“Who is to know that I am carrying it? It will go into my pocket. Besides, there are no robbers here; it’s a regular Forest of Arden, a most suitable place for a betrothal. So trot out the box.”
“A little later in the year the forest will be dangerous on account of the wolves; but they have not come down from the mountains yet, and Milord Cyril will be in no danger,” said M. Drakovics, who found Cyril’s restless peregrinations very trying.
“That reminds me,” said Caerleon gloomily, as he unlocked one of the table-drawers and took out the jewel-case; “there came a message this morning from one of the mountain villages, saying that several people have been killed by a large solitary wolf, which can neither be trapped nor shot. They think it’s a were-wolf, and they sent to beg me to come up and try to shoot it. It seems that my Express rifle has made a name for itself, and there’s some superstition about the King’s bullet, besides. It’s a horrid bother that I can’t go. I suppose I shall have to let Prince Alexis know. One can’t leave the people to be decimated on the chance of my having a day off some time next week. There you are, Cyril, if you are bent on going. Don’t lose those rubies, or I’ll tell the man to send in the bill to you.”
Cyril was already in the hall donning his fur-lined coat and cap; and putting the case in his pocket, he started on his lonely walk. Autumn was passing into winter, but there was no snow on the ground as yet, and the dry leaves crackled pleasantly under his feet as he struck into the moonlit path between the tall black tree-stems. For a short time he walked fast and steadily, in order to exorcise the feeling of excitement which possessed him; then he slackened his pace a little, and as the stillness of the forest made itself felt, began to whistle. He was tramping vigorously along, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets, when it seemed to him that he saw the figure of a man on the path some distance in front of him. The shadows cast by the moonlight from the tree-trunks were so perplexing that he could not be sure that his eyes had not deceived him; but his blood kindled with an excitement which was by no means disagreeable, as he assured himself that his revolver was in its usual pocket. If there was a man in front of him he had passed completely out of sight, and Cyril scanned narrowly the straight stems on either side of the path as he walked on, assuring himself that he was looking for some distorted tree which must have taken the shape of a human figure in the moonlight. No such trunk appeared, however; but at the next turn of the path he caught sight of a tall man leaning against a tree. His hand went to his revolver instantly; but he recognised the Prince of Dardania, and stepped back with a laugh.
“What! you here?” both exclaimed simultaneously. Cyril recovered himself first. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of taking midnight rambles on Thracian territory,” he said. “Are you meditating a woful sonnet?” He stopped hurriedly, remembering that the quotation was rather an unhappy one under the circumstances, and reflecting that there could be little doubt that Prince Alexis had been taking a last look at the abode of the lady of his love before she was lost to him for ever.
“Not exactly,” returned the Prince, with some hesitation. “In fact, I was wondering whether I might ask you to do me a good turn. But perhaps your own business is urgent?”
“Oh, I am not love, only love’s messenger,” said Cyril, carelessly. “I am taking a small parcel to Schloss Herzensruh from my brother.”
“Then, if you will, you can give me the very help I need,” said the Prince, turning and walking by Cyril’s side. “You see me, as you say in England, in a hole. The fact is, my dear Mortimer, I am in love.”
Cyril’s first remark was fortunately only uttered mentally, for it was not of a sympathetic character. “I hardly see how I am to help you,” he added aloud.
“No?” said the Prince; “but I do. Perhaps you may be surprised to hear that I love a lady of the Queen of Mœsia’s household?”