“You are right,” said he, and laughed, perhaps to ease her alarm, perhaps in sheer bitter mirth. “It will be, no doubt, the work of our friend, Madame von Platen. I had best begone. For the rest, my travelling chaise will wait from noon until sunset to-morrow by the Markt Kirck in Hanover, and I shall wait within it. I shall hope to conduct you safely to Wolfenbuttel.”
“I will come, I will come. But go now—oh, go!”
He looked very deeply into her eyes—a valedictory glance against the worst befalling him. Then he took her hand, bowed over it and kissed it, and so departed.
He crossed the outer ante-room, descended the short flight of stairs, and pushed open the heavy door of the Hall of Knights. He passed through, and thrust the door behind him, then stood a moment looking round the vast apartment. If he was too late to avoid the springs of the baited trap, it was here that they should snap upon him. Yet all was still. A single lamp on a table in the middle of the vast chamber shed a feeble, flickering light, yet sufficient to assure him that no one waited here. He sighed relief, wrapped his cloak about him, and set out swiftly to cross the hall.
But even as he passed, four shadows detached themselves from the tall stove, resolved themselves into armed men, and sprang after him.
He heard them, wheeled about, flung off his cloak, and disengaged his sword, all with the speed of lightning and the address of the man who for ten years had walked amid perils, and learned to depend upon his blade. That swift action sealed his doom. Their orders were to take him living or dead, and standing in awe of his repute, they were not the men to incur risks. Even as he came on guard, a partisan grazed his head, and another opened his breast.
He went down, coughing and gasping, blood dabbling his bright golden hair, and staining the priceless Mechlin at his throat, yet his right hand still desperately clutching his useless sword.
His assassins stood about him, their partisans levelled to strike again, and summoned him to yield. Then, beside one of them, he suddenly beheld the Countess von Platen materializing out of the surrounding shadows as it seemed, and behind her the squat, ungraceful figure of the Elector. He fought for breath. “I am slain,” he gasped, “and as I am to appear before my Maker I swear to you that the Princess Sophia is innocent. Spare her at least, your Highness.”
“Innocent!” said the Elector hoarsely. “Then what did you now in her apartments?
“It was a trap set for us by this foul hag, who...”