"Prince Conrad shall rule this land as is his duty—Cardinal, Archbishop, Prince he shall be; there shall be none to deny him so soon as the power of the Muscovite is broken. He will be in full alliance with Hohenstein. He will form a blood bond with Plassenburg. And when he dies, all that is his shall belong to the children of Duke Maurice and his wife Margaret!"
Theresa von Lynar stood a moment weighing Joan's words, and when she spoke it was a question that she asked.
"Where is Maurice to-night?" she asked.
"He commands the Kernsbergers in the camp. Prince Conrad has made him provost-marshal."
"And the Princess Margaret?"
"She abides in the river gate of the city, which Maurice passes often upon his rounds!"
A strange smile passed over the face of Theresa von Lynar.
"There are many kinds of love," she said; "but not after this fashion did I, that am a Dane, love Henry the Lion. Wherefore should a woman hamper a man in his wars? Sooner would I have died by his hand!"
"She loves him," said Joan, with a new sympathy. "She is a princess and wilful. Moreover, not even a woman can prophesy what love will make another woman do!"
"Aye!" retorted Theresa, "I am with you there. But to help a man, not to hinder. Let her strip herself naked that he may go forth clad. Let her fall on the sharp wayside stones that he may march to victory. Let her efface herself that no breath may sully his great name. Let her die unknown—nay, make of herself a living death—that he may increase and fill the mouths of men. That is love—the love of women as I have imagined it. But this love that takes and will not give, that hampers and sends not forth to conquer, that keeps a man within call like a dog straining upon a leash—pah! that is not the love I know!"