“By no means. You are the King’s representative here, and have the right to maintain your ancient privileges. I am quite sure that her Majesty has failed hitherto to appreciate your position. Why not let her see what it really is?”
“She shall see it. You have a wise tongue in a young mouth, Count. Dmitri,” to his youngest son, “go and tell your mother to prepare the guest-chambers for the King and Queen and their attendants, and let all the rest of you get ready to ride with me to escort their Majesties here.”
All was bustle immediately, and in a surprisingly short time a gorgeous cavalcade left the castle, headed by Prince Mirkovics, Cyril, and the Bishop. All the clansmen displayed their richest national costumes with a kind of grim pride, wholly unmixed with any touch of pleasure in welcoming their sovereign, for the slight offered to their chief had been hotly resented by his followers. The array of stern faces would have suited a foray better than a peaceful occasion like the present, and Cyril wondered secretly how the Queen would bear herself before these hostile and contemptuous mountaineers. When the gamekeeper’s house came in sight, the troop halted, and he rode on to announce the approach of Prince Mirkovics, returning with the answer that her Majesty would be pleased to receive him. As the foremost horsemen rode up to the steps, she appeared on the verandah, leading the little King by the hand, with Princess Anna and Fräulein von Staubach in the background. Excitement had given her a brighter colour than usual, and her slight form showed to advantage in the velvet pelisse with hanging sleeves, opening in front over a silken under-dress, with which the faithful Anna had provided her. Her chestnut hair hung in long braids from under a velvet cap studded with gold coins, and Cyril perceived to his surprise that it was possible, at any rate occasionally, for the woman with whom he had fallen in love to look astonishingly beautiful. As for Prince Mirkovics, he could only gasp with bewilderment, and seemed inclined to rub his eyes, either at the sight of the Queen in Thracian costume or of his own daughter in attendance on her. Remembering his duty, however, he dismounted and advanced towards the Queen, saying, as he bowed low on the steps—
“Lady, my poor house is at your service. Deign to cover it with glory by resting there with the King your son.”
In his determined obstinacy, Prince Mirkovics had spoken in Thracian, which his daughter translated to the Queen in a frightened whisper, adding a translation to her father of Ernestine’s answer—
“Most willingly do I accept your hospitality, Prince, for I have looked forward to it ever since leaving Tatarjé. In the time of trouble we know our real friends, although we may have treated them carelessly in the day of prosperity.”
“The loyalty of my family is not dependent upon the reward it meets with, lady,” said the Prince, only half mollified.
“True; if I had not known that, I should not have sought your hospitality to-day. But is that old fault of mine never to be pardoned, Prince? See, I have done what I could,” she pointed to her Thracian dress. “You would not comply with my rules when you came to Bellaviste, but I have complied with yours.”
The charm of manner which could subdue even M. Drakovics was not less potent in its effect upon the old mountaineer. Prince Mirkovics fell on his knees and kissed the hand which the Queen held out.
“Madame,” he said in French, which he spoke to a certain extent, “forgive me. It is I who am to blame. If your Majesty will be so gracious as to honour my house to-day, when next you travel in this direction your eyes shall not rest upon a man or woman who is not wearing German clothes. Your pleasure shall be done.”