She smiled rather forlornly; but her hand released its tight grip of the King’s, and she began to cut her bread resolutely into small squares, as though it was all important that the fragments should be exactly the same size. Meanwhile, the post-keeper’s wife, hearing the approaching sounds, came to the door to look out.
“It is the sub-prefect, no doubt,” she said. “He is visiting every house in the district to make some inquiry for the Government.”
As no house-to-house inquiry had been ordered from Bellaviste, the thought suggested itself to Cyril that the sub-prefect was probably in league with the conspirators, and had received his directions from Tatarjé; but he did not feel it necessary to alarm the Queen further with the idea. It was not long before the horsemen rode up—the sub-prefect, a stout man in an elderly uniform, very dirty and tarnished, and two followers who might have been stage cut-throats, but were probably privates in the Army Reserve. The woman of the house went forward to answer the official’s questions, and Cyril heard the words “English travellers” pass between them. Presently the sub-prefect dismounted and approached the group, his followers also drawing near and eyeing them with great interest.
“Why don’t they salute?” asked the little King indignantly, noting something military in the equipment of the gazers; “and why are they so untidy? Salute!” he cried, scrambling over the bench, and facing the men, to their no small amusement.
“Come here, Tommy,” said the Queen; “it is not for you to give orders. My little boy has always been accustomed to be saluted by his father’s soldiers,” she said graciously in English to the sub-prefect, to whom Cyril had just offered a share of the meal.
“Ah, the lady’s husband is a soldier?” replied the sub-prefect, seating himself, and letting his little eyes rove over the group, when Cyril, assisted by Paschics, had rendered the apology into halting Thracian. “The English have very few soldiers. You have travelled from Tatarjé this morning, I suppose?” turning to Cyril.
“No, indeed; through an awkward accident we have been obliged to come across country in a cart belonging to a farmer named Paschics.”
“Ah, I know Anton Paschics. But the proceeding is irregular—very. You have a passport, I suppose?”
“We could scarcely have got so far on our journey without one,” replied Cyril, producing the document.
“Signed and countersigned quite correctly, I see. But where is the frontier official’s stamp? You came by Velisi, I presume?”