'You are a fool!' she replied sharply. But I saw that her anger had died down, and I was not surprised when she continued in a changed tone, 'Tell me; what has General Tzerclas done to you that you dislike him so? What is your grudge against him, Martin?'
'I have no grudge against him, your excellency,' I answered.
'You dislike him?'
I looked down and kept silence.
'I see you do,' my lady continued. 'Why? Tell me why, Martin.'
But I felt so certain that every word I said against him would in her present mood only set him higher in her favour that I was resolved not to answer. At last, being pressed, I told her that I distrusted him as a soldier of fortune--a class the country folk everywhere hold in abhorrence; and that nothing I had seen in his camp had tended to lessen the feeling.
'A soldier of fortune!' she replied, with a slight tinge of wonder and scorn. 'What of that? My uncle was one. Lord Craven, the Englishman, the truest knight-errant that ever followed banished queen--if all I hear be true--he is one; and his comrade, the Lord Horace Vere. And Count Leslie, the Scotchman, who commands in Stralsund for the Swede, I never heard aught but good of him. And Count Thurn of Bohemia--him I know. He is a brave man and honourable. A soldier of fortune!' she continued thoughtfully, tapping the table with her fingers. 'And why not? Why not?'
My choler rose at her words. 'He has the sweepings of Germany in his train,' I muttered. 'Look at his camp, my lady.'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'A camp is not a nunnery,' she said. 'And at any rate, he is on the right side.'
'His own!' I exclaimed.