I was much moved, and the Marshal’s worn face twitched. I sat down and wrote my order.
“I can hardly yet write,” said I; “my finger is stiff still.”
It was, in fact, the first time that I had ventured to write more than a signature; and in spite of the pains I had taken to learn the King’s hand, I was not yet perfect in it.
“Indeed, sire,” he said, “it differs a little from your ordinary handwriting. It is unfortunate, for it may lead to a suspicion of forgery.”
“Marshal,” said I, with a laugh, “what use are the guns of Strelsau, if they can’t assuage a little suspicion?”
He smiled grimly, and took the paper.
“Colonel Sapt and Fritz von Tarlenheim go with me,” I continued.
“You go to seek the duke?” he asked in a low tone.
“Yes, the duke, and someone else of whom I have need, and who is at Zenda,” I replied.
“I wish I could go with you,” he cried, tugging at his white moustache. “I’d like to strike a blow for you and your crown.”