'My brave M. Irvine,' said the King, 'what reward must yours be?'
'Permission to serve your Majesty with my left hand, since the right is lying at the foot of the Alps.'
'Thou art a valiant Scot!' exclaimed the King, opening the despatch.'
But his countenance grew dark as he read on, for the letter detailed, in the gentlest manner, an undeniable defeat; and every lip was hushed and every eye bent on him while he made himself master of its contents.
'Mordieu!' he exclaimed in an altered tone; 'so—so my lord, you were defeated at a place which M. de Rohan calls Bormio?'
'Pardon me, sire,' replied the politic Earl, with a profound bow; 'we were not defeated—your Majesty's troops never are. We simply retired, and left some of our soldiers in possession of the field.'
'Ah! the killed and wounded, I suppose,' said the King, with a sardonic grin.
'Alas! sire,' resumed the young Earl, 'I have still worse tidings to give, for it was rumoured in our army that your Majesty's most faithful and valiant ally, Monseigneur the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, is dying.'
'Dying!' reiterated the petulant king; 'what business has he to think of dying just now, after luring us into this German war; and just at the time when we need his assistance most? But good, my lord, go—and let us see you no more at Versailles until you have other tidings to give than those of the defeat of our armies and death of our allies.'
As the Earl turned haughtily away, I heard him mutter,