“My dear Germaine, if there is any message I can carry for you, you have only to command me,” said the young lord, warmly.
“No; it is as well she should not know it—better, perhaps,” muttered the prisoner, half to himself. “I thank you for your friendly kindness, Villiers; but it will not be necessary.”
“And your mother, Germaine, how am I to know her?”
“Oh, I forgot! Well, she’s called the gipsy Ketura, and is queen of her tribe. It is something to be a queen’s son is it not?” he said, with another hard, short laugh.
“Ketura, did you say?” repeated Lord Villiers, in surprise.
“Yes. What has surprised you now?”
“Why, the simple fact that I saw her three hours ago.”
“Saw her! Where?”
“At my father’s house. She came to see him.”
Germaine sprung up, and while his eyes fiercely flashed, he exclaimed: