Immediately these words were spoken I also rose, and inspired by the count’s example, drew my sword, and offered my service also. She accepted them with beautiful grace and composure. “I fear, my friends,” said she, “you will have arduous labours. I am beset with every difficulty, and I have a great work to perform.” “Your servants will be the happier, madam,” said I. “They will not be wanting in the hour of need.” Suddenly she rose with truly regal proudness, and looked at the Count of Nullepart and myself with earnest, questioning glances. “Have you led armies, sir?” she asked of my companion. “Ah, no, madam,” said he with an arch smile; “except in my own soul.” “And you, sir, have you led armies?” she asked of me. “No, madam,” I said, “I have yet to do so; but there are those of my name who have fallen in battle, and when occasion calls, may I stand true to my inheritance!” “And you know not the field,” said she, “nor yet of the practice of war?” “No, madam, but I have renounced my native mountains that I may gain that knowledge.” “It is well, sir, for in your new service you will see shrewd blows given.” “And shall hope to give them, madam.” “Yes, sir,” said she, with the gravity of a minister of state, “you have a martial look; I doubt not the valiancy of your disposition.” The innkeeper came now to inform her that the sleeping-chamber had been set ready for her use. “Before I give you good-night, my friends,” she said in her proud, clear speech, “I would have you, sir, play me another of your melodies upon the sweet instrument of which I cannot remember the name.” To this command the Count of Nullepart assented with an excellent grace, although on the previous occasion she had hardly deigned to listen to his playing. This time, however, she followed the music with flushed cheeks and parted lips, which showed she was yet something of a child at heart, although a woman in affairs. “I thank you, friend,” she said gravely; “you are indeed a sweet musicianer. It will be a part of your service to play to me every evening before I retire.” I know not whether it was the service we had proferred to her, or the wistful notes of the music that had melted her, but now she seemed to be transformed from the great lady of affairs to the romantical maid. “You will attend me, my friends, through bloodshed and darkness,” she said; “and whenever my voice is raised, and wherever it may be heard, you will obey its call?” “We have sworn it, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart. “I see dark days; I fear an old house is poor and enfeebled, and is tottering to its ruin. But it is a good providence that sends such friends to its succour, and they shall be remembered in my prayers. At six of the morning we get upon our road. I now give you good-night, my friends; but in the meanwhile I would have you sleep warily, for at any hour I may inquire if you are of a good vigilance.”