"Our Cæsar has strange postmen of his own!" he said.
This time it was the Lady Ottilie who flushed, but whether it was with anger, or with joy, or confusion as with a woman who, while entertaining one suitor hears another announced, there was no guessing. She hid the letter in her bosom.
"Then the Count was on his way to the Wartburg!" Nigel said aloud for her to hear.
"He will be here in a short while!" she said serenely.
"What do you mean, lady?"
"Just that! Have you done with the Count's saddle-bags?"
There was nothing else in writing. Nigel replaced everything.
"And you take nothing, tall captain? Neither gold, nor raiment, nor trinkets? What ails you?"
"Not a jot! He can come for his own if he can travel so far," said Nigel. "And for your sweet aid, your comfortable words, your hospitality, I pray you, sweet Ottilie, Star of the Night, and Serpent of the Morning, take this and this." And without more preamble he took her in his arms and kissed her willy-nilly passionately upon the brow, the eyes, the lips. And then in the same whirlwind he rushed down the stair and called for his horse, his man, his baggage, and in a few minutes rode down the hill at a breakneck speed.
Looking up at the great tower before he passed out of sight he saw a white arm extended and a scarf waved in the morning breeze.