“Maybe,” said I.  “I’ve not decided yet.”

She got up.  “There is just time for me to get into riding dress,” she said.  “But, first; this is Thursday—­if you do not tell His Majesty of Lotzen’s perfidy by Saturday, I shall do it, myself.”

And I knew she would—­so I made no protest.

“Put on the green habit and the plumed hat, dear,” I said, as I held back the door.

I have always liked green—­the dark rich green of the forest’s depth—­and, if there were anything more lovely than the Princess Dehra, when she came back to me, it is quite beyond my Imagination to conceive it.  He is a poor lover, indeed, who does not think his sweetheart fair; yet, he would have been a poor sort of man, who would not have been at one with me, that afternoon.

And I told her so—­but she called me “Foolish!” once again, and ran from me to the private exit of her suite, where our four companions were awaiting us.  But I had my reward; for she waved the groom aside and let me swing her into saddle and fix her skirt.

How easy it is for a clever woman to manage a man—­if she care to try.

It was a beautiful afternoon—­the road was soft and the track smooth.  Much of it led through woodland and along a brawling stream.  The horses were of the sort that delight the soul—­I doubt if there were six better saddlers in the whole Kingdom of Valeria.  I know there were no prettier women, and, I think, no happier men.

We passed many people—­mainly country-men—­and they all knew the Princess and loved her—­bless her!—­if their greetings went for aught.  Me, they eyed with frank curiosity; and, more than once, I caught the drift of their comments.

“A pretty pair,” said one, as Dehra and I drew near, our horses on a walk.

“It’s a pity he has a wife,” the other answered.  And Dehra frowned.

“They match up well,” said a fellow, as we paused a moment at a spring beside a small road house.

I glanced at Dehra; and got a smile in return.

“That they do.  He does not look like a foreigner,” was the answer.

“He is Dalberg on the outside, anyway,” said a third.

“Then, he is Dalberg inside, too—­it starts there, with them,” said the first.

And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.

It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard on all four sides.  I had taken the precaution, that morning, to dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet us.  Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I dismounted.

“My poor house has had no such honor,” he said, “since the time the Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the Titian War.”

“Well, my good man,” said I, “you doubtless don’t recollect the Great Henry’s visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast.”