There was something in the speaker's tone that caused a shadow of apprehension to rise in Eckhardt's mind. Was there more behind all this than she cared to confess? "Fulfil his destiny"—these words at least were not her own. A grave fear seized him. Otto might be ambushed,—carried away,—he might rot in Castel San Angelo, and no man the wiser for it.
"Stay! I will go and cross the boy's path to his guilty paradise," repeated Eckhardt after permitting the woman to draw away from him at a very slow and wistful pace and overtaking her with a couple of strides. "Lead on, but do not speak! I have no tongue to answer you!"
The woman immediately took the well-known route towards the terraces of the Minotaurus and soon they reached the spot. A covered archway at one extremity admitted on a terrace, flanked on one side by a high dead wall of the Vatican, on the other by a steep and precipitous slope, wooded with orange trees and myrtle. This spot, little frequented in day time, was deserted by night. The woman whispered that it was here, she expected the King, and cautioning Eckhardt to remove him with all speed from this danger zone, which offered no means of escape, she precipitately retired, leaving Eckhardt alone to meditate upon what he had heard, and to pursue his adventure in the darkness.
The Margrave hastened along the archway and peering into the shadows he quickly discerned the slim outline of a man, wrapt in an ample cloak, leaning against the dead wall at the end of the platform. His eyes seemed fixed intently upon the heavens, while an expression of impatience reigned uppermost in the pale, thoughtful face.
Eckhardt quickly approached the edge of the terrace, where he had discovered Otto, and although the King kept his face averted, he could scarcely hope to escape recognition.
"Otto—the King—can it be?" Eckhardt said with feigned surprise, as he faced the youth. "I beg your majesty's pardon,—are you a lodger in yonder palace or how chances it that you are here alone,—unattended?"
"Ay—since you know me," replied Otto with a forced smile, "I will not deny my name nor business either. The ladies of the Senator's court are fair, and an ancient crone whispered to me at my devotions to Our Lady, on this terrace and at this hour, if I prayed heartily, I should have good news. Matter enough, I ween, to stir one's curiosity, but,—I fear,—I should be alone."
The blood surged thickly through Eckhardt's brain. He could scarcely breathe, as he listened to this falsehood and for a few moments he gazed in silence on the flushed and paling visage of the youth.
At last he spoke.
"Is it possible that the air of Rome can even change a nature like yours to utter a falsehood? My liege,—you are not yourself!" Eckhardt exclaimed, discarding all reserve, for he knew there was no time to be lost. And if perchance the fair serpent that had lured him hither was nigh, his words should strike her heart with shame and dismay. "It is to Stephania you go,—it is Stephania, whom you await!"