"That is all very well," she commented, reflectively, "but what about the princess? What will she say when—"
"It shall be my task to persuade her. I am sure she will consent," returned the suitor.
"Oh, you're sure of that?" observed the lady. "You have some faith in your own powers of persuasion—in certain quarters!"
"Not in my powers, Madam, but in the princess' amiability."
"Perhaps you have spoken to her already?" asked the countess.
"No, Madam; without your assistance, of what use would be her willingness?"
"What a responsibility you place on my weak shoulders!" cried the other. "However, I will not shift the burden. I will go to his Majesty at once. And do you"—gaily—"go to the princess."
"At your command!" he replied, and took his departure.
Without the inclosure of the château gardens, the free baron began to review the events of the morning with complacency and satisfaction, but, as he took up the threads of his case and examined them more narrowly, his peace of mind was darkened with the shadow of a new disquietude. What if Francis, less easily cozened than the countess, should find his suspicions aroused? What if the princess, who had immediately dismissed the fool's denouncement of the free baron as an ebullition of blind jealousy—after informing her betrothed of the mad accusation—should see in his request equivocal circumstances? Or, was the countess—like many of her sisters—given to second thoughts, and would this after-reverie dampen the ardor of her impetuous promise?
"But," thought the king's guest, banishing these assailing doubts, "there never yet was victory assured before the battle had been fought, and, with renewed precautions, defeat is most unlikely."