"Yours, count?"
"Yes, my ancestors were a branch of the Rollos of Duncruib, in Perthshire."
"Astonishing! we all spring from the same stock."
We shook hands, and would have made other inquiries, but there was no time.
"My nom de guerre is Rupert-with-the-Red-Plume," said the count, as we walked into the castle.
"A name that all men know of, from the shores of the Baltic to the mountains of Carinthia. We have all been so familiar with it, that we never thought of inquiring whether you had another."
"My story is a strange and a sad one; some time I may tell it to you; but not just now."
My soul rose to my lips, and I was about to divulge the secret of my heart—to tell him how I loved Ernestine, and would strive by good works and gallant deeds to make myself worthy of her; but he left me hurriedly, and the opportunity passed, like many others which never return again.
Fear of the Danish burghers in the town made us circumspect, and at midnight I saw him embark in a small dogger manned by four or five men, who immediately put to sea, and long before the morning sun shone upon the waters of the Baltic, which widen there between the Danish isles and Pomeranian shore, the little vessel, speeding before an eastern wind, had vanished at the horizon towards the isle of Fehmarn.
He was gone, and I had forgotten—so much had I been occupied with my own thoughts—to narrate to him that conversation between Tilly and Bandolo, which I had overheard in the bed-chamber of the former at Luneburg. Thus, though Carlstein was not ignorant of the spy's great ambition, to settle down in private life as a count of Hanover, he had no idea that the expected coronet was to be shared with his own daughter—with Ernestine; for, with all its presumption, the project seemed so mad and ridiculous, that it had never until that night made much impression on my mind.