"This falsehood, sire—since, having met the Princess, it is my earnest desire to have the honor of her hand—this is too much. Baron Dalmorov is your attendant; I request your justice. If it is refused—"
"Well, cousin?" Adrian asked mechanically, rather in stupor than challenge at Stanief's words.
Stanief's usually veiled glance glinted clear and ice-cold.
"Sire, Dalmorov shall account to me now; and I to you later."
Allard, familiar with both, bit his lip in an agony of anxiety. For an instant Adrian wavered, then his eyes fell, beaten down by those of his kinsman.
"Whatever you wish," he conceded, docilely as Iría could have spoken. "He had no right, no excuse from me. Go bid Dalmorov come here, Allard."
The surrender was complete. Relieved and surprised, Allard obeyed, hazarding a guess that the Emperor's own fondness for Iría had influenced the answer.
But Adrian had not lived ten months with his Regent without learning more than a childish love of command. He looked up again at the stately figure that towered over him, glittering in the semibarbaric magnificence of dress demanded by etiquette.
"Come by me, Feodor," he urged, with a gesture of invitation to the chair at his side.
"Thank you, sire," without moving.