Cyril was silent in deep disgust, and resolved mentally that he would not speak to her again; but when a disposition on the part of the horses to break into a trot had been checked two or three times by little screams from her, he remarked drily—
“We shall never reach the palace to-night at this rate.”
“Never mind me, then, Mein Herr, I will hold to the pommel,” she responded valiantly, and Cyril set his teeth hard and urged the horses on. In some wonderful way his companion managed to keep her seat, and, with the help of a few directions from him, got on better than he had expected, although he still muttered wrathfully to himself that he was thankful there was no one about to see him giving riding-lessons to a sack! Slowly the long miles were covered, and midnight had passed when the riders entered the courtyard of the Prince of Dardania’s palace, which Cyril had already visited with Caerleon. Here all was bustle, servants bearing torches were ranged on either side of the door, and Prince Alexis himself hastened anxiously forward to receive his bride, who slipped from her horse into his arms with a hysterical laugh.
“It has been almost too much!” Cyril heard her say, as the Prince led her up the steps, and it struck him that she had visibly increased in height since his first glimpse of her in the castle garden.
“I’ve heard of people who got two inches taller owing to the consciousness of success, but I never saw it happen before,” he said to himself, as he gave the horses into the charge of a servant, and allowed himself to be conducted into the palace by a bowing official. The door opened into a great hall, through which Prince Alexis had just led his bride into a side room, where Cyril had a momentary view of a number of Dardanian ladies, evidently of high rank, gathering around their future Princess; but his guide conducted him through a long passage into a chapel, where everything was in readiness for the celebration of the Greek marriage-rite. The space on one side of the aisle was filled with Dardanian chiefs and nobles, splendid-looking men in gorgeous national costumes; and as Cyril was ushered to his place among them, he wondered how long it would be before a similar throng was gathered together for Caerleon’s wedding, and how many different religious ceremonies it would take to marry him. He had abundant opportunity for meditation, for the Lutheran rite was proceeding in another room; but after a while the vacant seats on the other side of the chapel were filled by the ladies of whom he had caught a glimpse, and the bride and bridegroom entered, and advanced up the aisle. The lady’s face was hidden by an elaborate lace veil, and Cyril felt a momentary curiosity as to the means by which she had managed to bring it with her; but his attention was soon distracted to more important details. The half-married bride was undoubtedly taller than she had appeared in the garden, and carried herself regally; and as Cyril gazed at her by the flickering light of the lamps burning before the sacred pictures and on the dais, it struck him that she was otherwise altered. Fräulein von Staubach was fair, but he was almost certain that this girl’s knot of hair was dark; and when she turned her head for a moment, it seemed to him that her eyebrows also were dark and strongly marked.
What had happened? What was the meaning of this enigma? Had he been fooled? He listened eagerly to the words of the priest, trying to discover some clue to the mystery; but he was unacquainted with the service and with the language in which it was conducted, and he had no prayer-book. He gathered that some question was being asked of the bridegroom; but strain his ears as he would, he could not distinguish in it the name of Sophie von Staubach, while for one awful instant he was haunted by the dread that he had heard the words Ottilie Ivanovna. A moment or two more, and his fear was confirmed, for the question addressed to the bride was answered, not in the shrill Low German accents of Fräulein von Staubach, but in the clear decided tones of Princess Ottilie. Cyril was standing quietly by, while his brother’s bride was married to another man before his eyes! He sprang forward, but a hand laid upon his shoulder on either side held him back. He was gripped by the two stalwart Dardanians between whom he was standing.
“Monsieur must not disturb the ceremony,” said one of them in bad French; and Cyril, seeing that he was overmatched, resisted the temptation to disturb the ceremony to some purpose by a shout proclaiming the falseness of the bride, and remained mute and motionless throughout the protracted rite, with its prayers and incense, its presentation of the Common Cup, and its crowning and marching round the dais, although during the whole time the thought was forcing itself into his mind that Caerleon must have known of all this. The fact that he had been looking forward to such a dénoûment explained both his willingness to enter into the engagement at all, and his callousness with regard to his fiancée, while his anxiety and misery throughout the past week were accounted for by the uncertainty of his position. And Princess Ottilie! Cyril ground his teeth as he remembered her tormenting doubts as to Caerleon’s affection, and how he had comforted her, while all the time she had been carrying on this complicated train of deception. But, after all, her moral turpitude was nothing to that of Caerleon. Cyril, the shrewd, the far-sighted, the diplomatist, had been duped, and by the brother whom he had always regarded as an honest simpleton, whose every thought he believed that he knew. It may seem a paradox to say that when Cyril’s first rage had cooled, the effect of his discovery was to heighten very considerably his respect for Caerleon, but so it was. The man by whom he had been deceived in this way must be possessed of a certain amount of brains.
Cyril had arrived at this point in his meditations when the ceremony concluded, and the bridal company left the chapel to sign the register. He was among the foremost who followed them into the room in which the book was placed in readiness, and when she had written her name, Princess Ottilie offered the pen to him with a mischievous smile—
“Come, Lord Cyril; you will add your name as a witness?”
“I am much honoured, but your Royal Highness will not catch me twice,” he replied; and she turned away with a laugh. He felt tempted to make his escape at once; but pride forbade him to slink away and show himself defeated, and he determined to face her again, and tell her one or two home-truths. His opportunity came later, when the bridal pair had proceeded to the throne-room to receive the congratulations of those present, and his name was duly announced by the grand chamberlain.