LITMIR.BIZ

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prepared for them.

      In the centre of a brilliant company rode the Princess Margaret, in a well-fitting robe of pale blue broidered with crimson, while behind and about her was such a galaxy of the fashion and beauty of a court, that had not Joan remembered and thought on the summer parlour and the man who was waiting for her in the city, she had almost bidden her four hundred riders wheel to the right about, and gallop straight back to Kernsberg and the heights of rustic Hohenstein.

      At sight of the Duchess's party the Princess alighted from off her steed with the help of a cavalier. At the same moment Joan of the Sword Hand leaped down of her own accord and came forward to meet her new sister.

      The two women kissed, and then held each other at arm's length for the luxury of a long look.

      The face of the Princess showed a trace of emotion. She appeared to be struggling with some recollection she was unable to locate with precision.

      "I hope you will be very happy with my brother," she faltered; then after a moment she added, "Have you not perchance a brother of your own?"

      But before Joan could reply the representative of the Prince had come forward to conduct the bride-elect to her rooms, and the Princess gave place to him.

      But all the same she kept her eyes keenly about her, and presently they rested with a sudden brightness upon the young Dane, Maurice von Lynar, at the head of his troop of horse. He was near enough for her to see his face, and it was with a curious sense of strangeness that she saw his eyes fixed upon herself.

      "He is different – he is changed," she said to herself; "but how – wait till we get to the palace, and I shall soon find out!"

      And immediately she caused it to be intimated that all the captains of troops and the superior officers of the escort of the Duchess Joan were to be entertained at the palace of the Princess Margaret.

      So that at the moment when Joan was taking a first survey of her chambers, which occupied one entire wing of the Palace of the Princes of Courtland, Margaret the impetuous had already commanded the presence of the Count von Löen, one of the commanders of the bridal escort.

      The young officer entrusted with the message returned almost immediately, to find his mistress impatiently pacing up and down.

      "Well?" she said, halting at the upper end of the reception-room and looking at him.

      "Your Highness," he said, "there is no Count von Löen among the officers of Kernsberg!"

      Margaret of Courtland stamped her foot.

      "I expected as much," she said. "He shall pay for this. Why, man, I saw him with my own eyes an hour ago – a young man, slender, sits erect in his saddle, of a dark allure, and with eyes like those of an eagle."

      A flush came over the youth's face.

      "Does he look like the brother of the Duchess Joan?" he said.

      "That is the man – Count von Löen or no. That is the man, I tell you. Bring him immediately to me."

      The young officer smiled.

      "Methinks he will come readily enough. He started forward as if to follow me when first I told my message. But when I mentioned the name of the Count von Löen he stood aside in manifest disappointment."

      "At all events, bring him instantly!" commanded the Princess.

      The officer bowed low and retired.

      The Princess Margaret smiled to herself.

      "It is some more of their precious State secrets," she said. "Well – I love secrets, and I can keep them too; but only my own, or those that are told to me. And I will make my gentleman pay for playing off his Counts von Löen on me!"

      Presently she heard heavy footsteps approaching the door.

      "Come in – come in straightway," she said in a loud, clear voice; "I have a word to speak with you, Sir Count – who yet deny that you are a count. And, prithee, to how many silly girls have you taught the foreign fashions of linked arms, and all that most pleasant ceremony of leave-taking in Kernsberg and Plassenburg?"

      Then the Sparhawk had his long-desired view in full daylight of the woman whose lips, touched once under cloud of night, had dominated his fancy and enslaved his will during all the weary months of winter.

      Also he had before him, though he knew it not, a somewhat difficult and complicated explanation.

      CHAPTER XIII

      THE SPARHAWK IN THE TOILS

      The Princess Margaret was standing by the window as the young man entered. Her golden curls flashed in the late sunshine, which made a kind of haze of light about her head as she turned the resentful brilliance of her eyes upon Maurice von Lynar.

      "Is it a safe thing, think you, Sir Count, to jest with a princess in her own land and then come back to flout her for it?"

      Maurice understood her to refer to the kiss given and returned in the darkness of the night. He knew not of how many other indiscretions he was now to bear the brunt, or he had turned on the spot and fled once more across the river.

      "My lady," he said, "if I offended you once, it was not done intentionally, but by mistake."

      "By mistake, sir! Have a care. I may have been indiscreet, but I am not imbecile."

      "The darkness of the night – " faltered von Lynar, "let that be my excuse."

      "Pshaw!" flashed the Princess, suddenly firing up; "do you not see, man, that you cannot lie yourself out of this? And, indeed, what need? If I were a secretary of embassy, and a princess distinguished me with her slightest favour, methinks when next I came I would not meanly deny her acquaintance!"

      Von Lynar was distressed, and fortunately for himself his distress showed in his face.

      "Princess," he said, standing humbly before her, "I did wrong. But consider the sudden temptation, the darkness of the night – "

      "The darkness of the night," she said, stamping her foot, and in an instinctively mocking tone; "you are indeed well inspired. You remind me of what I ventured that you should be free. The darkness of the night, indeed! I suppose that is all that sticks in your memory, because you gained something tangible by it. You have forgotten the walk through the corridors of the Palace, all you taught me in the rose garden, and – and – how apt a pupil you said I was. Pray, good Master Forgetfulness, who hath forgotten all these things, forgotten even his own name, tell me what you did in Courtland eight months ago?"

      "I came – I came," faltered the Sparhawk, fearful of yet further committing himself, "I came to find and save my dear mistress."

      "Your – dear – mistress?" The Princess spoke slowly, and the blue eyes hardened till they overtopped and beat down the bold black ones of Maurice von Lynar; "and you dare to tell me this – me, to whom you swore that you had never loved woman in the world before, never spoken to them word of wooing or compliment! Out of my sight, fellow! The Prince, my brother, shall deal with you."

      Then all suddenly her pride utterly gave way. The disappointment was too keen. She sank down on a silk-covered ottoman by the window side, sobbing.

      "Oh, that I could kill you now, with my hands – so," she said in little furious jerks, gripping at the pillow; "I hate you, thus to put a shame upon me – me, Margaret of Courtland. Could it have been for such a thing as you that I sent away the Prince of Muscovy – yes, and many others – because I could not forget you? And after all – !"

      Now Maurice von Lynar was not quick in discernment where woman was concerned, but on this occasion he recognised that he was blindly playing the hand of another – a hand, moreover, of which he could not hope to see the cards. He did the only thing which could have saved him with the Princess. He came near and sank on one knee before her.

      "Madam," he said humbly and in a moving voice, "I beseech you not to be angry – not to condemn me unheard. In the sense of being in love, I never loved any but yourself. I would rather die than put the least slight upon one so surpassingly fair, whose memory has never departed from me, sleeping or waking, whose image, dimly seen, has

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