"Accurately, sir."
"Good!" He gave Markart his hand. "Good-bye—a pleasant ride to you, Captain—pleasanter than last night's." His grave face broke into a smile.
"I'm not to have Monsieur Zerkovitch's company this time, sir?"
"Why, no, Captain. You see, Zerkovitch left the Castle soon after six o'clock. Rather a short night, yes, but he was in a hurry."
Sophy burst into a laugh at the dismay on Markart's face. "We neither of us knew that, Captain Markart, did we?" she cried. "We thought he was sleeping off the fright you'd given him!"
"Your Royal Highness gives me leave—?" stammered Markart, his eye on his horse.
"Certainly, Captain. But don't be vexed, there will be no invidious comparisons. Zerkovitch doesn't propose to report himself to General Stenovics immediately on his arrival."
Good-natured Markart joined in the laugh at his own expense. "I'm hardly awake yet; he must be made of iron, that Zerkovitch!"
"Quicksilver!" smiled the Prince. As Markart mounted, he added: "Au revoir!"
Markart left the two standing side by side—the Prince's serious face lit up with a rare smile, Sophy's beauty radiant in merriment. His own face fell as he rode away. "I half wish I was in the other camp," he grumbled. But Stenovics's power held him—and the fear of Stafnitz. He went back to a work in which his heart no longer was; for his heart had felt Sophy's spell.