"I have His Majesty's authority to choose my officers," said the Prince, smiling. "Baroness, will you be a lieutenant, and wear our sheepskins in place of your sables there?"
"It is your uniform, Monseigneur," Sophy answered, bowing her head.
Lukovitch sprang forward and kissed her hand.
"For our Bailiff's preserver as for our Bailiff, men of Volseni!" he cried, loudly. The answering cheer brought tears to Sophy's sparkling eyes. For a moment she could not see her Prince nor the men who thus took her to their hearts.
Suddenly, in the midst of her exultation, she saw a face on the outskirts of the throng. A small, spare man stood there, dressed in unobtrusive tweeds, but making no effort to conceal himself; he was just looking on, a stranger to the town, interested in the picturesque little scene. The face was that of Lieutenant Rastatz.
She watched the drilling of the gunners, and then rode back with the Prince, escorted beyond the gates by a cheering throng, which had now been joined by many women. Dusk was falling, and the old, gray city took on a ghostly look; the glory of the sunshine had departed. Sophy shivered a little beneath her furs.
"Monseigneur, did you see Rastatz?" she asked.
"No, I didn't see him; but I knew he was here. Lukovitch told me yesterday."
"And not in uniform!"
"He has leave, no doubt, and his uniform wouldn't make his stay in Volseni any more pleasant."