“Fiat quod vis,” rejoined the lieutenant, with an ironical bow; “the king, the viceroy, and the chancellor have, it is true, made every arrangement for the wedding; but if it displeases you, Sir Stranger, what matter the lord chancellor, the viceroy, and the king!”
“You may be right,” said Ordener, seriously.
“Oh, by my faith!”—and the lieutenant threw himself back in a fit of laughter,—“this is too good! How I wish Baron Thorwick could hear a fortune-teller so well instructed in regard to the things of this world decide his fate. Believe me, my learned prophet, your beard is not long enough for a good sorcerer.”
“Sir Lieutenant,” coldly answered Ordener, “I do not think that Ordener Guldenlew will ever marry a woman whom he does not love.”
“Ha, ha! here we have the Book of Proverbs. And who tells you, Sir Greenmantle, that the baron does not love Ulrica d’Ahlefeld?”
“And, if it please you, in your turn, who tells you that he does?”
Here the lieutenant, as often happens, was led by the heat of the conversation into stating a fact of which he was by no means certain.
“Who tells me that he loves her? The question is absurd. I am sorry for your powers of divination; but everybody knows that this match is no less a marriage of inclination than of convenience.”
“At least, everybody but me,” said Ordener, gravely.
“Except you? So be it. But what difference does that make? You cannot prevent the viceroy’s son from being in love with the chancellor’s daughter.”