"Then you shall come with me, and we'll look for the Edelmann, though I've wasted too much time over my own pleasure. And you shall help me; and you shall help my friend, who is so strong-minded that she will perhaps make you think even better of our sex. And you shall be our guide down to Heiligengelt, where we are staying at the inn. And you shall, if you will, carry our cloaks and rücksacks, which seem so heavy to us, but will be nothing for your strong shoulders."
The face of the chamois-hunter expressed such mirthful appreciation of her commands, that Sylvia turned her head away, lest he should guess she held a key to the inner situation. His willingness to become a beast of burden at the service of the English lady whom he had seen, and her whom he had yet to see, was indubitably genuine. For the next few hours he was free, it seemed—this namesake of the Emperor. He had been out before dawn, and had had good luck. Later, he had returned to the hut for a meal and rest, while his friends went down to the 63 village on business. But he had meant all along to join them sooner or later; and he hoped that he might atone by his assistance for his failure with the cow.
"Do not go away thinking that we Rhaetians, Royal or peasant, are so cold of heart as you have fancied, gna' Fräulein," he said at last, when their tête-à-tête ended with a sight of Miss M'Pherson's distant profile. "The torrent of our blood may sleep for a season under ice, but when the spring comes, and the ice is broken, then the torrent gushes forth more hotly because it has not spent its strength before."
"I shall remember that," said Sylvia, "for—my journal of Rhaetia."
It was at this moment that the distant profile became a full face, with telescopic eye-glasses, gazing starward.
* * * * * * * * * *
"I thought you were never coming," exclaimed Miss M'Pherson; then stopped abruptly at the sight of the young man with bare knees.
"Perhaps I never should, had it not been for the help of this good 64 friend," responded Sylvia; "for I got myself into unexpected difficulties up there. His name is Max, and he is a monarch of—chamois-hunters. Give him your rücksack and cape, dear Miss Collinson; Max is kind enough to be our guide down the mountain, as you seemed so timid about making the descent with me alone."
Miss M'Pherson, a staunch Royalist and firm believer in the divine right of kings, grew crimson as to nose and ears—a mute protest against this mischievous command. What a thing to have happened! Here was her adored young Princess leading the Imperial Eagle (disguised, indeed, yet Royal withal) a captive in chains. What an achievement even for all-conquering beauty, within the space of one short hour—short for so great a conquest, though it had appeared long enough in waiting. Such triumph was no more than a tribute due to that Rose-of- all-the-World, Princess Sylvia of Eltzburg-Neuwald, and must have been given her by the patron saint of lovers. But that Jane M'Pherson, daughter of a plain country parson of Dumbartonshire, should fling 65 upon the sacred shoulders of an emperor her brown canvas rücksack, stuffed with eggs and bread and cheese; her golf-cape, with goloshes in the pocket, was too monstrous. Her whole nature revolted against the suggestion of such lèse-majesté.
"Pray, dearest P—Mary," the unhappy lady stammered, "don't ask me to—really these things of mine are nothing. I can hardly feel their weight."