“What are you doing here, sir?”
Rupert turned his back to the window, bowed low, and said, in his loud, merry tones: “Apologizing for your absence, sir. Could I leave the lady alone?”
The newcomer must be Black Michael. I saw him directly, as he advanced towards the window. He caught young Rupert by the arm.
“The moat would hold more than the King!” said he, with a significant gesture.
“Does your Highness threaten me?” asked Rupert.
“A threat is more warning than most men get from me.”
“Yet,” observed Rupert, “Rudolf Rassendyll has been much threatened, and yet lives!”
“Am I in fault because my servants bungle?” asked Michael scornfully.
“Your Highness has run no risk of bungling!” sneered Rupert.
It was telling the duke that he shirked danger as plain as ever I have heard a man told. Black Michael had self-control. I dare say he scowled—it was a great regret to me that I could not see their faces better—but his voice was even and calm, as he answered: