“Yes, my Lord.”
“Would it surprise you to know, Father Ambrose, that during Saint Cyrille’s Day, and for many days previous to that date, Prince Roland was a close prisoner in his Lordship of Mayence’s strong Castle of Ehrenfels, and that it was quite impossible for you to have met him in Frankfort, or anywhere else?”
“Nevertheless, I did meet him,” persisted Father Ambrose, with the quiet obstinacy of a mild man.
Treves smiled.
“Where did you lodge in Frankfort, Father?”
“At the Benedictine Monastery in Sachsenhausen.”
“Do the good brethren supply their guests with a potent wine? Frankfort is, and always has been, the chief market of that exhilarating but illusion-creating beverage.”
The cheeks of the Countess flushed crimson at this insinuation on her kinsman’s sobriety. The old monk’s hand rested on the arm of her throne, and she placed her own hand upon his as if to encourage him to resent the implied slander. After all, they were two Sayns hard pressed by these ruthless potentates. But Ambrose answered mildly:
“It may be that the monastery contains wine, my Lord, and doubtless the wine is good, but during my visit I did not taste it.”
Cross-examination at an end, the Lord of Mayence spoke scarcely above a whisper, a trace of weariness in his manner.