Then my heart sank, for I knew, hearing his tone and seeing his face, as he said that, that Fraulein Anna was right. He loved my mistress. He loved her! I went away to my place by the door, feeling as if he had struck me in the face. For if she loved him in return that were bad enough; and if she did not, what then, seeing that we were in his power?
Certainly he had omitted nothing on this occasion that might charm her. I thought the feast over; but in the withdrawing-room a fresh collation of dainty sweets and syrups awaited my lady, with a great gold bowl of rosewater. The man, too, who had played on the Italian viol brought it in, that she might see and examine it more closely. From my post at the door, I saw Fraulein Anna flitting about, bringing her short-sighted eyes down to everything, thrusting her face into the rose-water, and peering at the weapons and stuffs as if she would eat them. All the while, too, I could hear her prattling ceaseless praise of everything--the general's taste, the general's wealth, his generosity, his skill in Latin, his love for Cæsar--the fat book I had seen him studying by the fire--above all, his appreciation of Voetius, of whom I shrewdly believe he had never heard before.
My lady sat almost silent under the steady shower of words, listening and thinking, and now and then touching the strings of the viol which lay forgotten on her lap. Perhaps she was dreaming of her two admirers, perhaps only giving ear to the growing tumult in the room we had left, where the revellers were still at their wine. By-and-by we heard them break into song, and then in thunder the chorus came rolling out--
'Hoch! Who rides with old Pappenheim knee to knee
The sword is his title, the world is his fee!
He knows nor Monarch, nor Sire, nor clime
Who follows the banner of bold Pappenheim!'
My lady's lip curled. 'Is there no one on our side they can sing?' she muttered, tapping the viol impatiently with her fingers. 'Have we no heroes? Has Count Bernard never headed a charge or won a fight? Pappenheim? I am tired of the man.'
The note jarred on her, as it had on me when I first heard these men, paid by the north, singing the praises of the great southern raider. But a moment later she turned her head to hear better, and her face grew thoughtful. A great shout of 'Waska! Waska!' rang above the jingling of glasses and snatches of song; and then, 'The Waldgrave! The Waldgrave!' This time the cry was less boisterous, the voices were fewer.
My lady turned to me. 'What is it?' she said, a note of anxiety in her voice.
I was unable to tell her and I listened. By-and-by a roar of laughter made itself heard, and was followed by a cry of 'Waska!' as before. And then, 'The Thuringian Code! The Thuringian Code! It is his turn!'
'They are drinking, your excellency,' I said reluctantly. 'It is a drinking match, I think!'
She rose with a grand gesture, and set the little viol back on the table. 'I am going,' she said, almost fiercely. 'Let the horses be called.'