I turned for a moment with relief from the bewildering puzzle of Minna's letter to ask him his news of the duke.
CHAPTER XXII
AT LANDSBERG
Praga was in his customary devil-may-care humor, and in reply to my earnest request for information he laughed and showed his teeth, tossed his head and shrugged his shoulders, and his first answer was a volley of his strangely phrased oaths.
"Safe so far, Prince, but it was a devilish tight place you put us in. That fellow of yours, von Krugen, is true grit, by the devil, a good fellow right through."
"What have you done with the duke? Don't waste words, man," I said, with much impatience.
"Poor little beast!" exclaimed the Corsican, with an ugly laugh. "We had to frighten him till the sweat stood thick on his forehead, his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together like loose spokes in a rickety wheel. In truth we didn't know what to do with him, and I was half for knocking him on the head to be done with it, but von Krugen wouldn't. Then it occurred to us that we could play at being about to put him to death, and, as von Krugen was in his fancy dress, we let him play the part of his mad Majesty's executioner. We patched up a few lies, sewed them together with threats, and trimmed them with plenty of oaths. Told him the whole plot was discovered, that the madman's agents had found it all out, that my lord the duke was first on the honorable list for having his head chopped off, and that von Krugen had been sent out to give him the happy despatch. It was magnificent," and he laughed loudly at the recollection.
"Well?" I cried, the delay irritating me.
"Your duke's a lily-livered wretch enough when it comes to facing cold steel, and I'm bound to say von Krugen looked devilish ugly and dead set in earnest as, wearing his mask, he drew his sword and gave the little crank five minutes to balance up his ledgers with Heaven. He was in no mood for that sort of work, as we had guessed of course, and instead of putting up a few concentrated prayers of the customary strength he flopped down on his knees and begged us to spare his life, and he grovelled and squirmed and wriggled on his belly and wept till I could have spat on him. Faugh!" and the Corsican's face was a picture of disgust.