"The woman he loves?" she stammered, as if she could not have heard aright.
"Aye," said the false bride, loosening her cloak and casting it behind her. "I swear it. He is with the woman he loves."
But in his heart the Sparhawk was saying, "Steady, Master Maurice von Lynar—or all will be out in five minutes."
The Princess Margaret walked determinedly from the window to the fireplace. She was not so tall by half a head as her guest, but to the eyes of the Sparhawk she towered above him like a young poplar tree. He shrank from her searching glance.
The Princess laid her hand upon the sleeve of the velvet gown. A flush of anger crimsoned her fair face.
"Ah!" she cried, "I see it all now, madam the Princess. You love the Count and you think to blind me. This is the reason of your riding off with him on your wedding day. I saw you go by his side. You sent Count Maurice to bring to you the four hundred lances of Kernsberg. It was for his sake that you left my brother Prince Louis at the church door. Like draws to like, they say, and your eyes even now are as like as peas to those of the Count von Löen."
And this, indeed, could the Sparhawk in no wise deny. The Princess went her angry way.
"There have been many lies told," she cried, raising the pitch of her voice, "but I am not blind. I can see through them. I am a woman and can gauge a woman's pretext. You yourself are in love with the Count von Löen, and yet you tell me that he is with the woman he loves. Bah! he loves you—you, his mistress—next, that is, to his selfish self-seeking self. If he is with the woman he loves, as you say, tell me her name!"
There came a knocking at the door.
"Who is there?" demanded imperiously the Princess Margaret.