"Well," unreservedly replied the free baron, who for reasons of his own chose not to challenge the affront, "in those two instances you were not worsted. And as for the trooper who attacked you—I know not whether your lance or the doctor's lancet is responsible for his taking off. But you met him with true attaint. You would have made a good soldier. It is to be regretted you did not place your fortune with mine—but it is too late now."
"Yes," answered the plaisant, "it is too late."
Louis of Hochfels gave him a sharp look. "You cling yet to some forlorn hope?"
To the fool came the vision of a brother jester speeding southward, ever southward. The free baron smiled.
"Caillette, perhaps?" he suggested. For a moment he enjoyed his triumph, watching the expression of the fool's countenance, whereon he fancied he read dismay and astonishment.
"You know then?" said the plaisant finally.
"That you sent him to the emperor? Yes."
In the fool's countenance, or his manner, the king's guest sought confirmation of the dying trooper's words. Also, was he fencing for such additional information as he might glean, and for this purpose had he come. Had the emperor really gone to Spain? The soldier's assurance had been so faint, sometimes the free baron wondered if he had heard aright, or if he had correctly interpreted the meager message.
"And you—of course—detained Caillette?" remarked the prisoner, with an effort at indifference, his heart beating violently the while.
"No," slowly returned the other. "He got away."