"Sir, we're soldiers!" she cried in merry reproof.
"That doesn't prevent me from prizing your life, Baroness, in the interests of a world not too rich in what you contribute to it."
Sophy looked at him, a subtle merriment in her eyes. "I think, Captain Markart, that, if you were my doctor, you'd advise me to try—a change of air! Praslok is too exciting, is that it? But I found Slavna—well, far from relaxing, you know!"
"The Kravonian climate as a whole, Baroness—"
"Oh no, no, that's too much!" she interrupted. Then she said: "It's very kind of you—yes, I mean that—and it's probably—I don't know—but probably against your orders. So I thank you. But I can face even the rigors of Kravonia."
She held out her hand; he bent and kissed it. "In fact, I hadn't the least right to say it," he confessed. "Not the least from any point of view. It's your fault, though, Baroness."
"Since I'm party to the crime, I'll keep the secret," she promised with a decidedly kindly glance. To Sophy, admiration of herself always argued something good in a man; she had none of that ungracious scorn which often disfigures the smile of beauty. She gave a little sigh, followed quickly by a smile.
"We've said all we possibly can to one another, you and I; more than we could, perhaps! And now—to duty!" She pointed to the door of the Castle.
The Prince was coming down the wooden causeway. He, too, wore the Volseni sheepskins. In his hand he carried a sealed letter. Almost at the same moment a groom led Markart's horse from the stables. The Prince joined them and, after a bow to Sophy, handed the letter to Markart.
"For his Majesty. And you remember my message to General Stenovics?"