“The Princess’s flittermice?” I faltered, not well knowing what I said, for he had turned roughly and suddenly upon me.

“Aye, marry, you may say it!  But I meant the Princess’s wilicoats!”

“No,” said I, as curtly as I could, for the subject had its obvious limitations.

“Ah, they are pretty ones,” said Karl, “I assure you.  She has at least an undeniable taste in lace and cambric.  They say in other lands—­not in this—­though I would not hinder them if they did—­that she wears the under-garments of men and rules the state.  But I think not so.  The Princess is a better Queen than wife, a better woman than either.”

On this subject also I had nothing to say which I dared venture to the husband of the Lady Ysolinde.

“She read my horoscope,” said I, weakly, searching for something in the corners of my brain to change the subject.

“How so?” said the Prince, quickly.

“First in a crystal and then in a pool of ink,” I replied.

“It was a good horoscope and of a fortunate ending?”

“On the whole—­yes!” said I; “though there was much in it that I could not understand.”

“Like enow!” laughed the Prince; “I warrant she could not understand it herself!  It is ever the way of the ink-pool folk.”

Then ensued a silence between us.

Prince Karl remained long with his head resting on his hand.  He looked critically at the twisted stem of his wineglass, twirling it between his thick fingers.

“The Princess loves you!” he said, at last, looking shrewdly at me from beneath his gray brows.

It was spoken half as a question and half as information.

“Loves me?” stammered I, the blood sucking back to my heart and leaving my head light and tingling.

The Prince nodded calmly.

“So they say!” said he.

“My Lord, it is a thing impossible!” cried I, earnestly.  “I am but a poor lad—­and she has been kind to me.  But of love no word has been spoken.  Besides—­”

And I stopped.

“Out with it, man!” said the Prince, more like, as it seemed to me, a comrade inviting a confidence than a great Prince speaking to a newly made officer.

“Well, I—­I love the Little Playmate.”

It came out with a rush at last.

“Oh!” said he; “that is bad.  I hope that is not a matter arranged, a thing serious.  For if the Princess knows as much, the young woman will not have her troubles to seek in the Palace of Plassenburg.”

I hung my head and said naught, save that Helene declared she loved me not, but that I thought she was mistaken.

“Ah, then,” cried the Prince, like one exceedingly relieved, “it is but some boy and girl affair.  That is better.  She may change her mind, as you will certainly change yours—­and that several times—­among the ladies of the court.  I was in hopes—­”

And the Prince stopped in his turn, not from bashfulness, but rather like a man who desires more carefully to choose his words.