The Bishop of Modenstein never loved to speak afterwards of what followed, saying always that he rather deplored than gloried in it, and that when a man of sacred profession was forced to use the weapons of this world it was a matter of grief to him, not of vaunting. But the King compelled him by urgent requests to describe the whole affair, while the Princess was never weary of telling all that she knew, or of blessing all bishops for the sake of the Bishop of Modenstein. Yet the Bishop blamed himself; perhaps, if the truth were known, not for the necessity that drove him to do what he did, as much as for a secret and ashamed joy which he detected in himself. For certainly, as he burst into the room now, there was no sign of reluctance or unwillingness in his face; he took off his feathered hat, bowed politely to the Count, and resting the point of his sword on the floor, asked:
"My lord, where is the Princess?"
"'my lord, where is the princess?'"—Page 160.
"What do you want here, and who are you?" cried the Count with a blasphemous oath.
"When we were boys together, you knew Frederick of Hentzau. Do you not now know the Bishop of Modenstein?"
"Bishop! This is no place for bishops. Get back to your prayers, my lord."
"It wants some time yet before matins," answered the Bishop. "My lord, where is the Princess?"
"What do you want with her?"