“I am an inexorable host,” he laughed. “If you come to my inn, the reckoning I charge is that you make wise use of the hospitality it affords. Now—ah, Gomer,” he said as the old steward entered, “you have come to tell us that supper is ready. Come, my friends; I shall give myself the pleasure of joining you. The wild weather has given me a second appetite.”
With a deferential bow, he offered his arm to Ruperta. She hesitatingly took it and he led her from the room. The masterful peremptoriness of his insistence was so coated with the good humour of a frank hospitality, that it could not without ungraciousness be withstood, so Ludovic, comforting himself with the reflection that Ruperta and Minna would have a much-needed rest, was forced to accept the delay and submit to his host’s decree.
The Count led the way to a fine square dining hall, where a luxurious supper table had been prepared. The room curiously reflected its owner. In spite of its air of great refinement, there yet seemed flung over it a subtle suggestion of brute strength, almost savagery. Upon the solid oaken floor were strewn rugs made of the skins of bears and wolves. The walls were hung with vivid tapestries on which were worked flamboyant pictures of war and sport almost brutal in their realism. Antlers and swords, armour and sporting weapons were the ornaments of the room; it was essentially the dwelling-place of a strong adventurous personality. But there was the touch of scarcely restrained savagery which seemed, to delicate minds at least, to make the tone of the place repulsive. And, over all, the note of strength; fierce, dominant strength.
The good fare and sparkling wine after the hardships of the long journey soon made the travellers take a more cheerful view of the situation, and put them in a frame of mind to accept with thankfulness the shelter, and with resignation the delay, which this accident had provided. Even Ruperta began to take a manifest interest in her unusual surroundings and could join almost animatedly in conversation with her host. With a tact, which had in it something of suspicion, the Count forebore to question closely any of the party as to the purpose and extent of their journey, accepting a nebulous explanation on Ompertz’s part, who airily accounted for their presence in those mountain wilds by their having missed the high road, with amused toleration of an obvious fiction. Then he adroitly turned the conversation to general topics, talking of war and campaigning to the captain, of sport to Ludovic, of lighter social matters to the ladies. Although he was found keeping his state in that wild spot, the Count soon proved that he was far from being exclusively a dweller with nature. He was familiar with many capitals and their society, and was by no means ignorant of what was going on in the more civilised world beyond his mountain fastness. He happened to mention Rollmar.
“You know the Chancellor?” Ludovic asked.
“Not personally; well enough by reputation, though, and we have corresponded, not too amicably, more than once. Yes, we are well known to one another,” the Count laughed grimly. “It is well for one of us, perhaps, that I stand some leagues outside his jurisdiction.”
“You would try a fall with him?” Ompertz suggested.
“We should hardly be likely to leave one another in peace. Chancellor Rollmar loves coercion, not to say tyranny, and I—well, I brook no interference with my liberty of will.”
There was scarcely need for the statement; the man’s determined nature was obvious.
“I am just now amused,” he continued, “in watching a little scheme of the old fox’s where chance is trying a fall with him. I allude to a matter which must be, at least partially, known to you; the projected marriage between Princess Ruperta and Prince Ludwig of Drax-Beroldstein.”