“This is the Lord Cyril Mortimer, brother and envoy extraordinary of the King of Thracia,” announced King Johann, in a voice which was in itself a declaration of war; but Cyril saw at a glance that the Queen and her daughter had no intention of taking up the gauntlet. Both were perfectly calm and very friendly, and inquired graciously after people they had met in England. Princess Ottilie was taller and thinner than when he had last seen her, and it struck him that she had lost the loud manner which had aroused Caerleon’s dislike. She was growing more like her mother; but Cyril felt that it would be long before the impulsive dark-eyed girl would attain to the stately calmness of the unintellectual, placid-looking lady who was said to possess one of the wisest heads in Europe. She had foiled M. Drakovics once, at a period of acute crisis, and the Thracian Premier had never forgiven her for her victory, although he was wont to consider it a feather in his cap, as in that of the statesman whom he most wished to resemble, that he had all the ladies against him. A few minutes’ confidential communication with the Queen would throw light on many things, Cyril thought; but this was impossible so long as the King remained in the room, moving about uneasily. Her parting words, however, surprised him not a little. “Tell his Majesty that I am looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with him,” she said. “Among our many English friends, there is none that I remember with so much admiration. I feel that one can have the most perfect confidence in him.” “Your Majesty is too good,” said Cyril, astonished. “I am sure my brother has never ventured to hope that he held such a place in your recollection.” “He is the most perfect gentleman I ever knew,” she said emphatically, and Cyril pondered over her words as he rode away from the castle. The last sentence he felt at liberty to disregard. It was a taunt flung at her husband by the Queen as a reply to his challenge; but he scented danger in the expressions she had used at first.