I was at work; and work, though it
cannot cure love, is yet a narcotic to it; so that Sapt, who grew
feverish, marvelled to see me sprawling in an armchair in the sunshine,
listening to one of my friends who sang me amorous songs in a mellow
voice and induced in me a pleasing melancholy. Thus was I engaged when
young Rupert Hentzau, who feared neither man nor devil, and rode through
the demesne--where every tree might hide a marksman, for all he knew--as
though it had been the park at Strelsau, cantered up to where I lay,
bowing with burlesque deference, and craving private speech with me
in order to deliver a message from the Duke of Strelsau. I made all
withdraw, and then he said, seating himself by me:
"The King is in love, it seems?"
"Not with life, my lord," said I, smiling.
"It is well," he rejoined. "Come, we are alone, Rassendyll--"
I rose to a sitting posture.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"I was about to call one of my gentlemen to bring your horse, my lord.
If you do not know how to address the King, my brother must find another
messenger."
"Why keep up the farce?" he asked, negligently dusting his boot with his
glove.
"Because it is not finished yet; and meanwhile I'll choose my own name."
"Oh, so be it! Yet I spoke in love for you; for indeed you are a man
after my own heart.
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