"And the young man himself--your Eitel of Altschloss does not come of a very patient race--I remember an uncle of his, but no matter--what does he say? How does he take it? Has he spoken to your little Scot?"
"Frankly, I do not know," said the Princess. "I should judge not, by the excellence of their comradeship."
"Is it wounded pride because of the young man of her country--that foolish boy of old De Raincy's? He is always, as I hear, at the flounces of the Arlington."
"I don't think Patsy cares," said the Princess. "If she showed a preference, it would make it easier for me. I should begin to understand her. Little Miss Aline Minto, the chatelaine of Ladykirk, who is with us, may understand her better, but for me I own myself beaten. I cannot get a serious answer out of the girl. If Julian were here--"
"And why is not Julian here?" said the Queen. "I understand that in your position--but, after all, with Brunschweig living as he is doing, I do not see that you need deprive yourself of his occasional advice."
"Thank you, Aunt Charlotte," said the Princess, stooping and kissing her aunt's cheek, "I shall remember. But you see, Julian killed the Regent's friend Lord Wargrove in a duel for helping one of his companions to carry off Patsy. They charge him also with wounding the Duke of Lyonesse, but that he did not do. Still, he gets the credit for it with the Carlton House set, and they have a warrant out against him. Erskine has seen to that. He cannot come to London, at least not in the meantime."
"Ah," said the Queen, "so your friend delivered us from that rascal Wargrove. That was one service to good order, though of course it is wrong to duel. It is a pity that he could not be here now. If you do not take care, that little gipsy of yours will slip through your fingers. I know what happens to young ladies who flout at princes. There is always another man in the background!"
"Aunt Charlotte, I am quite sure you are wrong about Patsy," said the Princess.
It was a high day and a holiday at the Bothy of the Wild of Blairmore--a high day though a short one--one of the shortest of all the year, though by this time it was well into January. But that made little difference on our misty moors. There the frozen sea-fog bound us and the wind, when there was one, stung extraordinarily bitter.
