Domiloff was beside himself. His black eyes burned like live coals, his cheeks were pallid almost to ghastliness, the muscles of his face were twitching.
“Of your presence here, sir,” he exclaimed. “Of your flight from the palace, of your speech to the people. It was only an hour ago that you declared yourself ignorant of the language. It seems that your statement was false!”
“Baron Domiloff is suffering, perhaps, from some hallucination,” Ughtred said, quietly. “I have never, to the best of my belief, exchanged a word with him in my life. As to my flight from the palace, I have never yet entered it; nor do I propose to do so until I enter it as King of Theos.”
Domiloff’s senses were blinded with passion. The broader stature of the Prince, his more military bearing and different accent were things of which he took no note. He never once questioned the identity of the man whom he was addressing so fiercely.
“Your Highness will deny next,” he exclaimed, “that you travelled with me from the frontier, that your word is pledged to sign a treaty with Russia.”
Ughtred shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“The duties of a minister plenipotentiary,” he remarked, “are, I believe, arduous. Baron Domiloff is suffering, without doubt, from overwork. It is unnecessary for me to remark that I reached here on horseback in company with my friend Reist, and that my word is pledged to sign nothing—least of all a treaty with Russia.”
Domiloff was absolutely speechless with passion. Brand came out from the shadows amongst which he had been loitering, and faced the Russian.
“Do you know,” he said, amiably, “I believe that I can clear up this little misunderstanding. Baron Domiloff is obviously mistaking you, Prince Ughtred, for me.”