Some one with wildly tousled hair sat sprawling in a chair; arms on the table, and head sunk forward down upon them. A full tankard of wine within his reach, and a flagon had been overset, sluicing the table with its contents, which still fell drip, drip, drip, to the floor.
The young man raised his head, aroused by the harsh unlocking of the door, and with the crash it made as his father flung it hard against the stone wall for the purpose of giving him warning, but the youth was in no condition to profit by this thoughtfulness, nor to understand the signals his father made from behind the frightened girl. He clutched wildly at the overturned flagon, and with an oath cried:
“Bring me more wine, you old—”
Staggering to his feet, he threw the flagon wide, then slipped on the spilled wine and fell heavily to the floor, roaring defiance at the world.
The panic-stricken girl shrank back, crying to the jailer:
“Let me out! Close the door quickly, and lock it!” an order obeyed with alacrity.
When Hildegunde emerged to the court her guardian asked no question. The horror in her face told all.
“I am sorry, my Lord,” said the cringing custodian, “but his Highness is drunk.”
“Does this—does this happen often?”
“Alas! yes, my Lord.”