“You won’t understand!” she cried. “Her Majesty’s decision is irrevocable. Nothing I could do would induce her to alter it. If Count Mortimer were here at this moment, and if he presented himself day after day, entreating her Majesty to receive him, it would have no effect.”
“But surely, Fräulein, her Majesty must be very much changed if this is the case? And yet, from all you have been saying, I should almost have thought she would be glad to see Count Mortimer.”
Fräulein von Staubach flushed angrily. “I cannot answer for her Majesty,” she said, with dignity, “and you have no right to put an interpretation of your own on my unguarded remarks, sir. The utmost I can do for Count Mortimer is to watch for an opportunity of bringing his name to the Queen’s recollection; and I shall certainly not have the chance for a fortnight, perhaps a month. It is useless for the Count to come here at present.”
Mansfield gazed at her aghast. This could only mean that the Queen was mad, but enjoyed occasional lucid intervals. “Fräulein,” he said reluctantly, “I entreat you to pardon me, but I must ask you a very important question. Is it unhappily the case that her Majesty is—that her troubles have—that her mind is affected?”
Fräulein von Staubach rose and glared at him before she could find words to reply. “Oh, that is what your master wants to know, is it?” she cried. “Go back and tell him that if she is mad he has made her so. He wishes to free himself from her and marry the Princess of Dardania, does he? Oh, yes; Princess Anna Mirkovics heard of his recent proceedings from Colonel Czartoriski when she was on duty here. Mad, indeed! her Majesty mad! Out of the way, sir; let me pass. You have insulted my august mistress.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Mansfield, amazed by this sudden burst of passion. It was so timely that it might almost seem to have occurred in order to afford the lady an excuse for terminating the interview, but he was between her and the door. “If you refuse to answer me, I must sorrowfully conclude that my conjecture was well founded. Is that the message I am to take back to Count Mortimer?”
“Do you call yourself sane?” demanded Fräulein von Staubach viciously; “because her Majesty is far saner than you are. You thought she was mad, did you? No; you may tell Count Mortimer that if his object was to drive her mad, he failed. Let me pass, sir!”
She swept out of the room in a whirlwind of righteous indignation. As for Mansfield, he took a sorrowful leave of Sister Chriemhild, walked down regretfully to the spot at which he had told Uncle Sam to meet him with the horses, and rode back to Damascus with a gloomy countenance. He had felt so sure of success, so confident of bringing back with him some message, though perhaps only a word or two, from the Queen to Cyril, and he had accomplished nothing. It was possible, even, that he had done harm, and he began to wonder what Cyril would think of the way in which Mr Hicks and he had meddled in his affairs.
CHAPTER XV.
A FOOL’S ERRAND.
“Really,” said Cyril, “words fail me to express my gratitude. The conspicuous success which has crowned your kind efforts would alone be sufficient——”