"He is a mountebank—a meddler, that's what he is. The sooner we come to realise it, the better," exclaimed the over-heated Duke. "He has greater influence over our beloved Prince than any one else in the royal household. He has no business here—none whatsoever. His presence and his meddling is an affront to the intelligence of—"
But the Prince had slid down from his pile of books and planted himself beside him so suddenly that the bitter words died away on the old man's lips. Robin's face was white with rage, his little fists were clenched in desperate anger, his voice was half choked with the tears of indignation.
"You awful old man!" he cried, trembling all over, his eyes blazing. "Don't you say anything against Uncle Jack. I'll—I'll banish you—yes, sir—banish you like my mother fired Count Marlanx out of the country. I won't let you come back here ever—never. And before you go I'll have Uncle Jack give you a good licking. Oh, he can do it all right. I—I hate you!"
The Duke looked down in amazement into the flushed, writhing face of his little master. For a moment he was stunned by the vigorous outburst. Then the hard lines in his face relaxed and a softer expression came into his eyes—there was something like pride in them, too. The Duke, be it said, was an honest fighter and a loyal Graustarkian; he loved his Prince and, therefore, he gloried in his courage. His own smile of amusement, which broke in spite of his inordinate vanity, was the sign that brought relief to the hearts of his scandalised confrères.
"Your Highness does well in defending a friend and counsellor," he said gently. "I am sorry to have forgotten myself in your presence. It shall not occur again. Pray forgive me."
Prince Bobby was still unappeased. "I could have you beheaded," he said stubbornly. "Couldn't I, Uncle Caspar?"
Count Halfont gravely informed him that it was not customary to behead gentlemen except for the most heinous offences against the Crown.
The Duke of Perse suddenly bent forward and placed his bony hand upon the unshrinking shoulder of the Prince, his eyes gleaming kindly, his voice strangely free from its usual harshness. "You are a splendid little man, Prince Robin," he said. "I glory in you. I shall not forget the lesson in loyalty that you have taught me."
Bobby's eyes filled with tears. The genuine humility of the hard old man touched his tempestuous little heart.
"It's—it's all right, Du—your Grace. I'm sorry I spoke that way, too."
Baron Dangloss twisted his imperial vigorously. "My lords, I suggest that we adjourn. The Prince must have his ride and return in time for the review at one o'clock."
As the Prince strode soberly from the Room of Wrangles, every eye was upon his sturdy little back and there was a kindly light in each of them, bar none. The Duke, following close behind with Halfont, said quietly:
"I love him, Caspar. But I have no love for the man he loves so much better than he loves any of us. Tullis is a meddler—but, for Heaven's sake, my friend, don't let; Bobby know that I have repeated myself."
Later on, the Prince in his khaki riding suit loped gaily down the broad mountain road toward Ganlook, beside the black mare which carried John Tullis. Behind them rode three picked troopers from the House Guard. He had told Tullis of his vainglorious defence in the antechamber.
"And I told him, Uncle Jack, that you could lick him. You can, can't you?"
The American's face was clouded for a second; then, to please the boy, a warm smile succeeded the frown.
"Why, Bobby, you dear little beggar, he could thresh me with one hand."
"What?" almost shrieked Prince Bobby, utterly dismayed.
"He's a better swordsman than I, don't you see. Gentlemen over here fight with swords. I know nothing about duelling. He'd get at me in two thrusts."
"I—I think you'd better take some lessons from Colonel Quinnox. It won't do to be caught napping."
"I daresay you're right."
"Say, Uncle Jack, when are you going to take me to the witch's hovel?" The new thought abruptly banished all else from his eager little brain.
"Some day, soon," said Tullis. "You see, I'm not sure that she's receiving visitors these days. A witch is a very arbitrary person. Even princes have to send up their cards."
"Let's telegraph her," in an inspired tone.
"I'll arrange to go up with you very soon, Bobby. It's a hard ride through the pass and—and there may be a lot of goblins up there where the old woman keeps herself."
The witch's hovel was in the mountain across the most rugged of the canyons, and was to be reached only after the most hazardous of rides. The old woman of the hills was an ancient character about whom clung a thousand spookish traditions, but who, in the opinion of John Tuilis, was nothing more than a wise fortune-teller and necromancer who knew every trick in the trade of hoodwinking the superstitious. He had seen her and he had been properly impressed. Somehow, he did not like the thought of taking the Prince to the cabin among the mists and crags.
"They say she eats boys, now and then," he added, as if suddenly remembering it.
"Gee! Do you suppose we could get there some day when she's eating one?"
As they rode back to the Castle after an hour, coming down through Castle Avenue from the monastery road, they passed a tall, bronzed young man whom Tullis at once knew to be an American. He was seated on a big boulder at the roadside, enjoying the shade, and was evidently on his way by foot to the Castle gates to watch the beau monde assembling for the review. At his side was the fussy, well-known figure of Cook's interpreter, eagerly pointing out certain important personages to bun as they passed. Of course, the approach of the Prince was the excuse for considerable agitation and fervour on the part of the man from Cook's. He mounted the boulder and took off his cap to wave it frantically.
"It's the Prince!" he called out to Truxton King. "Stand up! Hurray! Long live the Prince!"
Tullis had already lifted his hand in salute to his countryman, and both had smiled the free, easy smile of men who know each other by instinct.
The man from Cook's came to grief. He slipped from his perch on the rock and came floundering to the ground below, considerably crushed in dignity, but quite intact in other respects.
The spirited pony that the Prince was riding shied and reared in quick affright. The boy dropped his crop and clung valiantly to the reins. A guardsman was at the pony's head in an instant, and there was no possible chance for disaster.
Truxton King unbent his long frame, picked up the riding crop with a deliberateness that astonished the man from Cook's, strode out into the roadway and handed it up to the boy in the saddle.
"Thank you," said Prince Bobby.
"Don't mention it," said Truxton King with his most engaging smile. "No trouble at all."
CHAPTER III
MANY PERSONS IN REVIEW
Truxton King witnessed the review of the garrison. That in itself was rather a tame exhibition for a man who had seen the finest troops in all the world. A thousand earnest looking soldiers, proud of the opportunity to march before the little Prince—and that was all, so far as the review was concerned.
But, alluringly provident