“Rand,” he said to his valet de chambre, “tell Jochen Boenhas to hitch up the gilt coach, three footmen on behind, and the two runners to run ahead; the coachman and the footmen to put on their best livery with the gilt tassels, and the two runners shall wear their new flowered hats from Paris—à la Pompadour,” he added aside to his sister—“for I am going on a journey through my estates.”
“Dear me, your Honour,” said Rand, “I’m afraid that won’t do, for our old mare that goes as the off-horse has the spavin, and can’t set one foot before the other.”
“Confound the mare!” exclaimed his Serene Highness in a burst of displeasure. “If the mare can’t go, all you have to do is to go to our Burgher Sachtleben and borrow one of his horses.”
“Dear me, your Honour, he won’t let us have it. This is just the busiest time for carting manure, and it’s no wonder he can’t spare his team.”
“Do as I bid you, Rand; we are sovereign lord.”
And Rand went, and Sachtleben gave him his old stiff bay horse to harness on the resplendent state chariot.
Jochen Boenhas pulled up before the door with his gilt coach, three lackeys jumped up behind one after the other, the two runners floated along the street; Rand sat on the box, and his Serene Highness and sister Christel sat inside the coach.
“Where to?” asked Jochen Boenhas.
“Straight ahead,” said Rand; “over beyond Stargard, up to our boundary-line; but don’t for the life of you drive over the line, for we are only going to travel through our own domain.”
And Jochen Boenhas drove through Stargard and through Frieland up to the Prussian line, and pulled up his horses: “Whoa, whoa I say! Here we are at the end!”