It was as Gotthold wrote. The liberation of Sir John, Greisengesang’s uneasy narrative, last of all, the scene between Seraphina and the Prince, had decided the conspirators to take a step of bold timidity. There had been a period of bustle, liveried messengers speeding here and there with notes; and at half-past ten in the morning, about an hour before its usual hour, the council of Grünewald sat around the board.
It was not a large body. At the instance of Gondremark, it had undergone a strict purgation, and was now composed exclusively of tools. Three secretaries sat at a side-table. Seraphina took the head; on her right was the Baron, on her left Greisengesang; below these Grafinski the treasurer, Count Eisenthal, a couple of non-combatants, and, to the surprise of all, Gotthold. He had been named a privy councillor by Otto, merely that he might profit by the salary; and as he was never known to attend a meeting, it had occurred to nobody to cancel his appointment. His present appearance was the more ominous, coming when it did. Gondremark scowled upon him; and the non-combatant on his right, intercepting this black look, edged away from one who was so clearly out of favour.
‘The hour presses, your Highness,’ said the Baron; ‘may we proceed to business?’
‘At once,’ replied Seraphina.
‘Your Highness will pardon me,’ said Gotthold; ‘but you are still, perhaps, unacquainted with the fact that Prince Otto has returned.’
‘The Prince will not attend the council,’ replied Seraphina, with a momentary blush. ‘The despatches, Herr Cancellarius? There is one for Gerolstein?’
A secretary brought a paper.
‘Here, madam,’ said Greisengesang. ‘Shall I read it?’
‘We are all familiar with its terms,’ replied Gondremark. ‘Your Highness approves?’
‘Unhesitatingly,’ said Seraphina.