“I am sorry that the stable-boys will have to lose their object-lesson to-day, Wright,” said Cyril, with a smile of the utmost gentleness, “for it is important for us to hurry. But you need not think I am ashamed of the state the horses are in. If you like to ride yours through the next puddle, and get him well splashed, I have no objection.” Wright touched his hat, and fell back with an inarticulate grunt, making no attempt to profit by the permission accorded him. At Schloss Herzensruh he had fallen in with a fellow-exile in the person of King Johann’s coachman, who was also an Englishman, and he had informed him, in the course of a long and generally lugubrious exchange of confidences, that “a straighter rider than ’is Majesty, nor a pleasanter master, I don’t wish to see--and it do take something like a ’orse to carry ’is Majesty,” he added with professional pride; “but Lord Cyril--there! ’e’s beyond me.” Cyril smiled to himself over the groom’s look of bewilderment as he rode on, and reflected that it would have been a thousand pities to spoil the effect of their return by care for the appearance of the horses. As it was, when the dusty and travel-stained riders and their weary beasts entered the gates of Bellaviste, they created a sensation. A keen curiosity had been rife ever since Cyril’s departure, to account for which the wildest theories had been started, and his return promised fresh interest to the townsfolk. They gathered about him in crowds, and inquired anxiously the object of his journey, and whether all was well. To the first question he professed himself unable to give an answer; but on the subject of the second he was able to reassure his questioners, although the most audacious hints as to the King’s possible marriage could gain no confirmation from his lips until he met Mr Hicks. “Well, Lord Cyril, guess his Majesty’s about got over his disappointment, anyway?” remarked the journalist confidentially. Cyril responded in two words of the American’s own language, “You bet!” and rode on to the palace. Dismounting hastily, he forbade the servants to announce him, and hurrying up the steps, staggered into Caerleon’s study, and collapsed upon the sofa. “What! back already?” said Caerleon, looking up from his papers. Cyril sat up. “_Already_!” he remarked, tragically; “I have ridden night and day for the sake of a fad of yours, and this is all I get for it!” “My dear fellow, what made you do such a thing?” cried Caerleon, rising and coming towards him. “I never thought of your rushing to Mœsia and back like this. We shall have you ill again. Let me get you some brandy.” “You had better call one of the servants, and let me give the order,” said Cyril, with crushing irony. “_You_ are a temperance man. Well, at any rate I hope you will be pleased to know that I have made arrangements for you to meet the Princess.”