“I don’t know who that comes from,” she said. “Read it.”
I knew in a moment. There was no signature at all this time, but the handwriting was the same as that which had told me of the snare in the summer-house: it was Antoinette de Mauban’s.
“I have no cause to love you,” it ran, “but God forbid that you should fall into the power of the duke. Accept no invitations of his. Go nowhere without a large guard—a regiment is not too much to make you safe. Show this, if you can, to him who reigns in Strelsau.”
“Why doesn’t it say ‘the King’?” asked Flavia, leaning over my shoulder, so that the ripple of her hair played on my cheek. “Is it a hoax?”
“As you value life, and more than life, my queen,” I said, “obey it to the very letter. A regiment shall camp round your house today. See that you do not go out unless well guarded.”
“An order, sire?” she asked, a little rebellious.
“Yes, an order, madame—if you love me.”
“Ah!” she cried; and I could not but kiss her.
“You know who sent it?” she asked.
“I guess,” said I. “It is from a good friend—and I fear, an unhappy woman. You must be ill, Flavia, and unable to go to Zenda. Make your excuses as cold and formal as you like.”