a month or two at the capital city, but before troubling
you with such a request I determined to learn whether or not the state
of Frankfort was as disturbed as rumor alleged. Finding matters there to
be hopeless, the project of a visit was at once abandoned, and knowing
nothing of the honor about to be conferred on Prince Roland, I thought
it best to keep what had been discovered regarding his character a
secret between the Reverend Father and myself. I dare say an attempt
will be made to cast doubt on the Reverend Father's story, and perhaps
my three judges may convince themselves of its falseness, but they
cannot convince me, and I tell you finally and formally that no power on
earth will induce me to marry a marauder and a thief!"

This announcement effectually silenced the one friend she possessed
among the three. Mayence slowly turned his head, and looked upon the
colleague at his right, as much as to say, "Do you wish to add your
quota to this inconsequential talk?"

Treves, at this silent appeal, leaned forward, and spoke to the
perturbed monk, who knew that, in some way he did not quite understand,
affairs were drifting towards a catastrophe.

"Father Ambrose," began the Elector of Treves, "would you kindly tell us
the exact date when this encounter on the bridge took place?"

"Saint Cyrille's Day," replied Father Ambrose.

"And during the night of that day you were incarcerated in the cellar
among the wine-casks?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Would it surprise you to know, Father Ambrose, that during Saint
Cyrille's Day, and for many days previous to that date, Prince Roland
was a close prisoner in his Lordship of Mayence's strong Castle of
Ehrenfels, and that it was quite impossible for you to have met him in
Frankfort, or anywhere else?"

"Nevertheless, I did meet him," persisted Father Ambrose, with the quiet
obstinacy of a mild man.

Treves smiled.

"Where did you lodge in Frankfort, Father?"

"At the Benedictine Monastery in Sachsenhausen."

"Do the good brethren supply their guests with a potent wine? Frankfort
is, and always has been, the chief market of that exhilarating but
illusion-creating beverage."

The cheeks of the Countess flushed crimson at this insinuation on her
kinsman's sobriety. The old monk's hand rested on the arm of her throne,
and she placed her own hand upon his as if to encourage him to resent
the implied slander. After all, they were two Sayns hard pressed by
these ruthless