'In view of the solemnity of the occasion, his majesty has deigned to
grant amnesty to all political--'

He stopped suddenly and coughed, running his eye along the lines that
followed.

'To all what?' inquired his wife with a show of interest.

'To all political offenders concerned in the revolutionary movements of
1848 and 1849,' continued Greifenstein, who sat up very straight in his
chair and tried to read more mechanically than usual, though his voice
grew unaccountably husky. What followed was merely a eulogium upon the
imperial clemency, and he read on rapidly without taking his eyes from
the printed sheet. Frau von Sigmundskron uttered a little exclamation.
She had pricked her thin white finger with her needle. The Lady of
Greifenstein saw the tiny drop of blood, and immediately exhibited an
amount of emotion out of all proportion with the accident.

'Oh, what have you done!' she cried, and she was pale with anxiety as
she bent forward and insisted on seeing the scratch. 'But, my dear, you
have wounded yourself! Your finger is bleeding! Oh, it is too dreadful!
You must have some water, and I will go and get you some court-plaster
--do be careful! Bind it up with your handkerchief till I come!'

She rose quickly, and Pretzel for once was forgotten, and rolled from
her knees to the grass, falling upon all-fours with a pathetic little
squeak. But Frau von Greifenstein picked him up and fled towards the
house in search of the plaster before he could make any further protest
against such rough treatment.