“No, curse you!” he answered. “Look here, I made you a proposal from the duke once.”
“I’ll hear nothing from Black Michael,” said I.
“Then hear one from me.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Attack the Castle boldly. Let Sapt and Tarlenheim lead.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Arrange the time with me.”
“I have such confidence in you, my lord!”
“Tut! I’m talking business now. Sapt there and Fritz will fall; Black Michael will fall—”
“What!”
“—Black Michael will fall, like the dog he is; the prisoner, as you call him, will go by ‘Jacob’s Ladder’—ah, you know that!—to hell! Two men will be left—I, Rupert Hentzau, and you, the King of Ruritania.”
He paused, and then, in a voice that quivered with eagerness, added: