‘Take that,’ she said, and for the first time directly faced Greisengesang.
But the Chancellor held up his hands and turned away his head in agony. The grasp of the falling Baron had torn down the dainty fabric of the bodice; and—‘O Highness!’ cried Greisengesang, appalled, ‘the terrible disorder of your toilette!’
‘Take up that flounce,’ she said; ‘the man may die.’
Greisengesang turned in a flutter to the Baron, and attempted some innocent and bungling measures. ‘He still breathes,’ he kept saying. ‘All is not yet over; he is not yet gone.’
‘And now,’ said she ‘if that is all you can do, begone and get some porters; he must instantly go home.’
‘Madam,’ cried the Chancellor, ‘if this most melancholy sight were seen in town—O dear, the State would fall!’ he piped.
‘There is a litter in the Palace,’ she replied. ‘It is your part to see him safe. I lay commands upon you. On your life it stands.’
‘I see it, dear Highness,’ he jerked. ‘Clearly I see it. But how? what men? The Prince’s servants—yes. They had a personal affection. They will be true, if any.’
‘O, not them!’ she cried. ‘Take Sabra, my own man.’
