“Intentions, did you say, your Majesty? I fear I grow hard of hearing.”
“At least you will never grow slow of understanding. I did speak of my intentions toward Miss Mowbray.”
“You would give the lady some magnificent estate, some splendid acknowledgment—”
“Whether splendid or not would be a matter of opinion,” laughed the Emperor. “I shall offer her a present of myself.”
The old man had been sitting with his chin sunk into his short neck, peering out from under his brows in a way he had; but he lifted his head suddenly, with a look in his eyes like that of an animal who scents danger from an unexpected quarter.
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “You are your father’s son, you are Rhaetian, and your standard of honor—”
“I hope to marry Miss Mowbray,” Leopold cut him short.
The Chancellor’s jaw dropped, and he grew pale. “I had dreamed of nothing as bad as this,” he blurted out, with no thought or wish to sugar the truth. “I feared a young man’s rashness. I dreaded scandal. But, forgive me, your Majesty, for you a morganatic marriage would be madness—”