"Do not thank me! It is my passing whim to help you—regard it in that light. As to this pass, safe-conduct or whatever one may call it—it may forward you or hinder you.... Potztausend! I am a mere officer of Cuirassiers of the Landwehr—General by courtesy—not Generalissimo! ... You, Bucher! ... What is there wanted now?..."
For a scratch on the door-panel had been succeeded by the flurried entrance of the little Councillor of Legation, breathing hard, and red in the face. He gabbled in Spanish:
"Pardon, Your Excellency, that I enter without knocking. But His Highness the Crown Prince is coming upstairs!..."
And almost in the same instant, as Tyras uttered a deep "wuff" of friendly greeting, the open doorway was filled by the stateliest and most martial figure in Europe, and a pleasant, manly voice said:
"Not finding you in your official quarters below-stairs, I ventured, my dear Count Bismarck, to follow you to your private study. It is a question of whether Le Sourd delivered the war-gauntlet from Paris, or—— Pardon! I had no idea that you were not alone!"
The tall, broad-chested, golden-bearded Viking in the undress uniform of the First Regiment of Guards touched his cap in acknowledgment of P. C. Breagh's respectful salutation. Then, as in obedience to a glance from the Minister, the lean claws of the little Councillor closed upon P. C. Breagh's arm, and he was plucked from the room, the Prince asked, glancing after the queer couple:
"May one ask who your young friend is?" and got answer:
"It is only an English schoolboy, Your Royal Highness,—who thirsts to try his hand at War-correspondence—having had a few articles printed in some London rag. And this being so, he applies to me, who am the least leisured person in His Majesty's dominions—-for a moment of my spare time!..."
"It is annoying, my dear Count," answered the mellow-voiced Viking, "but cannot your people keep such troublesome persons outside?"
The Minister returned, laughing: