Father Ambrose looked helplessly at his kinswoman, but made no reply.

“I forbade him, my Lord,” said the girl proudly, and for the first time addressing him by a formal title, as if from now on he was to be reckoned with her enemies.  “I alone am responsible for the journey to Frankfort and its consequences, whatever they may be.  You invoked the name of Heaven just now, my Lord, and I would have you know that I am convinced Heaven itself intervened on my behalf to expose the real character of Prince Roland, who has successfully deluded three men like yourselves, supposed to be astute!”

The Archbishop turned upon her sorrowful eyes, troubled yet kindly.

“My dear Countess,” he said, “I have not ventured to censure you; nevertheless I am, or have been, your guardian, and should, I think, have been consulted before you committed yourself to an action that threatens disaster to our plans.”

The girl replied, still with the hauteur so lately assumed: 

“I do not dispute my wardship, and have more than once thanked you for your care of me, but at this crisis of my life—­a crisis transforming me instantly from a girl to a woman—­you fail me, seeing me here at bay.  I wished to spend a month or two at the capital city, but before troubling you with such a request I determined to learn whether or not the state of Frankfort was as disturbed as rumor alleged.  Finding matters there to be hopeless, the project of a visit was at once abandoned, and knowing nothing of the honor about to be conferred on Prince Roland, I thought it best to keep what had been discovered regarding his character a secret between the Reverend Father and myself.  I dare say an attempt will be made to cast doubt on the Reverend Father’s story, and perhaps my three judges may convince themselves of its falseness, but they cannot convince me, and I tell you finally and formally that no power on earth will induce me to marry a marauder and a thief!”

This announcement effectually silenced the one friend she possessed among the three.  Mayence slowly turned his head, and looked upon the colleague at his right, as much as to say, “Do you wish to add your quota to this inconsequential talk?”

Treves, at this silent appeal, leaned forward, and spoke to the perturbed monk, who knew that, in some way he did not quite understand, affairs were drifting towards a catastrophe.

“Father Ambrose,” began the Elector of Treves, “would you kindly tell us the exact date when this encounter on the bridge took place?”

“Saint Cyrille’s Day,” replied Father Ambrose.

“And during the night of that day you were incarcerated in the cellar among the wine-casks?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Would it surprise you to know, Father Ambrose, that during Saint Cyrille’s Day, and for many days previous to that date, Prince Roland was a close prisoner in his Lordship of Mayence’s strong Castle of Ehrenfels, and that it was quite impossible for you to have met him in Frankfort, or anywhere else?”