No other man or
beast, on my honor."
"Then you gave him the letter?" cried Rischenheim, trembling with
excitement.
"Alas, no, my dear cousin. I threw the box at him, but I don't
think he had time to open it. We didn't get to that stage of the
conversation at which I had intended to produce the letter."
"But why not--why not?"
Rupert rose to his feet, and, coming just opposite to where
Rischenheim sat, balanced himself on his heels, and looked down
at his cousin, blowing the ash from his cigarette and smiling
pleasantly.
"Have you noticed," he asked, "that my coat's torn?"
"I see it is."
"Yes. The boar-hound tried to bite me, cousin. And the forester
would have stabbed me. And--well, the king wanted to shoot me."
"Yes, yes! For God's sake, what happened?"
"Well, they none of them did what they wanted. That's what
happened, dear cousin."
Rischenheim was staring at him now with wide-opened eyes. Rupert
smiled down on him composedly.
"Because, you see," he added, "Heaven helped me. So that, my dear
cousin, the dog will bite no more, and the forester will stab no
more. Surely the country is well rid of them?"
A silence followed. Then Rischenheim, leaning forward, said in a
low whisper, as though afraid to hear his own question:
"And the king?"
"The king? Well, the king will shoot no more.
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