It was all very fine to talk of carrying off my wife in such fashion; but when, seated together near the fire in my room, talking in whispers so that not even the great stove door could catch the meaning of our conclave, János and I discussed our plans, we found that everything fell before the insuperable difficulty of our ignorance of the topography of the palace. There seemed nothing for it but to endeavour to interview Anna once more, dangerous as the process might be. And we were already discussing in what character János should present himself, when Fortune—that jade that had long turned so cold a shoulder upon me—came to the rescue in the person of the good woman herself. There was a hard knock at the door, which made us both, conspirators as we were, jump apart, and I involuntarily felt for the pistol in my coat skirts, whilst János stalked to open.
And there stood the lank black figure which had once seemed to cast a sort of shadow on my young delight, but which now I greeted as that of an angel of deliverance. She loved her mistress, her mistress loved me—what could she do me then but good?
I sprang forward and drew her in by both hands. She threw back the folds of her hood and looked round upon us, and her grim anxious countenance relaxed into something like a smile. Then she dropped me a stiff curtsey, and coming close to my ear:
“I gave my mistress the gracious master’s letter,” she said, and paused. I seized upon her hand again.
“Oh, Anna, dear Anna, how is she? How did she take it? Was she much concerned? Was she ...” I hesitated, “was she glad to learn I am not dead?”
The woman’s eyes looked as if they would fain speak volumes, but her taciturn tongue gave utterance to few words.
“My mistress,” she said, “wept much, and thanked God.” That was all, but I was satisfied.
“She is in much fear for you,” the messenger went on after a pause. “She bade me say she dared not write because of the danger to you; she bade me say that the danger is greater than you know of; that your enemies are other than you think. Now they believe you dead, but you may be recognised. And you were out to-day again!” said Anna, suddenly dropping the sing-song whisper of her recitation and turning upon me sternly with uplifted finger. “Out, in spite of my warning! I know, for I came to the inn to find you. All this is foolish.”
“And this is the end of your message?” said I, who had been drinking in every word my wife’s sweet lips had so sweetly spoken for me. “Was there nothing else?” said I again, for my soul hungered for a further sign of love.