The thought recalled to Seraphina the remembrance of the other letter—Otto’s. She rose and went speedily, her brain still wheeling, and burst into the Prince’s armoury. The old chamberlain was there in waiting; and the sight of another face, prying (or so she felt) on her distress, struck Seraphina into childish anger.
‘Go!’ she cried; and then, when the old man was already half-way to the door, ‘Stay!’ she added. ‘As soon as Baron Gondremark arrives, let him attend me here.’
‘It shall be so directed,’ said the chamberlain.
‘There was a letter …’ she began, and paused.
‘Her Highness,’ said the chamberlain, ‘will, find a letter on the table. I had received no orders, or her Highness had been spared this trouble.’
‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘I thank you. I desire to be alone.’
And then, when he was gone, she leaped upon the letter. Her mind was still obscured; like the moon upon a night of clouds and wind, her reason shone and was darkened, and she read the words by flashes.
‘Seraphina,’ the Prince wrote, ‘I will write no syllable of reproach. I have seen your order, and I go. What else is left me? I have wasted my love, and have no more. To say that I
