Arriving at our rooms, we found them in possession of a lieutenant of the guard hussars.  He was drumming on the hearthstone with the end of his sword scabbard.  As we entered he rose and briefly saluted us.

“Which of you two gentlemen is Herr Winthrop?” he asked.

“I am he,” said I.

“His Majesty commands your immediate presence at the palace.”

“The King?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea what his desires are?”

“A soldier never presumes to know His Majesty’s desires, only his commands.  Let us begone at once, sir.  I have been waiting for an hour.  His Majesty likes dispatch.”

“It cannot be anything serious,” said I to Pembroke, who wore a worried frown.

Perhaps the King had heard of the duel.  I was in a mood to care but little what the King had heard, or what he was going to do.  The thing uppermost in my mind was that Gretchen had begged my life of the Prince—­and then run away!

At the palace the Chancellor met me in the anteroom.  His face was grave almost to gloominess.

“Have you ever seen a King angry?” he asked.  “Ah, it is not a pleasant sight, on my word; least of all, to the one who has caused a King’s anger.”

“You alarm me,” I said.  “Have I done aught to bring the anger of the King upon my head?”

“Ah, but you have!  The King is like a bear in his den.  He walks back and forth, waving his hands, pulling his mustache and muttering dire threats.”

“Might I not take to my legs?” I asked.  After all, I cared more than I thought I should in regard to what the King might do to me.

The Chancellor gave my back a sounding thump, and roared with laughter.

“Cheerful, my son; be cheerful!  You are a favorite already.”

“You bewilder me.”

“You have powerful friends; and if the King is angry you need have no fear.”

“I should like to know—­” I began.

“Ah!” interrupted the Chancellor, “the audience is ended; it is our turn.  The Austrian Ambassador,” he whispered as a gray-haired man passed us, bowing.  There was an exchange of courtesies, and once more I stood before the King.

“I believe you have kept me waiting,” said the King, “as Louis once said.”  He gazed at me from under knotted eyebrows.  “I wish,” petulantly, “that you had remained in your own country.”

“So do I, Your Majesty,” I replied honestly.  The Chancellor shook with laughter, and the King glared at him furiously.

“What is your name?” asked the King in a milder tone.  He was holding a missive in his hand.

“John Winthrop,” I answered.  I was wondering what it was all about.

“Were you born in America?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Is your family an honored one in your country?”

“It is,” I answered proudly.

“Then, why in heaven’s name do you scribble?” cried the King.