Othomar just patted the dog's head, as it still lay dozing motionless against his knee.
"Is your highness unwell?"
"A little giddy, Andro; it is passing off already."
"But is your highness right in going? Had I not better send for Prince Dutri?"
Othomar shook his head decidedly and rose:
"No, I'm late as it is, Andro. Come, help me with my things...."
And he entered his dressing-room.
He appeared at the dinner, but made excuses to the officers for his evident languor. He just joined in the toasts by raising his glass, with a smile. It struck them all that he looked very ill, emaciated, hollow-eyed and white as chalk in his white-and-gold uniform. Immediately after dinner he returned to the Imperial, without accompanying them to the Imperial Jockey Club, the club of the jeunesse dorée.
He slept heavily; a misty dream hovered through his night. The man who had tried to murder him at Zanti's grinned at him with clenched fists; then the scene changed to the Gothlandic sea and he rowed Valérie along, but, however hard he rowed, the three towers of the castle always drew farther away, unapproachable....
When he awoke, it was already past eight. He reflected that it was too late for his usual morning ride and remained lying where he was. He rang for Andro: