The Heart of Princess Osra. Hope Anthony

silly smith meant? It must have been a trick, as Rudolf said. Yet when he spoke first of her riding down the street, there was a look in his eyes that a man can hardly put there of his own will. Did the silly fellow then really – ? Nay, that was absurd; she prayed that it might not be true, for she would not have the poor fool unhappy. Nay, he was no fool. It was a trick, then! How dared the insolent knave use her for his tricks? Was there no other maiden in Strelsau whose name would have served? Must he lay his tongue to the name of a daughter of the Elphbergs? The fellow deserved flogging, if it were a trick. Ah, was it a trick? Or was it the truth? Oh, in heaven's name, which was it? And the Princess tore the delicate silk of her ivory fan to shreds, and flung the naked sticks with a clatter on the floor.

      "I can't rest till I know," she cried, as she came to a stand before a long mirror let into the panel of the wall, and saw herself at full length in it. As she looked a smile came, parting her lips, and she threw her head back as she said: "I will go and ask the smith what he meant." And she smiled again at her own face in triumphant daring; for when she looked, she thought, "I know what he meant! Yet I will hear from himself what he meant."

      Stephen the smith sat alone in his house; his apprentices were gone, and he himself neither worked nor supped, but sat still and idle by his hearth. The street was silent also, for it rained and nobody was about. Then suddenly came a light timid rap at the door; so light was it that the smith doubted if he had really heard, but it came again and he rose leisurely and opened the door. Even as he did so a slight tall figure slipped by him, an arm pulled him back, the door was pushed close again, and he was alone inside the house with a lady wrapped in a long riding-cloak, and so veiled that nothing of her face could be seen.

      "Welcome, madame," said Stephen the smith; and he drew a chair forward and bowed to his visitor. He was not wearing his apron now, but was dressed in a well-cut suit of brown cloth and had put on a pair of silk stockings. He might have been expecting visitors, so carefully had he arrayed himself.

      "Do you know who I am?" asked the veiled lady.

      "Since I was a baby, madame," answered the smith, "I have known the sun when I saw it, even though clouds dimmed its face."

      A corner of the veil was drawn down, and one eye gleamed in frightened mirth.

      "Nobody knows I have come," said Osra. "And you do not know why I have come."

      "Is it to answer me for the third time?" asked he, drawing a step nearer, yet observing great deference in his manner.

      "It is not to answer at all, but to ask. But I am very silly to have come. What is it to me what you meant?"

      "I cannot conceive that it could be anything, madame," said Stephen, smiling.

      "Yet some think her beautiful – my brother Henry, for example."

      "We must respect the opinions of Princes," observed the smith.

      "Must we share them?" she asked, drawing the veil yet a little aside.

      "We can share nothing – we humble folk – with Princes or Princesses, madame."

      "Yet we can make free with their names, though humbler ones would serve as well."

      "No other would have served at all, madame."

      "Then you meant it?" she cried in sudden half-serious eagerness.

      "Nay, but what, madame?"

      "I don't care whether you meant it or not."

      "Alas! I know it so well, that I marvel you have come to tell me."

      The Princess rose and began to walk up and down as she had in her own chamber. Stephen stood regarding her as though God had made his eyes for that one purpose.

      "The thing is nothing," she declared petulantly, "but I have a fancy to ask it. Stephen, was it a trick, or – or was it really so? Come, answer me! I can't spend much time on it."

      "It is not worth a thought to you. If you say no a third time, all will be well."

      "You will marry the Countess?"

      "Can I disobey the King, madame?"

      "I am very sorry for her," said the Princess. "A lady of her rank should not be forced to marry a silversmith."

      "Indeed I thought so all along. Therefore – "

      "You played the trick?" she cried in unmistakable anger.

      Stephen made no answer for a time, then he said softly: "If she loves the Prince and he her, why should they not marry?"

      "Because his birth is above hers."

      "I am glad, then, that I am of no birth, for I can marry whom I will."

      "Are you so happy and so free, Stephen?" sighed the Princess; and there was no more of the veil left than served to frame the picture of her face.

      "So soon as you have refused me the third time, madame," bowed the smith.

      "Will you not answer me?" cried the Princess; and she smiled no more, but was as eager as though she were asking some important question.

      "Bring the Countess here to-morrow at this time," said Stephen, "and I will answer."

      "You wish, perhaps, to make a comparison between us?" she asked haughtily.

      "I cannot be compelled to answer except on my own terms," said the smith. "Yet if you will refuse me once again, the thing will be finished."

      "I will refuse you," she cried, "when I please."

      "But you will bring the Countess, madame?"

      "I am very sorry for her. I have behaved ill to her, Stephen, though I meant only to jest."

      "There is room for amends, madame," said he.

      The Princess looked long and curiously in his face, but he met her glance with a quiet smile.

      "It grows late," said he, "and you should not be here longer, madame. Shall I escort you to the palace?"

      "And have every one asking with whom Stephen the smith walks? No, I will go as I came. You have not answered me, Stephen."

      "And you have not refused me, madame."

      "Will you answer me to-morrow when I come with the Countess?"

      "Yes, I will answer then."

      The Princess had drawn near to the door; now Stephen opened it for her to pass out; and as she crossed the threshold, she said:

      "And I will refuse you then – perhaps;" with which she darted swiftly down the dark, silent, shining street, and was gone; and Stephen, having closed the door, passed his hand twice over his brow, sighed thrice, smiled once, and set about the preparation of his supper.

      On the next night, as the Cathedral clock struck nine, there arose a sudden tumult and excitement in the palace. King Henry the Lion was in such a rage as no man had ever seen him in before; even Rudolf, his son, did not dare to laugh at him; courtiers, guards, attendants, lackeys, ran wildly to and fro in immense fear and trepidation. A little later, and a large company of the King's Guard filed out, and, under the command of various officers, scattered themselves through the whole of Strelsau, while five mounted men rode at a gallop to each of the five gates of the city, bearing commands that the gates should be closed, and no man, woman, or child be allowed to pass out without an order under the hand of the King's Marshal. And the King swore by heaven, and by much else, that he would lay them – that is to say, the persons whose disappearance caused all this hubbub – by the heels, and that they should know that there was life in the Lion yet; whereat Prince Rudolf looked as serious as he could contrive to look – for he was wonderfully amused – and called for more wine. And the reason of the whole thing was no other than this, that the room of the Princess Osra was empty, and the room of the Countess Hilda was empty, and nobody had set eyes on Henry, the King's son, for the last two hours or more. Now these facts were, under the circumstances of the case, enough to upset a man of a temper far more equable than was old King Henry the Lion.

      Through all the city went the Guards, knocking at every door, disturbing some at their suppers, some from their beds, some in the midst of revelry, some who toiled late for a scanty livelihood. When