"May I choose?" "You may command." "Then take me to your own old castle in the hills. Shall it not be our home?" "Hush, you have spoken a word I never knew; let me listen to it for a moment." Outside the city roared unheeded, unheard. CHAPTER XVII AN ARABIAN NIGHT The Emperor's congratulations and formal inquiries duly arrived, borne by a glittering officer who was so impressed by the coldness of the message intrusted to him that he scarcely raised his eyes during its delivery. He had the misfortune to be attached to the Regent. But Stanief received all unmoved. A clear scarlet burned in his dark cheek, his drowsy eyes glowed with some inward fire. He had just left the Grand Duchess and still carried traces of the recent accident, but he smiled in utter tranquillity as he listened, and gave his reply. It was too unaccountable; actually dismayed by the indifferent composure, the officer retired, and found himself stammering again when he repeated the answering message to the Emperor. Adrian was at dinner, or rather had just concluded, when he found time to receive the envoy; and he set down his glass to study this embarrassment in a courtier of twenty years' standing. He was always cynically interested in such situations. "What else did the Grand Duke say?" he demanded. "Sire, nothing was said except that which I have had the honor to report to your Imperial Majesty." "Nothing to you?" "Nothing, sire." Adrian made no sign, yet the unfortunate equery was conscious that he was not believed. "My cousin appeared well?" came the inquiry. "Perfectly well, sire. Remarkably so." "I am enchanted to hear it; he has need of steady nerves. That will do." He pushed away the glass and rose, his glance encountering that of Allard near him. "You almost hate me to-night, Allard?" he questioned softly. Allard, in evening dress, the tiny jeweled star of honor flashing on his coat, was very different in appearance from the smoke-grimed gentleman of noon, but his gray eyes met Adrian's in the same indignation with which they had shone from beneath the stains of the explosion. "Almost, sire," he acknowledged. Staggered by the unexpected frankness, Adrian nearly lost his self-possession for the first time in his seventeen years. But he recovered immediately. "Thanks for the 'almost'," he said with nonchalance. "Just bring my cloak; I want you to go with me." Amazed at himself, Allard obeyed, humiliatingly aware that he had been scarcely decorous and certainly unwise. "I beg your pardon, sire," he said seriously, as he offered the cloak. Adrian surveyed him calmly. "Was it true?" he queried. In spite of himself Allard smiled. "Almost, sire," he confessed. "Truth is a virtue, at least theoretically, and needs no apology. Moreover, I challenged you. Come." And Allard followed.