"I've come to see the Count of Hentzau," Rudolf continued. "Take me to him at once."
The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo.
"Nobody can see the Count. He's not here," she blurted out.
"What, can't the King see him? Not even the King?"
"King?" she cried, peering at him. "Are you the King?"
Rosa burst out laughing.
"Mother, you must have seen the King a hundred times," she laughed.
"The King or his ghost—what does it matter?" said Rudolf lightly.
The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm.
"His ghost? Is he?"
"His ghost!" rang out in the girl's merry laugh. "Why here's the King himself, mother. You don't look much like a ghost, sir."
Mother Holf’s face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps it shot into her brain that something had happened to the King, and that this man had come because of it—this man who was indeed the image, and might have been the spirit, of the King. She leant against the doorpost, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet still—was it not the King?
