“Great God! then you did mean it!” said my father, with a strange horror in his voice.
“I meant—to serve the King. I also hoped to advance the interests of Colonel Bernhard,” replied the other, haughtily.
“My sword is the King's—my blood is the King's, to the last drop,” said my father in great agitation; “but my honour—my honour is my own!”
“Enough, Colonel Bernhard; enough. We will drop the subject.”
And again I heard the little dry cough, and the snap of the snuff-box.
A long silence followed, my father walking to and fro with a quick, heavy step; the stranger, apparently, still sitting in his place at the table.
“Should you, on reflection, see cause to take a different view of your duty, Colonel Bernhard,” he said at last, “you have but to say so before....”
“I can never take a different view of it, Herr Count!” interrupted my father, vehemently.
“—before I take my departure in the morning,” continued the other, with studied composure; “in the meanwhile, be pleased to remember that you are answerable for the person of your prisoner. Either he must not escape, or he must not escape with life.”
My father's shadow bent its head.