“Mansfield! when she comes, help me to kneel down, and then make yourself scarce,” said Cyril breathlessly.
He was gripping Mansfield’s arm hard as they stood in the shadow of the doorway, and the two women, unconscious of their presence, came slowly towards them. Anna Mirkovics seemed to be talking excitedly, regardless of etiquette, but the Queen paid little or no attention to her, pacing the time-worn stones in silence, with her eyes on the ground, and a half-smile upon her lips.
“Surely, madame, you were not really thinking of returning to Brutli at present?” cried her companion, as they turned the corner.
“Now!” panted Cyril to Mansfield, and as the Queen approached he fell on his knees before her. She started back, and Anna Mirkovics screamed. Mansfield had retreated swiftly into the doorway.
“Cyril!” cried the Queen, irrepressible joy in her voice; then, more doubtfully, “Is it you, Count?”
“My dearest, forgive me!”
“Madame!” Anna Mirkovics had recovered herself, “allow me to have this person removed. Is he to be permitted to intrude himself upon you in this insolent manner? Madame, you will not suffer him to approach you?”
“Anna, you forget yourself.” The maid of honour shrank before the tone, and the gesture with which the Queen waved her aside, but she made another valiant effort.
“Oh, madame, listen to me for one moment! You know how I love you—that I would give everything I have in the world to provide a moment’s happiness for you. Don’t expose yourself again to this man’s cruelty. He returns to you merely that he may gratify his ambition. He cannot love. Trust me, madame; I love you better than my life.”
“I am in your hands, Ernestine,” said Cyril faintly. “If you command me to leave you, I will go at once.”