Such was the conflicting gossip of the hour; but it was in fact idle to forecast the fortunes of a state dependent on a valetudinary’s whims; and rumour was driven to feed upon her own conjectures.  To Odo the state of affairs seemed a satire on his secret aspirations.  In a private station or as a ruling prince he might have served his fellows:  as a princeling on the edge of power he was no more than the cardboard sword in a toy armoury.

Suddenly he heard his name pronounced and starting up saw Maria Clementina at his side.  She rode alone, and held out her hand as he approached.

“I have had an accident,” said she, breathing quickly.  “My girth is broke and I have lost the rest of my company.”

She was glowing with her quick ride, and as Odo lifted her from the saddle her loosened hair brushed his face like a kiss.  For a moment she seemed like life’s answer to the dreary riddle of his fate.

“Ah,” she sighed, leaning on him, “I am glad I found you, cousin; I hardly knew how weary I was;” and she dropped languidly to the doorstep.

Odo’s heart was beating hard.  He knew it was only the stir of the spring sap in his veins, but Maria Clementina wore a look of morning brightness that might have made a soberer judgment blink.  He turned away to examine her saddle.  As he did so, he observed that her girth was not torn, but clean cut, as with sharp scissors.  He glanced up in surprise, but she sat with drooping lids, her head thrown back against the lintel; and repressing the question on his lips he busied himself with the adjustment of the saddle.  When it was in place he turned to give her a hand; but she only smiled up at him through her lashes.

“What!” said she with an air of lovely lassitude, “are you so impatient to be rid of me?  I should have been so glad to linger here a little.”  She put her hand in his and let him lift her to her feet.  “How cool and still it is!  Look at that little spring bubbling through the moss.  Could you not fetch me a drink from it?”

She tossed aside her riding-hat and pushed back the hair from her warm forehead.

“Your Highness must not drink of the water here,” said Odo, releasing her hand.

She gave him a quick derisive glance.  “Ah, true,” she cried; “this is the house to which that abandoned wretch used to lure poor Cerveno.”  She drew back to look at the lodge.  “Were you ever in it?” she asked curiously.  “I should like to see how the place looks.”

She laid her hand on the door-latch, and to Odo’s surprise it yielded to her touch.  “We’re in luck, I vow,” she declared with a laugh.  “Come cousin, let us visit the temple of romance together.”

The allusion to Cerveno jarred on Odo, and he followed her in silence.  Within doors, the lodge was seen to consist of a single room, gaily painted with hunting-scenes framed in garlands of stucco.  In the dusk they could just discern the outlines of carved and gilded furniture, and a Venice mirror gave back their faces like phantoms in a magic crystal.