“And the mother’s name is?”

“Widow Bittner, in Milk Street; and the daughter, fairest of flowers, is in fact called Rose.”

Philip’s blood boiled at the sound of the beloved name.  His first inclination was to knock the communicative Dutchman down.  He restrained himself, however, and only asked: 

“Are you the devil himself?”

“’T is good news, is it not?  I have taken some steps in the matter already, but you must see her first.  But perhaps such a pearl has not altogether escaped your keen observation?  Do you know her?”

“Intimately.”

“So much the better.  Have I been too lavish of my praises?  You confess their truth?  She sha’n’t escape us.  We must go together to the widow; you must play the philanthropist.  You have heard of the widow’s poverty, and must insist on relieving it.  You take an interest in the good woman; enter into her misfortunes; leave a small present at each visit, and by this means become acquainted with Rose.  The rest follows, of course.  The gardener can be easily got out of the way, or perhaps a dozen or two dollars slipped quietly into his hand may—­”

Philip’s rage broke forth.

“I’ll throttle you—­”

“If the gardener makes a fuss?” interposed the Dutchman.  “Leave me to settle this matter.  I’ll get him kidnapped, and sent to the army to fight for his country.  In the meantime you get possession of the field; for the girl has a peasant’s attachment for the fellow, and it will not be easy to get the nonsense out of her head, which she has been taught by the canaille.  But I will give her some lessons, and then—­”

“I’ll break your neck.”

“Your Highness is too good.  But if your Highness would use your influence with the King to procure me the Chamberlain’s key—­”

“I wish I could procure you—­”

“Oh, don’t flatter me, your Highness.  Had I only known you thought so much of her beauty, she would have been yours long ago.”

“Not a word more,” cried the enraged Philip, in a smothered voice; for he dared not speak aloud, he was so surrounded by maskers, who were listening, dancing, talking, as they passed him, and he might have betrayed himself; “not a word more!”

“No, there will be more than words.  Deeds shall show my sincerity.  You may advance.  You are wont to conquer.  The outposts will be easily taken.  The gardener I will manage, and the mother will range herself under your gilded banners.  Then the fortress will be won!”

“Sir, if you venture,” said Philip, who now could hardly contain himself.  It was with great difficulty he refrained from open violence, and he clutched the arm of the Dutchman with the force of a vice.

“Your Highness, for Heaven’s sake, moderate your joy.  I shall scream—­you are mashing my arm!”

“If you venture to go near that innocent girl, I will demolish every bone in your body.”