SOPHY OF KRAVONIA
dear Colonel, he'd trust her to a thousand Mistitches sooner than to you—"
"But then—he doesn't!" the Colonel smiled.
"He'd regard the sending of Mistitch as a deliberate insult."
"I'm afraid he would."
"He's hot-tempered. He'd probably say as much."
"Yes. And Mistitch is hot-tempered. He'd probably resent the observation. But you'll remember, General, that the escort is to be large enough to make the officer commanding it secure against hinderance by any act short of open and armed resistance to the King's command."
"He'll never believe the King would send Mistitch!"
"Will that make his peaceable obedience more likely?"
"In a moment they'd be at each other's—" He stopped. "Markart, go and see if they need anything in there." He pointed to the King's bedroom, where Natcheff and Lepage were.
Markart rose and obeyed. His head was swimming; he hardly yet understood how very ingenious the ingenious deviltry was, how the one man was to be sent whose directions the Prince could not submit to, whose presence was an insult, to whom it was impossible to entrust Baroness Dobrava. He was very glad to get out of the room. The last he saw was Stafnitz drawing his chair close up to Stenovics and engaging in low-voiced, earnest talk.
The King's body lay on the bed, decently disposed, and covered with a large fur rug. Lepage sat on a chair near by, Natcheff on another in the window. Both looked up for a moment as Markart entered,
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