of the household opens it, say that you are come on my behalf
to fetch Fräulein von Staubach.”
“What? the lectrice?” asked Cyril.
“Yes; Fräulein von Staubach is the Queen’s lectrice and secretary.
You know her?” the Prince asked, rather anxiously.
“I have caught a glimpse of her once or twice--just enough to see that
she was a fair-haired girl in spectacles. She doesn’t show up as much
as some of the other ladies.”
“No; she is generally busy writing the Queen’s letters. But you will
know her when you see her? The Princess might play you a trick. She
has a mole on the back of her left wrist.”
“Oh, I shall know her all right. Then, when I have got her safe, we
have only to mount and ride away, I suppose?”
“Yes; the horses are here, you see, tied to this tree.”
“But suppose we meet any of the gamekeepers? They will think it queer,
to say the least, to see me riding about late at night with one of the
Queen’s ladies.”
“Unless you say that Fräulein von Staubach has been summoned back to
Germany by a sudden message, and that you are escorting her to the
station, I don’t see what you can do; and that would leave a good deal
unexplained,” said the Prince, laughing. “They are scarcely likely to
stop you, and no blame can attach to you afterwards, when everything
comes out. You are merely doing a friend a good turn.”
“All right, then,” said Cyril. “We shall meet again,” and he waved his
hand as Prince Alexis started on his lengthy walk, while he went on to
the castle.