There were two brothers of the mad
king, each of whom had a son. Theodomir, then, had been the son of the
elder, Ronador of the younger. Theodomir had fled at the death of his
father, unwilling to take up the regency under a mad king. So
Ronador's father had come to the regency of the kingdom and Ronador
himself and his little son had stood in the direct line of succession
until the ghost arose from the candlestick and mocked them all. And
she--Diane--was the child of Theodomir.
Diane was still dazedly sorting the pieces of the puzzle when the sun
set in a red glory beyond the lake, matching the flame of Philip's fire
by which he and the Baron sat in earnest discussion.
The west was faintly yellow, the forest dark, when from the tent to
which she had retired at noon, quite distraught and incoherent. Aunt
Agatha begged plaintively for a cup of tea.
"Diane," she said, when the girl herself appeared with it, "I--I can't
forget his face. I--I never shall. Twice now I've tried to get up,
but I thought of his eyes and the revolver, and my knees folded up.
It--it was just so this morning. What with the ringing in my ears--and
the dizziness--and his face so dark with anger--and digging my heels in
the ground to keep my knees from folding up under me--I--I thought I
should go quite mad, quite mad, my dear.
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