But the King sprang to his feet with an eager cry. “It is not otherwise with a city!” he cried. “And before I can pass the ramparts of Or, I must carry the citadel!”
III
COUNTESS RUNA sat in her high chair under the emblazoned window of the great hall, with her ladies and knights about her, and one of her officers craved leave to bring a prisoner into her presence. Leave given, the officer presented his charge—a tall and comely young man, standing between two guards, yet bearing himself proudly and with a free man’s carriage of his head. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his shoulders broad; he was long in the leg and lean in the flank. Runa suffered her eyes to glance at him in approval.
“Where did you find him?” she asked of the officer.
“He came late last night to the southern gate,” the officer answered, “and begged asylum from the anger of King Stanislas.”
“He’s a deserter, then?” she asked, frowning a little.
“He has told us nothing. He would tell his story, he said, to your Highness only.”
“Let him speak,” she said, taking a peacock fan from one of her ladies and half hiding her face behind it.
“Speak, prisoner,” said the officer.
“If I am a prisoner, it is by my own will,” said the stranger; “but I was in such straits that my will had no alternative save to cause me to throw myself on the mercy of your Highness. Yet I am no traitor, and wish naught but good to my lord King Stanislas.”