“And why should we be granted such an honour?” asked M. Stefanovics, trying to cover his confusion. “If her Majesty, deceived and forsaken by the man she trusted--no, General, I mention no names--and by her own son, chooses to confine herself to the society of her ladies, who will venture to blame her? The decision lies entirely with her.” “Her Majesty’s retirement is very sad, but no doubt it is natural,” agreed Mansfield, whose heart had sunk lower and lower as he discerned each fresh obstacle in the way of his mission. In his own mind he was convinced that the Queen was mad, but in the hope that sheer audacity might succeed where the courtly training of the two Thracians held them back, he determined to make an effort to penetrate into her presence, that he might at least know the worst. He answered with much patience the questions which M. Stefanovics, who had relieved his mind by his outburst of confidence, showered upon him, and took his leave when the meal was over without disclosing on whose behalf he had come. He observed that neither M. Stefanovics nor the General asked any questions about the great Palestine scheme, and that they both ignored the tentative references he made to it; and it seemed to him that to proclaim himself Cyril’s emissary would be to destroy the small hope of success he still possessed. Leaving Uncle Sam and the horses at the inn, he climbed the path to the Institution on foot, and asked the lame Syrian who acted as porter whether it was possible for him to see the place. The man bade him enter. “The lady there is the senior sister,” he said, indicating a stately woman in the blue dress and white cap of the Königshof deaconesses, who was passing along the piazza. “She will direct you.” Stepping forward and bowing to the deaconess, Mansfield repeated his question in German, and found himself cordially welcomed. The interest which he displayed as Sister Chriemhild conducted him in due course through the hospital, the schools, the asylum, and the chapel, was in no way feigned, for he intended to write Lady Caerleon an account of his visit, and perhaps Philippa would read it. Nevertheless, his attention wandered slightly as the tour of inspection drew to a close, for he had not succeeded in making any allusion to the Queen, and it seemed impossible to introduce her name naturally and without undue emphasis. At last he relinquished all attempt at concealment, and turned suddenly to Sister Chriemhild, who was explaining the methods of instruction, peculiar to Königshof, which were in use among the deaconesses. “Sister, is it possible for me to see Queen Ernestine?” “Quite impossible,” replied the deaconess, not showing the slightest surprise at the abrupt question. “I come from--at least, I have a message for her.” She looked him straight in the face. “There is only one name that would justify me in asking one of her Majesty’s ladies to see you and take charge of your message.” “I come from Count Mortimer.”