“Little matter whether it is true or no,” said the girl indifferently. “He doubtless passed away in a drunken sleep, and I am told his drunken son will be elected in his place.”
“Madam!” said Roland harshly, awakened from his stupor by her words, “I must inform your ignorance that the Emperor’s son is not a drunkard, and, indeed, scarcely touches wine at all, being a most strenuous opposer to its misuse. How can one so fair, and, as I believed, so honest, repeat such unfounded slander?”
“Are you a partisan of his?”
“I come from Frankfort; have seen the Prince, and know I speak the truth.”
“Ah, well,” replied the girl lightly, “you and I will not quarrel over his Highness. I accept your amendment, and will never more bear false witness against him. After all, it makes slight difference one way or the other. An Emperor goes, and an Emperor is elected in his place as powerless as his predecessor. ‘Tis the Archbishops who rule.”
“You seem well versed in politics, Madam.”
The girl leaned forward to him.
“Do not ‘madam’ me, I beg of you, Roland. I dare say rumor has prejudiced me against the young man, but I have promised not to speak slightingly of him again. I wish this veil of darkness was lifted, that I might see your face, to note the effect of anger. Do you know, I am disappointed in you, Roland? You spoke in such level tones in the courtyard that I thought anger was foreign to your nature.”
“I am not angry,” said Roland gruffly, “but I detest malicious gossip.”
“Oh, so do I, so do I! I spoke thoughtlessly. I will kneel to the new Emperor and beg his pardon, if you insist.”