"I know, Armand, you don't like him; and, there, you may do him an injustice. He said only the kindest things about you--that you were able, courteous, brave--a true Dalberg; and that, if it could not be he, he was glad it was you."

I smiled. "That was clever of him," I commented.

"And he, too, does not believe the Spencer woman's story."

"His cleverness grows," I laughed. "It only remains for him to renounce his right to the Crown."

"He said it was for the King to choose which was the worthier, and that, if it fell to you, he would serve you faithfully and well."

I put my hand on her head and softly stroked her hair.

"And you believed him, dear?" I asked.

She looked up quickly.

"Yes--I believed him. I wanted to believe him--Did he deceive me?"

"Listen," said I. "He reached Dornlitz two days ago. Yesterday afternoon he insulted me repeatedly in my office at Headquarters. Last night I attended the Vierle Masque. While in the Garden I was struck in the back with a dagger."

"Stabbed!" she exclaimed, and clutched my arm.

"No, dear--not even scratched, thanks to Bernheim's steel vest I was wearing. Half an hour later, our cousin of Lotzen, with Mrs. Spencer on his arm, met me, alone, in a retired part of the Garden, forced a duel, and did his level best to run me through, by a trick of fence he thought he, alone knew."

"And, again, the vest saved you?"

"No--I was fortunate enough to disarm him."

"Glorious, dear, glorious!" she exclaimed. And tears filled her eyes.

And, as it was I that had caused them, it was but fair that I should take them away.

Then she made me go over the whole story in detail.

"Of course you will tell the King," said she.

"Maybe," said I. "I've not decided yet."

She got up. "There is just time for me to get into riding dress," she said. "But, first; this is Thursday--if you do not tell His Majesty of Lotzen's perfidy by Sat.u.r.day, I shall do it, myself."

And I knew she would--so I made no protest.

"Put on the green habit and the plumed hat, dear," I said, as I held back the door.

I have always liked green--the dark rich green of the forest's depth--and, if there were anything more lovely than the Princess Dehra, when she came back to me, it is quite beyond my Imagination to conceive it. He is a poor lover, indeed, who does not think his sweetheart fair; yet, he would have been a poor sort of man, who would not have been at one with me, that afternoon.

And I told her so--but she called me "Foolish!" once again, and ran from me to the private exit of her suite, where our four companions were awaiting us. But I had my reward; for she waved the groom aside and let me swing her into saddle and fix her skirt.

How easy it is for a clever woman to manage a man--if she care to try.

It was a beautiful afternoon--the road was soft and the track smooth.

Much of it led through woodland and along a brawling stream. The horses were of the sort that delight the soul--I doubt if there were six better saddlers in the whole Kingdom of Valeria. I know there were no prettier women, and, I think, no happier men.

We pa.s.sed many people--mainly country-men--and they all knew the Princess and loved her--bless her!--if their greetings went for aught.

Me, they eyed with frank curiosity; and, more than once, I caught the drift of their comments.

"A pretty pair," said one, as Dehra and I drew near, our horses on a walk.

"It's a pity he has a wife," the other answered. And Dehra frowned.

"They match up well," said a fellow, as we paused a moment at a spring beside a small road house.

I glanced at Dehra; and got a smile in return.

"That they do. He does not look like a foreigner," was the answer.

"He is Dalberg on the outside, anyway," said a third.

"Then, he is Dalberg inside, too--it starts there, with them," said the first.

And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.

It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard on all four sides. I had taken the precaution, that morning, to dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet us. Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I dismounted.

"My poor house has had no such honor," he said, "since the time the Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the t.i.tian War."

"Well, my good man," said I, "you doubtless don't recollect the Great Henry's visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast."

"Your Highness shall be served this instant."

"Give us half an hour and a place to get rid of this dust," said I.

I fancy the Inn had been changed but little since old Henry's day; and the big room, where our table was spread, certainly not at all. The oak floor was bare and worn into ruts and ridges--the great beam rafters overhead were chocolate color from smoke and age--the huge fireplace and the wall above it were black as a half-burnt back log.

But the food! My mouth waters now at the thought of it. No crazy French concoctions of frothy indigestibleness; but good, sweet cooking--the supper one gets among the old families of Maryland or Virginia. It took me back more than a score of years to my young days on the dear old Eastern Sh.o.r.e.

And, in the midst of it, came the jolly Boniface, bearing, as carefully as a mother does her first-born, three long bottles, cobwebbed and dirty. Eighty years had they been lying in the wine-bin of the Inn, guarding their treasure of Imperial Tokay. Now, their ward was ended--and the supper was complete; though, in truth, it had been complete before.

And, when we had eaten the supper and had drunk most of the Tokay, we freshened up the gla.s.ses with what remained. Then, arising, I gave the toast which all could drink:

"To the one we love the best!"

But, even as we drained it, there came through the open window the clatter of horse's hoofs and, as the gla.s.ses smashed to bits among the chimney stones, the door swung open and my senior Aide entered, hot and dusty.

He caught my eye, halted sharply, and his hand went up in salute.

"Welcome, Colonel Bernheim," I said.

Again he saluted; then drew out an envelope and handed it to me.