“O, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. With a short laugh he disappeared.
“Hang me,” grumbled Maurice as he went on, “these fellows have remarkable memories. I can't recollect any of them.” He was mystified.
Shortly he came upon the patrol. The leader ordered him to dismount, an order be obeyed willingly, for he was longing to stand again. He shook his legs, while the leader struck a match.
“Why, it is Monsieur Carewe!” he cried. “Good! We are coming out to meet you. This is a pleasure indeed.”
Maurice gazed keenly into the speaker's face, and to his surprise beheld the baron whose arm he had broken a fortnight since. He climbed on his horse again.
“I am glad you deem it a pleasure, baron,” he said dryly. “From what you imply, I should judge that you were expecting me.”
“Nothing less! Your departure from Bleiberg was known to us as early as two o'clock this after-noon,” answered the baron. “Permit us to escort you to the chateau before the ladies see you. 'Tis a gala night; we are all in our best bib and tucker, as the English say. We believed at one time that you were not going to honor us with a second visit. Now to dress, both of us; at ten Madame the duchess arrives with General Duckwitz and Colonel Mollendorf, who is no relation to the late minister of police in Bleiberg.”
Underneath all this Maurice discerned a shade of mockery, and it disturbed him.
“First, I should like to know—” he began.
“Later, later!” cried the baron. “The gates are but a dozen rods away. To your room first; the rest will follow.”