She turned even as she had done to me.  The newcomer was that sneering Court fop, the Count von Reuss, Duke Casimir’s nephew—­still in hiding from the wrath of his uncle.  For at that time hardly any court in Germany was without one or two of these hangers-on, and a bad, reckless, ill-contriving breed they were at Plassenburg, as doubtless elsewhere.

Then grew my heart hard and bitter, and yet, in a moment afterwards, was again only wistful and sad.

“She had been safer,” thought I, “in the old Red Tower than playing flower fancies with such a man!”

For I had seen the very devil look out of his eye—­which indeed it did as often as he cast it on a fair woman.  In especial, I longed to throttle him each time he turned to watch Helene as she went by.  And here she was walking with him, and talking pleasantly too, in the rose garden of the palace.

“Ah, devil take all princes and princesses!” said I. This one, it is true, was only a count, and disinherited.  But I felt that the thing was the Prince’s doing, and that it was for the sake of the covenant he had made with me that I was compelled to put up with such a toad as Von Reuss crawling and besliming the fair garden of my love.

It was an evening without clouds—­everything shining clear after rain, the scent of the flowers rising like incense so full and sweet that you could almost see it.  The unnumbered birds were every one awake, responsive and emulous.  The deep silence of midsummer was broken up.  It was like another spring.

The Princess Ysolinde came out to take the air.  She was wrapped in her gown of sea-green silk, with sparkles of dull copper upon it.  The dress fitted her like a snake’s skin, and glittered like it too as she swayed her lithe body in walking.

“Ha, Hugo,” she said, “I thought I should find you here!”

I did not say that if another had been kinder she might have found me elsewhere and otherwise employed.  I had at least the discretion to leave things as they were.  For the time to speak plainly was not yet.

She took my arm, and we paced up and down.

“Princess—­” I began.

“Ysolinde!” corrected she, softly.

It was an old and unsettled contention between us.

“Well then, Ysolinde, to-morrow must I ride to fight the men of mine own country of the Wolfmark.  I like not the duty.  But since it must be, for the sake of the brave Prince, it shall be well done.”

“You do not say ’For your sake, Ysolinde’?” she answered, pensively.

“No,” I said, bluntly, “‘for the Prince’s sake.’”

“You would do all things for the Prince’s sake—­nothing for mine!” said the Princess, withdrawing her hand.

“On the contrary, Lady Ysolinde,” I made answer, “I do all things for your sake.  Save for the sake of your good-will, I should now be elsewhere.”

Which was true enough.  I should have been in the garden pleasaunce beneath, and probably with my sword out, arguing the case with Von Reuss.