“Very well,” said Cologne.  “I have just come from your master, who is stopping with my brother Treves at Stolzenfels.  If you persist I must then request lodgings from you until such time as a speedy messenger can bring your master hither.  This journey may cause him great inconvenience, and should such be the case, I fear you will fare ill with him.”

“That may be, my Lord, but I must do my duty.”

“Are you sure you have already done it on all occasions?” asked the Archbishop severely.

The man’s face became ghastly in its pallor.

“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”

“Then I will quickly tell you what I mean.  It is rumored that Prince Roland has been seen on the streets of Frankfort.”

“How—­how could that be, my Lord?”

“That is exactly what I wish to know.  I believe the Prince is not in your custody.”

“I assure you, my Lord,” said the now thoroughly frightened man, “that his Highness is in his room.”

“Very well; then conduct this lady thither.  Although she does not know the Prince, a relative of hers who does asserts that he met his Highness in Frankfort.  I said this was impossible if you had done that duty you prate so much about.  The lady merely wishes to ask him for some explanation of this affair, so make your choice.  Shall she go up with you now, or must I send for the other two Archbishops?”

There was but one comforting phrase in this remark, namely, that the lady did not know the Prince.  Still, it was a dreadful risk, yet the custodian hesitated no longer.  He took down a bunch of keys, and asked the Countess to follow him.  Ascending the stair, he unlocked the door, and stood aside for the Countess to pass through.

Some one with wildly tousled hair sat sprawling in a chair; arms on the table, and head sunk forward down upon them.  A full tankard of wine within his reach, and a flagon had been overset, sluicing the table with its contents, which still fell drip, drip, drip, to the floor.

The young man raised his head, aroused by the harsh unlocking of the door, and with the crash it made as his father flung it hard against the stone wall for the purpose of giving him warning, but the youth was in no condition to profit by this thoughtfulness, nor to understand the signals his father made from behind the frightened girl.  He clutched wildly at the overturned flagon, and with an oath cried: 

“Bring me more wine, you old—­”

Staggering to his feet, he threw the flagon wide, then slipped on the spilled wine and fell heavily to the floor, roaring defiance at the world.

The panic-stricken girl shrank back, crying to the jailer: 

“Let me out!  Close the door quickly, and lock it!” an order obeyed with alacrity.

When Hildegunde emerged to the court her guardian asked no question.  The horror in her face told all.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” said the cringing custodian, “but his Highness is drunk.”