The time occupied in reading the paragraph through afforded Cyril the opportunity of collecting his thoughts, for he had guessed its drift from the very first sentences. Now he threw down the paper and cried hotly—
“I hope to goodness Caerleon has not seen this! If he has, he will simply go off to Scythia at once, and marry the girl whether she wishes it or not.”
“Then the story is true?” shouted the King, half rising from his chair, the veins in his forehead swelling.
“Like most lies, it rejoices in a substratum of truth,” answered Cyril, coolly.
“Be good enough to explain to me exactly what you mean,” said the King, his fury in a measure disarmed by the young man’s serenity.
“The facts are very simple,” returned Cyril. “During our tour in Hungary, we made the acquaintance of a Scythian officer and his family. The only daughter was a most estimable young lady, and my brother fell deeply in love with her. We may presume that his affection was not returned—at any rate, when he proposed to her, she refused him. That’s all, unless she has changed her mind by this time.”
“And you can assure me, on your honour as a nobleman, that there is no other foundation for this—this tale?”
Cyril drew himself up. “I have not the honour to understand your Majesty. Is it possible that you can for a moment have believed the story to be true?”
“There was some justification for such a belief, in this printed paper and in the anxiety of my English friends,” said the King, drily.
“If that is the case, I think your Majesty has shown pretty plainly that the prospect of a marriage between my brother and the Princess does not meet with your approval,” said Cyril, with awful coldness. “If your Majesty will permit me, I will communicate the fact to him, and we will leave the castle at once.”