“Oh no, madame. It is merely over-fatigue from the journey.”
“Ah, the sheikh told me of your wonderful adventures. But I was terrified when Banics said he was ill. You see, in his case I cannot be sure whether his illnesses are merely—political, or whether he is making light of a serious malady for reasons of state.”
“Indeed, madame, this attack is genuine, but only temporary, I am sure.”
The confident assurance brought the smile again to the Queen’s face. “He must recover quickly, for I am all impatience to see him. There is so much to be arranged, you know. Only the ladies are in the secret, and I have left Anna Mirkovics to act as my deputy at Sitt Zeynab. Banics and Stefanovics must hear of the betrothal before it is announced to the world. They have been so faithful to me. You will tell the Count this?”
“Certainly, madame. Does your Majesty wish to send him any other message?”
“Tell him”—she paused, and the smile grew dazzling—“give him all the messages you would wish to receive were you in his place. You understand?”
She held out her hand, and Mansfield kissed it and retired in a state of ecstatic confusion. Philippa was Philippa still, and there was no one like her in all the world, but here was a woman in whose cause a man might joyfully die, and dying, ask no reward but a glance from her eyes. Once Mansfield had wondered at Cyril’s renewed devotion to the Queen, which seemed so foreign to his character, and was kept in such strict subjection by his own will, but since he had seen her he had ceased to wonder. No man who had once succumbed to her charm of manner, however valiantly he might struggle against it, could ever escape from his bondage to those smiles. Mansfield felt no surprise at the fierceness with which General Banics was prepared to defend his mistress. It was only natural. In the General’s circumstances, Mansfield would have been impelled to do the same himself.
Two days later, Cyril, with his train of attendants, was established in the village inn, to the huge delight of the landlord, whose self-satisfaction made itself felt even in Damascus, leading, as it did, to visions of a huge hotel, to be built alla Franca on the site of the present modest edifice, and to become renowned throughout the Levant as a sanatorium. On the evening of Cyril’s arrival, General Banics, with fierce disinclination bristling in every hair of his moustache, took his way across the courtyard in uniform to inquire after his health, and to intimate that her Majesty had been pleased to consent to receive him the next day. The reception was a very formal, full-dress affair, designed for the sole benefit of the Thracian officials and Fräulein von Staubach, who had been excluded from the secret of the desert reconciliation owing to a well-grounded distrust of her discretion. Still, since she believed firmly that the Queen had returned to ordinary life solely on account of her letter, despatched after Mansfield’s first visit to Brutli, she was not without her compensations. Everything was done with great ceremony, and the deaconesses and their Syrian flock were duly impressed, while Cyril was so much exhausted that he could scarcely mount his horse to ride back to the inn. The suggestion of the formal audience had been his own, however, and his return was followed by a message brought by M. Stefanovics, to the effect that her Majesty had been grieved to see how ill Count Mortimer was looking, and that she hoped he would avail himself of her pleasant sheltered garden whenever he felt well enough to be out of doors. It was not to be expected that his presence should exclude the Queen from her own domain, or that their meeting there should be marked by the formality of the state reception, and towards the end of the first afternoon Fräulein von Staubach, who had been in attendance, crept noiselessly into the house, and ran to the room where Baroness von Hilfenstein and Madame Stefanovics were sitting.
“It is all settled! They are reconciled, the betrothal is renewed!” she cried rapturously. “I saw them exchange flowers—roses and sprays of myrtle. Oh, I was sure it would come right! I just slipped in to tell you. I could not wait.”
“But how can you be certain?” asked Madame Stefanovics cautiously.