“Better, perhaps, for my crown,” the Prince returned, with as much of a smile as his anxiety would permit. “But, with all deference to your skill, Baron, not so well in the other matter.”
“At least,” the Chancellor rejoined, “the present situation would have been avoided.”
“One can hardly hope to fight against chance,” Ludovic said, somewhat impatiently; “of that I have been the sport lately. My uncle’s fatal accident, my cousin’s usurpation, and our stumbling into Count Irromar’s den, were hardly to be anticipated. But if fate has led me into these hard knocks, it has in other respects marvellously stood my friend, even—” he smiled—“against you, Baron.”
Rollmar returned the smile a little dubiously. “Under pardon, sire, your luck can scarcely be said to justify your madness. Romance is, no doubt, a pretty plaything, but too gimcrack for the stern game of state-craft. I am an old man, sire, and you a very young one; let me tell you in confidence from my experience that the greater part of my forty years’ work has been correcting the mistakes and combating the absurdities of those whom I have served. Happily—for I am tired of it—it does not fall to me to help you to regain what you have lost.”
Ludovic rose impatiently. “But it is just for that, Baron, I have ridden here post-haste through the night.”
“To help you——?” The old minister looked uncompromisingly aghast.
“Yes,” Ludovic exclaimed impetuously, “to rescue the Princess. While we are talking here——”
Rollmar’s expression had changed into a grim smile. “The romantic still uppermost,” he said, his contemptuous amusement getting the better of his deference. “I thought you referred to the recovery of your kingdom.”
“What is that to me while Ruperta is perhaps in deadly peril, or worse?”
“Ah, true.” The old man’s coolness and deliberation were exasperating. “That is my business, and you may trust me to set about it without delay.”