M. ZERKOVITCH'S BEDROOM FIRE
"To Praslok, sir?" There was surprise in Lepage's voice. He could not help it. Luckily it sounded quite natural to the King. It was certainly not a night to ride five and twenty miles, and into the hills, unless your business was very urgent.
"Yes, to Praslok. I've had my breath of air—you can shut the window, Lepage."
The King returned to the fireplace and stood warming himself. Lepage closed the window, drew the curtains, and came to the middle of the room, where he stood in respectful—readiness and, underneath that, a very lively curiosity.
"Yes," said the King slowly, "Captain Markart goes to Praslok to-night—with a despatch for his Royal Highness, you know. Business, Lepage, urgent business! Everything must yield to that."
The King enunciated this virtuous maxim as though it had been the rule of his life. "No time to lose, Lepage, so the Captain goes to-night. But I'm afraid he'll have a rough ride—very rough."
"I'm afraid so, sir," said Lepage, and added, strictly in his thoughts: "And so will Monsieur Zerkovitch!"
Captain Markart was entirely of his Majesty's opinion as he set out on his journey to Praslok. His ride would be rough, dark, and solitary—the last by Stenovics's order. Markart was not afraid, he was well armed; but he expected to be very bored, and knew that he would be very wet, by the time he reached the Castle. He breathed a fervent curse on the necessities of State, of which the Minister had informed him, as he buttoned up his heavy cavalry overcoat, and rode across the bridge on to the main road on the right bank, an hour before midnight.
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