In the midst of the dispute, Baum suddenly took out his watch. The chamberlain's advice had occurred to him. He looked fixedly at the dial, and when he had finished counting ten, he nodded with a self-satisfied air, for he had regained his presence of mind.
Very well, the maid might deliver the letter herself; that would neither help nor hinder matters. But he would now show himself worthy of the greatest confidence. His task was to institute inquiries; perhaps he might yet save the countess.
While the maid, who was hastily putting the letter into her pocket, had turned her back upon him, he saw another letter addressed "To my friend." He quickly perceived that this was of far greater value than the other, and put it into his own pocket. He well knew that there was only one person for whom it could be intended and he knew who that person was. The maid had heard the rustling of the paper, and now asked him to give it to her. Baum ran out of the room and summoned the servants. The maid followed him, and he now quickly changed the attitude of defense for one of attack, and demanded the letter to the queen, in order that he might open it and thus obtain some clue as to the countess's whereabouts. He said that he would hold the maid responsible for the consequences. She ran away, and he made no further attempt to carry out his plan, for he did not know whether he had a right to open the letter. At any rate, he had undisputed possession of the more important epistle to the king. He ordered the groom to saddle another horse and accompany him.
The rosy sunset was already gilding the windows of the castle when the two horsemen rode forth. But whither?
They questioned a laborer working on the road, but he had seen nothing of the countess. They saw a shepherd driving his flock homeward, and, riding up to him, they inquired whether he had seen her. He nodded affirmatively, but the loud bleating of the sheep prevented them from hearing what he said. Baum alighted, and learned from him that the countess had been seen riding full tilt along the road that led to the Chamois hill.
"She sits her horse firmly, and rides very well," said the shepherd, praising her.
This was a clue, at all events. They rode off, at full gallop, in the direction indicated. When they reached the drained marsh, they heard the neighing of a horse. They rode up to it, and found that it was Irma's saddle-horse, quietly grazing, but bridle and girth were covered with thick foam. "The countess has been thrown. Who knows where she may be lying, weak and faint?" said Baum. He meant to be discreet, and was in no hurry to tell all to the groom.
They searched for her everywhere, and called out her name again and again. They found nothing, nor did they receive any answer. Baum discovered the horse's tracks, but was somewhat confused by them, as it had taken the same path going and returning. They took the horse with them, but did not mount, for it was necessary to find out where the track led to. Baum's keen eye enabled him to distinguish the hoof-prints in the twilight.
"If we only had the dog with us; he knows her. Why didn't you bring the dog with you?" he asked angrily.
"You didn't say anything about it."