“So you are,” cried the Prince—­“so you are—­a servitor!  So is he—­young fools both!  And as for being son of the Hereditary Executioner, it is throughout all our German land an honorable office.  Once I was assistant executioner myself, and wished with all my heart that I had been principal, and so pocketed the guilders.  No more of this folly, Von Reuss.  I am ashamed of you, and to a new-comer!  Hear ye, sir, I will not have it!  I will e’en resume my old trade and do a little justicing on my own account.  Shake hands this instant, you young bantams!”

And the Prince sat back in his chair and looked grimly at us.  I went a step forward.  But Von Reuss held aloof.

“Provost Marshal!” cried the Prince, in a voice which made every one in the room jump and all the glasses ring on the table—­“bring a guard!”

The Provost Marshal advanced, bowed, and was departing, when Von Reuss came forward and held his hand out, at first sulkily, but afterwards readily enough.

Then we shook hands solemnly and stiffly, of course loving each other not one whit better.

“Ah,” said the Prince, “I thought you would!  For if you had not, your uncle, Duke Casimir, might have been a Duke without either an heir to his Dukedom or a successor to his Hereditary Justicer.”

“Now sit down, lads, sit down and agree!” he said, after a pause.  “The ladies come not to table to-night.  So now begin and tell me all the affair of the Earthhouses.  I must ride and see the place.  I declare I grow rotten and thewless in this dull Plassenburg, where they dare not stick so much as a knife in one another, all for fear of Karl Miller’s Son!  Since I cannot adventure forth on my own account, I am become a man that wearies for news.  Tell me every part of the affair, concealing nothing.  But if you can, relate even your own share in it as faithfully as becomes a modest youth.”

So I told him at length all that hath already been told, giving as far as I could the credit to Jorian and Boris, as indeed was only their desert.

Whereupon the tale being finished, the Prince said:  “Have the two archers up!”

And while the pursuivant had gone for them, the old Councillor leaned across the table and whispered:  “Enter Field-Marshal Jorian and General Boris!”

But when the archers came in and stood like a pair of kitchen pokers, the Prince ordered them to tell the story.

Jorian turned his head to Boris, and Boris turned his head to Jorian.  They both made a little impatient gesture, which said:  “Tell it you!”

But neither appeared to be able to speak first.

“Wind them up with a cup of wine apiece!” cried the hearty Prince; “surely that will set one of them off.”

Two great flagons of wine were handed to Jorian and Boris, and they drank as if one machine had been propelling their internal workings, throwing off the liquor with beautiful unanimity and then bringing their cups to the position of salute as if they had been musketoons at the new French drill.  After which each of them, having finished, gave the little cough of content and appreciation, which among the archers means manners.