I
bared my head and bowed. She wore a white gown, and her hair was loosely
gathered in a knot. She kissed her hand to me, crying:
"Bring the King up, Helga; I'll give him some coffee."
The countess, with a gay glance, led the way, and took me into Flavia's
morning-room. And, left alone, we greeted one another as lovers are
wont. Then the princess laid two letters before me. One was from Black
Michael--a most courteous request that she would honour him by spending
a day at his Castle of Zenda, as had been her custom once a year in the
summer, when the place and its gardens were in the height of their great
beauty. I threw the letter down in disgust, and Flavia laughed at me.
Then, growing grave again, she pointed to the other sheet.
"I don't know who that comes from," she said. "Read it."
I knew in a moment. There was no signature at all this time, but the
handwriting was the same as that which had told me of the snare in the
summer-house: it was Antoinette de Mauban's.
"I have no cause to love you," it ran, "but God forbid that you should
fall into the power of the duke. Accept no invitations of his. Go
nowhere without a large guard--a regiment is not too much to make you
safe. Show this, if you can, to him who reigns in Strelsau."
"Why doesn't it say 'the King'?" asked Flavia, leaning over my shoulder,
so that the ripple of her hair played on my cheek.
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