At the palace things had gone on queerly enough for a while; his most Serene Highness walked up and down in his apartments with pale cheeks, as if he were the walking ghost of the deceased Henry of the Three Oaks; the footmen stood in the corners and along the walls silent and fearful like the stage mimes when Dame Macbeth walks about washing her hands; the gentleman of the bed-chamber, Von Knüppelsdörp, carefully bolted all the windows and doors, and looked as if he were gagged.
“Rand,” called his Highness in an undertone, “smoke is a good conductor. Are all the fires put out?”
“Yes, your Highness, all except the kitchen—you know the dinner has to be cooked.”
“We shall not dine to-day. Tell them to throw water on the fire.”
“Dear me, your Highness,” Rand began, for fast-days were not much to his taste, not even when there was a thunder-storm.
“Do you hear what I say?” cried his Highness with such alacrity that he frightened himself.
“And there shall be no bells pulled; the sound is a good conductor,” he added in a lower tone.
“The sound, your Highness?”
“Confound you, fool! I—I say! It might draw, you know!” whispered his Highness snappishly.
“Humph,” said Rand to himself, looking out of the window with one eye, “we can afford to be cross; the storm isn’t high yet; later on we’ll be more polite.”