"That—" he looked harder at his young friend—"the Prince is not popular with the army?"
"On my honor, no!"
"Think, think, Markart."
Markart searched his memory; under interrogation it accused him; his face grew rueful.
"I did wish he was more like his Majesty. I—I did say he was a Tartar."
Stenovics chuckled in apparent satisfaction at his own perspicacity. But his only comment was: "Then your remarkably handsome young friend knows something about us already. You're an admirable cicerone to a stranger, Markart."
"I hope you're not annoyed, sir. I—I didn't tell any secrets?"
"Certainly not, Markart. Three bits of gossip and one lie don't make up a secret between them. Come, we must get along."
Markart's face cleared; but he observed that the General did not tell him which was the lie.
This day Sophy began the diary; the first entry is dated that afternoon. Her prescience—or presentiment—was not at fault. From to-day events moved fast, and she was strangely caught up in the revolutions of the wheel.