He paused, looking hard in her face. Her lip quivered and her eyes fell.
"Yes," he repeated, "I am King in Strelsau. Keep your hands out of mischief and your tongue quiet."
She made no answer. He passed on. I was following, but as I went by her the old woman clutched my arm.
"In God's name, who is he?" she whispered.
"Are you mad?" I asked, lifting my brows. "Don't you know the King when he speaks to you? And you'd best remember what he said. He has servants who'll do his orders."
She let me go and fell back a step. Young Bernenstein smiled at her; he at least found more pleasure than anxiety in our position. Thus, then, we left them: the old woman terrified, amazed, doubtful; the girl with ruddy cheeks and shining eyes, clasping in her two hands the keepsake that the King himself had given her.
Bernenstein had more presence of mind than I. He ran forward, got in front of both of us, and flung the door open. Then, bowing very low, he stood aside to let Rudolf pass. The street was full from end to end now, and a mighty shout of welcome rose from thousands of throats. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved in mad exultation and triumphant loyalty. The tidings of
