“And you know not the field,” said she, “nor yet of the practice of war?”
“No, madam, but I have renounced my native mountains that I may gain that knowledge.”
“It is well, sir, for in your new service you will see shrewd blows given.”
“And shall hope to give them, madam.”
“Yes, sir,” said she, with the gravity of a minister of state, “you have a martial look; I doubt not the valiancy of your disposition.”
The innkeeper came now to inform her that the sleeping-chamber had been set ready for her use.
“Before I give you good-night, my friends,” she said in her proud, clear speech, “I would have you, sir, play me another of your melodies upon the sweet instrument of which I cannot remember the name.”
To this command the Count of Nullepart assented with an excellent grace, although on the previous occasion she had hardly deigned to listen to his playing. This time, however, she followed the music with flushed cheeks and parted lips, which showed she was yet something of a child at heart, although a woman in affairs.
“I thank you, friend,” she said gravely; “you are indeed a sweet musicianer. It will be a part of your service to play to me every evening before I retire.”
I know not whether it was the service we had proferred to her, or the wistful notes of the music that had melted her, but now she seemed to be transformed from the great lady of affairs to the romantical maid.