“Amen to that,” replied Maurice, his agitation visible even to the officer.
They arrived at the gate in silence. The cuirassier raised the bar, touched his helmet, and said, with something like an amused twinkle in his eyes: “Would Monsieur like to borrow my helmet for a space?”
Maurice put up a hand to his water-soaked hair, and gave an ejaculation of dismay. He had forgotten all about his hat, which was by now, in-all probabilities, at the bottom of the lake.
“Curse the luck!” he said, in English.
“Curse the want of it, I should say!” was the merry rejoinder, also in English.
Maurice threw back his head and laughed, and the cuirassier caught the infection.
“However, there is some compensation for the hat,” said the cuirassier, straightening his helmet. “You are the first stranger who has spoken to her Highness this many a day. Did the dog take to your calves? Well, never mind; he has no teeth. It was only day before yesterday that the Marshal swore he'd have the dog shot. Poor dog! He is growing blind, too, or he'd never have risked his gums on the Marshal, who is all shins. If you will wait I will fetch you one of the archbishop's skull caps.”
“Don't trouble yourself,” laughed Maurice. “What I need is not a hat, but a towel, and I'll get that at the hotel. George! I feel so like an ass. What is your name, Lieutenant?”
“Von Mitter, Carl von Mitter, at your service. And you are Monsieur Carewe.”
“Of the American legation in Vienna. Thanks for your trouble.”