It was by this time dark, and the glow of a lamp shone out through the window of a room to the right of the Gothic porch. As Hermengarde knocked at the door this light was seen to move and pass out into the hall. Then came the noise of turning the lock, and the door opened, and Dorothea stood before her, holding the lamp high above her head.
In spite of her habitual self-possession, the Princess could not restrain a start of admiration which testified that she now understood the King’s infatuation. She quickly recovered herself, and addressed the young girl.
“I come from the Castle yonder,” she said, “and have missed my path in the wood. I thought you would let me rest here for a little before I returned.”
“Oh, yes; come in, if you please,” was Dorothea’s answer, in soft, musical tones, that yet had a faint undertone of pathos in them which had been missing earlier in the day.
The Princess followed her into the low, oak-roofed parlour where she had been sitting, and accepted the wooden armchair, with a loose red cushion on the seat, which she pushed forward. Franz was not there. Dorothea explained that her father had gone out to make his round of the forest, and look out for poachers.
“And does he leave you here all alone?” queried Hermengarde, assuming an air of sympathy in order to set the girl at her ease.
“Oh, yes, Madam. I am not afraid. I have been accustomed to stay here alone since my mother died. But won’t you have some refreshment while you are resting? We have a hare in the larder, and some white bread, which I make myself.”
“Not anything to eat, thank you, my dear,” responded Hermengarde, graciously. “But I have heard that you make some most delicious cider; can you spare me a glass of that?”
Dorothea flushed at the compliment.
“I shall be very pleased if you will taste it,” she said; “but I am afraid you will be disappointed.”