“I am honoured, madame.”
In order to welcome the illustrious visitors to Damascus, the Pannonian, Hercynian, and Thracian consuls had joined forces, determining to provide an entertainment that should throw into the shade everything of the kind that had been hitherto attempted in the city. Strings of bright-coloured lamps, rich draperies, and a profusion of greenery, had transformed the inner courtyard of the Pannonian Consulate, which was covered in for the occasion, into a fairy palace, and the display of dazzling uniforms, Parisian gowns, and gay national costumes, was not unworthy of its frame. Cyril was the only person of note at present in Damascus who was not to be seen, and although the Queen had begged him not to come, she felt vaguely uneasy at his absence. She welcomed Don Ramon with an anxious smile as he approached her, not in the best of tempers. Mansfield had disturbed him in the midst of a deeply interesting conversation. It was the Prince’s habit to carry his scientific researches even into his hours of ease, and the sight of a magnificent-looking old Syrian with a venerable white beard had proved an irresistible temptation. A request to be allowed to call upon him and take some measurements of his head had terrified the old man, and it was with the utmost relief that he took advantage of Mansfield’s approach to break away from this alarming stranger, quite regardless of his feelings in the matter. Moreover, like most of the Queen’s relations, Don Ramon had decided to ignore her intended marriage altogether. Ernestine might disgrace herself by an alliance with a mere noble if she liked, but her family were unaware of the existence of any such presumptuous person as her future husband. The Prince had visited Cyril at her request that afternoon, not as her fiancé, but as a former valued servant of the Thracian crown. His outraged family feelings combined at this moment with his scientific preoccupation to make his manner more than usually brusque.
“You have seen Count Mortimer, cousin?” the Queen asked him timidly. “I hope your opinion is favourable?”
“Favourable, my dear cousin? The man’s case is hopeless!”
“Hopeless!” she grasped at a pillar to support herself. “But what is the matter with him?”
“If I describe the injury in technical language you would be no wiser than before. The brain has ceased to perform one of its functions.”
“You mean that he will be—mad?”
“No, no; how you ladies rush at conclusions! There is no trace of mania whatever. The man is as sane as I am. He has simply lost the power of connected thought, of planning—plotting, if you like.”
“But how can this be? What has happened to him?”
“Over-strain after long and continued fatigue has done the mischief, by what he says.”