“Nevertheless, I did meet him,” persisted Father Ambrose, with the quiet obstinacy of a mild man.

Treves smiled.

“Where did you lodge in Frankfort, Father?”

“At the Benedictine Monastery in Sachsenhausen.”

“Do the good brethren supply their guests with a potent wine?  Frankfort is, and always has been, the chief market of that exhilarating but illusion-creating beverage.”

The cheeks of the Countess flushed crimson at this insinuation on her kinsman’s sobriety.  The old monk’s hand rested on the arm of her throne, and she placed her own hand upon his as if to encourage him to resent the implied slander.  After all, they were two Sayns hard pressed by these ruthless potentates.  But Ambrose answered mildly: 

“It may be that the monastery contains wine, my Lord, and doubtless the wine is good, but during my visit I did not taste it.”

Cross-examination at an end, the Lord of Mayence spoke scarcely above a whisper, a trace of weariness in his manner.

“My Lords,” he said, “we have wandered from the subject.  The romance by Father Ambrose is but indifferently interesting, and nothing at all to the point.  Even a child may understand what has happened, for it is merely a case of mistaken identity, and my sympathy goes out entirely towards the unknown; a man who knew his own mind, and being naturally indignant at an interference both persistent and uncalled for, quite rightly immured the meddler among the casks, probably shrewd enough to see that this practicer of temperance would not interfere with their integrity.

“Madam, stand up!”

The Countess seemed inclined to disobey this curt order, but a beseeching look from her now thoroughly frightened guardian changed her intention, and she rose to her feet.

“Madam, the greatest honor which it is in the power of this Empire to bestow upon a woman has been proffered to you, and rejected with unnecessary heat.  I beg therefore, to inform you, that in the judgment of this Court you are considered unworthy of the exalted position which, before knowing your true character, it was intended you should fill.  The various calumnies you have poured upon the innocent head of Prince Roland amount in effect to high treason.”

“Pardon, my Lord!” cried the Archbishop of Cologne, “your contention will hold neither in law nor in fact.  High treason is an offense that can be committed only against the realm as a whole, or against its ruler in person.  Prince Roland is not yet Emperor of Germany, and however much we may regret the language used in his disparagement, it has arisen through a misunderstanding quite patent to us all.  A good but dreamy man made a mistake, which, however deplorable, has been put forward with a sincerity that none of us can question; indeed, it was the intention of Father Ambrose to keep his supposed knowledge a secret, and you both saw with what evident reluctance he spoke when commanded to