At this moment the people gazed at the house less in rancor than in
astonishment. The king of Jugendheit was to marry her serene highness!
It was a bad business, a bad business; no good would come of it. The
great duke was a weak man, after all.

The menials in and about the embassy felt the new importance of their
positions. So then, imagine the indignation of the majordomo, when,
summoned at dusk one evening to the carriage gates, three or four days
after the portentous news had issued from the palace, he found only a
ragged and grimy carter who demanded peremptorily to be admitted and
taken to his excellency at once.

"Be off with you, ragamuffin!" growled the majordomo.

"Be quick; open the gates!" replied the carter, swinging his whip
threateningly.

"Go away!" The majordomo spun on his heels contemptuously.

"I will skin you alive," vowed the carter, striking the iron with the
butt of his whip, "if you do not open these gates immediately. Open!"

There was real menace this time. Could the fellow be crazy? The
majordomo concluded to temporize.

"My good man," he said conciliatorily, "you have brains. You ought to
know that his excellency will receive no man in your condition. If you
do not stop hammering on those bars, I shall send for the police."

The carter thrust a hand through the grill. There was a ring on one of
his fingers.

"Imbecile, set your eye on that and admit me without more ado!"

The majordomo was thunderstruck. Indeed, a blast from the heavens would
have jarred him less.

"Open, then!"

The majordomo threw back the bolts and the carter pushed his way in.
That ring on the carter's finger? The majordomo felt himself slipping
into a fantastic dream.

"Take me to the baron."

Vastly subdued the majordomo preceded the carter into the office of the
embassy. There he left the strange guest and went in search of the
baron. The ambassador was in his study, reading.

"Your Excellency, there is a man in the office who desires to see you
quickly."

The ambassador laid down his book. "Upon what pretense did he gain
admittance at this hour?" he demanded.

"I refused him admittance, your Excellency, because he was dressed like
a carter.--"

"A carter!" The ambassador wrathfully jumped to his feet.

"One moment, your Excellency. He wore a ring on his finger, and I could
not refuse him."

"A ring, you say?"

Guarding his voice with his hand, the majordomo whispered two words.

"Here, and dressed like a carter? What the devil!" The ambassador rushed
from the study.

It was dark in the embassy office. Quickly the ambassador lighted some
candles. Gas would be too bright for such a meeting.

"Well, your Excellency?" said a voice from the leather lounge.

"Who are you?" For this was not the voice the baron expected to hear.

"My name at present does not matter. The news I bring is far more
important. His majesty emphatically declines any alliance with the
House of Ehrenstein."

The ambassador stumbled into a chair, his mind dulled, his shoulders
inert. This was a blow.

"Declines?" he murmured.

"He repudiates his uncle's negotiations absolutely."

"Damnation!" swore the ambassador, coming to life once more.

"The exact word used by the prince; in fact, the word has become common
property in the last forty-eight hours. Now then, what's to be done?
What do you suggest?"

"This means war. The duke will never swallow such an insult."

"War! It looks as if you and I, Baron, shall not accompany the king of
Prussia into Alsace-Lorraine. We shall have entertainment at home."

"This is horrible!"

"The devil of a muddle!"

"But what possessed the prince to blunder like this?"

"The prince really is not to blame. Our king, Baron, is a young colt. A
few months ago he gave his royal uncle carte blanche to seek a wife for
him. Politics demanded an alliance between Jugendheit and Ehrenstein.
There have been too many years of useless antagonism. On the head of
this bolt from Heaven comes the declaration of his majesty that he will
marry any other princess on the continent."

"They will pull this place down, brick by brick!"

"Let them! We have ten thousand more troops than Ehrenstein."

"You young men are a pack of fools!"

"Softly, Baron."

"You would like nothing better than war."

"Unless it is peace."

"Where is the king?"

The carter smiled. "He is hunting, they say, with the crown prince of
Bavaria."

"But you, why have you come dressed like this?"

"That is a little secret which I am not at liberty to disclose."

"But, great God, what's to be done?"

"Lie," urbanely.

"What good will lies do?"

"They will suspend the catastrophe till we are ready to meet it. The
marriage is not to take place till spring. That will give us plenty of
time. After the coronation his majesty may be brought to reason. This
marriage must not fall through now. The grand duke will not care to
become the laughing-stock of Europe. The prince's advice is for you to
go about your affairs as usual. Only one man must be taken into your
confidence, and that man is Herbeck. If any one can straighten out his
end of the tangle it is he. He is a big man, of fertile invention; he
will understand. If this thing falls through his honors will fall with
it. He will work toward peace, though from what I have learned the duke
would not shun war."

"Where is the prince?"

"Wherever he is, he is working for the best interests of the state.
Don't worry about his royal highness; he's a man."

"When did you come?"

"This morning. Though I have been here before in this same guise."

"There is the Bavarian princess," remarked the ambassador musingly.

"Ha! A good thought! But the king is romantic; she is older than he,
and ugly."

"You are not telling me everything," intuitively.

"I know it. I am telling you all that is at present necessary."

"You make me the unhappiest man in the kingdom! I have worked so hard
and long toward this end. When did the king decline this alliance?"

"Evidently the moment he heard of it. I have his letter in my pocket. I
am requested to read it to you. Listen:

    "'MY ILLUSTRIOUS AND INDUSTRIOUS UNCLE: I regret exceedingly that at
    this late day I should cause you political embarrassment; but when I
    gave my consent to the espousal of any of the various princesses at
    liberty, surely it was understood that Ehrenstein was not to be
    considered. I refuse to marry the daughter of the man who privately
    strove to cover my father with contumely, who dared impute to him a
    crime that was any man's but my father's. I realize that certain
    policies called for this stroke on your part, but it can not be. My
    dear uncle, you have digged a fine pit, and I hope you will find a
    safe way out of it. I refuse to marry the Princess Hildegarde. This
    is final. It can be arranged without any discredit to the duke or to
    yourself. Let it be said that her serene highness has thrown me
    over. I shan't go to war about it.

    "'FREDERICK.'"

"Observe 'My illustrious and industrious uncle'!" laughed the carter
without mirth. "Our king, you will see, has a graceful style."

"Your tone is not respectful," warned the ambassador.

"Neither is the state of my mind. Oh, my king is a fine fellow; he will
settle down like his father before him; but to-day--" The carter dropped
his arms dejectedly.

"There is something going on."

"What, you are likely to learn at any moment. Pardon me, Baron, but if I
dared I would tell you all. But his highness' commands are over me and I
must obey them. It would be a mental relief to tell some one."

"Curse these opera-dancers!"

The carter laughed. "Aye, where kings are concerned. But you do him
injustice. Frederick is as mild as Strephon." He gained his feet. He
was young, pleasant of face, but a thorough soldier.

"You are Lieutenant von Radenstein!" cried the ambassador. "I recognize
you now."

"Thanks, your Excellency!"

"You are in the royal household, the regent's invisible arm. I have
heard a good deal about you. I knew your father well."

"Again, thanks. Now, the regent has heard certain rumors regarding an
American named Carmichael, a consul. He is often seen with her highness.
Rather an extraordinary privilege."

"Rest your mind there, Lieutenant. This Carmichael is harmless. You
understand, her highness has not always been surrounded by royal
etiquette. She has had her freedom too long not to grow restive under
restraint. The American is a pleasant fellow, but not worth considering.
Americans will never understand the ways of court life. Still, he is a
gentleman, and so far there is nothing compromising in that situation.
He can be eliminated at any time."

"This is reassuring. You will see the chancellor to-night and show him
this letter?"

"I will, and God help us all to straighten out this blunder!"

"Amen to that! One word more, and then I'm off. If a butcher or a baker,
or even a mountaineer pulls the bell-cord and shows this ring, admit him
without fail. He will have vital news. And now, good night and good luck
to your excellency."

For half an hour the ambassador remained staring at the candlesticks. By
and by he resumed his chair. What should he do? Where should he begin?
Suppose the chancellor should look at the situation adversely, from the
duke's angle of vision, should the duke learn? There was but one thing
to do and that was to go boldly to Herbeck and lay the matter before him
frankly. Neither Jugendheit nor Ehrenstein wanted war. The chancellor
was wise; it would be better to dally with the truth than needlessly to
sacrifice ten thousand lives. But what had the lieutenant further to
conceal? The ambassador wanted no dinner. He rang for his hat and coat,
and twenty minutes later he was in the chancellor's cabinet.

"You seem out of health, Baron," was the chancellor's greeting.

"I am indeed that, Count. I received a letter to-day from the prince
regent. It was sent to him by his majesty, who is hunting in Bavaria.
Read it, Count, but I pray to you to do nothing hastily."

The chancellor did not open the letter, he merely balanced it. That so
light a thing should be so heavy with dark portents! His accustomed
pallor assumed a grayish tinge.

"So his majesty declines?" he said evenly.

"You have already heard?" cried the amazed ambassador.

"Nothing; I surmise. The hour, your appearance, the letter--to what else
could they point? I was afraid all along. Strange instinct we have at
times. The regent is to be pitied; he took too much for granted. He has
been used to power one day too long. Ah, if his majesty could but see
her, could only know how lovely she is in heart and mind and face! Is
she not worthy a crown?"

"Herbeck, nothing would please me better, nothing would afford my
country greater pleasure and satisfaction, than to see this marriage
consummated. It would nail that baseless lie which has so long been
current."

"I believe you. We two peoples should be friendly. It has taken me
months to bring this matter round. The duke rebelled; her highness
scorned the hand of Frederick. One by one I had to overcome their
objections--to this end. The past refuses to be buried. Still, if you
saw all the evidence in the case you would not blame the duke for his
attitude."

"But those documents are rank forgeries!"

"So they may be, but that has not been proved."

"Why should his late majesty abduct the daughter of the grand duke? For
what benefits? To what end? Ah, Count, if some motive could be brought
forward, some motive that could stand!"

"Motives, my friend? They spring from the most unheard-of places. And
motives in action are always based on impulses. But let us waste no time
on retrospection. It is the present which confronts us. You do not want
war."

"No more do you."

"What remedy do you suggest?"

"I ask, nay, I plead that question of you."

"I represent the offended party." The chancellor's gaunt features
lighted with a transient smile. "Proceed, Baron."

"I suggest, then, that the duke must not know."

"Agreed. Go on."

"You will put the matter before her highness."

"That will be difficult."

"Let her repudiate the negotiations. Let her say that she has changed
her mind. His majesty is quite willing that the humiliation be his."

"That is generous. But suppose she has set her heart on the crown of
Jugendheit? What then?"

The baron bit the ends of his mustache.

"Suppose that?" the chancellor pressed relentlessly.

"In that event, the affair is no longer in our hands but in God's."

"As all affairs are. Is there no way of changing the king's mind?"

"Read the letter, Count," said the ambassador.

Herbeck hunted for the postmark: Bavaria. He read the letter. There was
nothing between the lines. It was the work of rather an irresponsible
boy.

"May I take this to her highness?" asked the chancellor.

"I'm afraid--"

"I promise its contents will not go beyond her eye."

"I will take the risk."

"His majesty is very young," was the chancellor's comment.

"Young! He is a child. He has been in his palace twice in ten years. He
is travel-mad. He has been wandering in France, Holland, England,
Belgium. He tells his uncle to play the king till the coronation.
Imagine it! And the prince has found this authority so pleasant and
natural that he took it for granted that his majesty would marry
whomever he selected for him. To have allowed us to go forward, as we
have done, believing that he had the whole confidence of the king!"

Herbeck consulted his watch. It was half after six. Her highness did not
dine till eight.

"I shall go to her highness immediately, Baron. I shall return the
letter by messenger, and he will tell you the result of the interview."

"God be with you," said the ambassador, preparing to take his leave,
"for all women are contrary."

After the baron was gone the chancellor paced the room with halting
step. Then, toward the wraith of his ambition he waved a hand as if to
explain how futile are the schemes of men. He shook himself free from
this idle moment and proceeded to the apartments of her highness. Would
she toss aside this crown, or would she fight for it? He found her
alone.

"Well, my good fairy, what is in your magic wand to-night?" she asked.
How fond she was of this great good man, and how lonely he always
seemed!

He saluted her hand respectfully. "I am not a good fairy to-night, your
Highness. On the contrary, I am an ogre. I have here a letter. I have
given my word that its contents shall not be repeated to the duke, your
father. If I let you read it, will you agree to that?"

"And who has written this letter?" non-committally.

"His majesty, the king of Jugendheit," slowly.

"A letter from the king?" she cried, curious. "Should it not be brought
to me on a golden salver?"

"It is probable that I am bringing it to you at the end--of a bayonet,"
solemnly. "If the duke learns its contents the inevitable result will be
war."

A silence fell upon them and grew. This was the bitterest moment but one
in the chancellor's life.

"I believe," she said finally, "that it will not be necessary to read
his majesty's letter. He declines the honor of my hand: is that not it?"

The chancellor signified that it was.

"Ah!" with a note of pride in her voice and a flash in her eyes. "And
I?"

"You will tell the duke that you have changed your mind," gravely.

"Do princesses change their minds like this?"

"They have often done so."

"In spite of publicity?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"And if I refuse to change my mind?"

"I am resigned to any and all events."

"War." Her face was serious. "And what has the king to suggest?"

"He proposes to accept the humiliation of being rejected by you."

"Why, this is a gallant king! Pouff! There goes a crown of thistledown."
She smiled at the chancellor, then she laughed. There was nothing but
youth in the laughter, youth and gladness. "Oh, I knew that you were a
good fairy. Listen to me. I declare to you that I am happier at this
moment than I have been in days. To marry a man I have never seen, to
become the wife of a man who is nothing to me, whose looks, character,
and habits are unknown; why, I have lived in a kind of horror. You did
not find me soon enough; there are yet some popular ideas in my head
which are alien to the minds of princesses. I am free!" And she uttered
the words as with the breath of spring.

The chancellor's shoulders drooped a trifle more, and his hand closed
down over the letter. Otherwise there was no notable change in his
appearance. He was always guarding the muscles of his face.
Inscrutability is the first lesson of the diplomat; and he had learned
it thirty years before.

"There will be no war," resumed her highness. "I know my father; our
wills may clash, but in this instance mine shall be the stronger."

"But this is not the end."

"You mean that there will be other kings?" She had not thought of this,
and some of the brightness vanished from her face.

"Yes, there will be other kings. I am sorry. What young girl has not her
dream of romance? But princesses must not have romances. Yours, my
child, must be a political marriage. It is a harsh decree."

"Have not princesses married commoners?"

"Never wisely. Your highness will not make a mistake like that."

"My highness will or will not marry, as she pleases. Am I a chattel,
that I am to be offered across this frontier or that?"

The chancellor moved uneasily. "If your highness loved out of your
class, which I know you do not, I should be worried."

"And if I did?" with a rebel tilt to her chin.

"Till that moment arrives I shall not borrow trouble. You will, then,
tell the duke that you have changed your mind, that you have
reconsidered?"

"This evening. Now, godfather, you may kiss her serene highness on the
forehead."

"This honor to me?" The chancellor trembled.

"Even so."

He did not touch her with Ne hands, but the kiss he put on her forehead
was a benediction.

"You may go now," she said, "for I shall need the whole room to dance
in. I am free, if only for a little while!"

Outside the door the chancellor paused. She was singing. It was the same
aria he had heard that memorable night when he found her in the dim
garret.

CHAPTER IX

GRETCHEN'S DAY

Gretchen was always up when the morning was rosy, when the trees were
still dark and motionless, and the beads of dew white and frostlike. For
what is better than to meet the day as it comes over the mountains, and
silence breaks here and there, in the houses and streets, in the fields
and the vineyards? Let old age, which has played its part and taken to
the wings of the stage, let old age loiter in the morning, but not green
years. Gretchen awoke as the birds awoke, with snatches and little
trills of song. To her nearest neighbors there was about her that which
reminded them of the regularity of a good clock; when they heard her
voice they knew it was time to get up.

She was always busy in the morning. The tinkle of the bell outside
brought her to the door, and her two goats came pattering in to be
relieved of their creamy burden. Gretchen was fond of them; they needed
no care at all. The moment she had milked them they went tinkling off to
the steep pastures.

Even in midsummer the dawn was chill in Dreiberg. She blew on her
fingers. The fire was down to the last ember; so she went into the
cluttered courtyard and broke into pieces one of the limbs she had
carried up from the valley earlier in the season. The fire renewed its
cheerful crackle, the kettle boiled briskly, and the frugal breakfast
was under way.

There was daily one cup of coffee, but neither Gretchen nor her
grandmother claimed this luxury; it was for the sick woman on the third
floor. Sometimes at the Black Eagle she had a cup when her work was
done, but to Gretchen the aroma excelled the taste. Her grandmother's
breakfast and her own out of the way, she carried the coffee and bread
and a hot brick up to the invalid. The woman gave her two crowns a week
to serve this morning meal. Gretchen would have cheerfully done the work
for nothing.

What the character of the woman's illness was Gretchen hadn't an idea,
but there could be no doubt that she was ill, desperately, had the
goose-girl but known it. Her face was thin and the bones were visible
under the drum-like skin; her hands were merely claws. But she would
have no doctor; she would have no care save that which Gretchen gave
her. Sometimes she remained in bed all the day. She had been out of the
house but once since she came. She mystified the girl, for she never
complained, never asked questions, talked but little, and always smiled
kindly when the pillow was freshened.

"Good morning, Fräu," said Gretchen.

"Good morning, _Liebchen_."

"I have brought you a brick this morning, for it will be cold till the
sun is high."

"Thank you."

Gretchen pulled the deal table to the side of the cot, poured out the
coffee, and buttered the bread.

"I ought not to drink coffee, but it is the only thing that warms me.
You have been very patient with me."

"I am glad to help you."

"And that is why I love you. Now, I have some instructions to give you
this morning. Presently I shall be leaving, and there will be something
besides crowns."

"You are thinking of leaving?"

"Yes. When I go I shall not come back. Under my pillow there is an
envelope. You will find it and keep it."

Gretchen, young and healthy, touched not this melancholy undercurrent.
She accepted the words at their surface value. She knew nothing about
death except by hearsay.

"You will promise to take it?"

"Yes, Fräu."

"Thanks, little gosling. I have an errand for you this morning. It will
take you to the palace."

"To the palace?" echoed Gretchen.

"Yes. Does that frighten you?"

"No, Fräu; it only surprises me. What shall I do?"

"You will seek her highness and give her this note."

"The princess?" Gretchen sadly viewed her wooden shoes and roughened
hands.

"Never mind your hands and feet; your face will open any gate or door
for you."

"I have never been to the palace. Will they not laugh and turn me out?"

"If they try that, demand to see his excellency, Count von Herbeck, and
say that you came from forty Krumerweg."

Gretchen shuddered with a mixture of apprehension and delight. To meet
and speak to all these great ones!

"And if I can not get in?"

"You will have no trouble. Be sure, though, to give the note to no one
but her highness. There will be no answer. All I ask is that when you
return you will tell me if you were successful. You may go."

Gretchen put the note away and went down-stairs. She decked her
beautiful head with a little white cap, which she wore only on Sundays
and at the opera, and braided and beribboned her hair. It never occurred
to her that there was anything unusual in the incident. It was only when
she came out into the König Strasse that the puzzle of it came to her
forcibly. Who was this old woman who thought nothing of writing a letter
to her serene highness? And who were her nocturnal visitors? Gretchen
had no patience with puzzles, so she let her mind revel in the thought
that she was to see and speak to the princess whom she admired and
revered. What luck! How smoothly the world was beginning to run!

Being of a discerning mind, she idled about the Platz till after nine,
for it had been told to her that the great sleep rather late in the
morning. What should she say to her serene highness? What kind of a
curtsy should she make? These and a hundred other questions flitted
through her head. At least she would wear no humble, servile air. For
Gretchen was a bit of a socialist. Did not Herr Goldberg, whom the
police detested, did he not say that all men were equal? And surely this
sweeping statement included women! She attended secret meetings in the
damp cellar of the Black Eagle, and, while she laughed at some of the
articles in the propaganda, she received seriously enough that which
proclaimed her the equal of any one. So long as she obeyed nature's laws
and Heaven's, was she not indeed the equal of queens and princesses,
who, it was said, did not always obey these laws?

With a confidence born of right and innocence, she proceeded toward the
east or side gates of the palace. The sentry smiled at her.

"I have a letter for her serene highness," she said.

"Leave it."

"I am under orders to give it to her highness herself."

"Good day, then!" laughed the soldier. "You can not enter the gardens
without a permit."

Gretchen remembered. "Will you send some one to his excellency the
chancellor and tell him I have come from number forty Krumerweg?"

"Krumerweg? The very name ought to close any gate. But, girl, are you
speaking truthfully?"

Gretchen exhibited the note. He scratched his chin, perplexed.

"Run along. If they ask me, I'll say that I didn't see you." The sentry
resumed his beat.

Gretchen stepped inside the gates, and the real beauty of the gardens
was revealed to her for the first time. Strange flowers she had never
seen before, plants with great broad leaves, grass-like carpet, and
giant ferns, unlike anything she had plucked in the valleys and the
mountains. It was all a fairy-land. There were marble urns with hanging
vines, and marble statues. She loitered in this pebbled path and that,
forgetful of her errand. Even had her mind been filled with the
importance of it, she did not know where to go to find the proper
entrance.

A hand grasped her rudely by the arm.

"What are you doing here?" thundered the head gardener. "Be off with
you! Don't you know that no one is allowed in here without a permit?"

Gretchen wrenched free her arm. She was angry.

"How dare you touch me like that?"

Something in her glance, which was singularly arrogant, cooled even the
warm-blooded Hermann.

"But you live in Dreiberg and ought to know."

"You could have told me without bruising my arm," defiantly.

"I am sorry if I hurt you, but you ought to have known better. By which
sentry did you pass?" for there was that about her beauty which made
him suspicious regarding the sentry's imperviousness to it.

"Hermann!"

Gretchen and the head gardener whirled. Through a hedge which divided
the formal gardens from the tennis and archery grounds came a young
woman in riding-habit. She carried a book in one hand and a riding-whip
in the other.

"What is the trouble, Hermann?" she inquired. "Your voice was something
high."

"Your Highness, this young woman here had the impudence to walk into the
gardens and stroll about as nice as you please," indignantly.

"Has she stolen any flowers or trod on any of the beds?"

"Why, no, your Highness; but--"

"What is the harm, then?"

"But it is not customary, your Highness. If we permitted this on the
part of the people, the gardens would be ruined in a week."

"We, you and I, Hermann," said her highness, with a smile that won
Gretchen on the spot, "we will overlook this first offense. Perhaps this
young lady had some errand and lost her way."

"Yes, Highness," replied Gretchen eagerly.

"Ah! You may go, Hermann."

"Your highness alone with--"

"Go at once," kindly, but with royal firmness.

Hermann bowed, gathered up his pruning knives and scissors which he had
let fall, and stalked down the path. What was it? he wondered. She was a
princess in all things save her lack of coldness toward the people. It
was wrong to meet them in this way, it was not in order. Her highness
had lived too long among them. She would never rid herself of the idea
that the humble had hearts and minds like the exalted.

As the figure of the head gardener diminished and shortly vanished
behind a bed of palms, her highness laughed brightly, and Gretchen, to
her own surprise, found herself laughing also, easily and without
constraint.

"Whom were you seeking?" her highness asked, rather startled by the
undeniable beauty of this peasant.

"I was seeking your serene highness. I live at number forty the
Krumerweg, and the sick woman gave me this note for you."

"Krumerweg?" Her highness reached for the note and read it, and as she
read tears gathered in her eyes. "Follow me," she said. She led Gretchen
to a marble bench and sat down. Gretchen remained on her feet
respectfully. "What is your name?"

[Illustration: She led Gretchen to a marble bench and sat down.]

"Gretchen, Highness."

"Well, Gretchen, sit down."

"In your presence, Highness?" aghast.

"Don't bother about my presence on a morning like this. Sit down."

This was a command and Gretchen obeyed with alacrity. It would not be
difficult, thought Gretchen, to love a princess like this, who was not
only lovely but sensible. The two sat mutely. They were strangely alike.
Their eyes nearly matched, their hair, even the shape of their faces.
They were similarly molded, too; only, one was slender and graceful,
after the manner of fashion, while the other was slender and graceful
directly from the hands of nature. The health of outdoors was visible in
their fine skins and clear eyes. The marked difference lay, of course,
in their hands. The princess had never toiled with her fingers except on
the piano. Gretchen had plucked geese and dug vegetables with hers.
They were rough, but toil had not robbed them of their natural grace.

"How was she?" her highness asked.

"About the same, Highness."

"Have you wondered why she should write to me?"

"Highness, it was natural that I should," was Gretchen's frank
admission.

"She took me in when nobody knew who I was, clothed and fed me, and
taught me music so that some day I should not be helpless when the
battle of life began. Ah," impulsively, "had I my way she would be
housed in the palace, not in the lonely Krumerweg. But my father does
not know that she is in Dreiberg; and we dare not tell him, for he still
believes that she had something to do with my abduction." Then she
stopped. She was strangely making this peasant her confidante. What a
whim!

"Highness, that could not be."

"No, Gretchen; she had nothing to do with it." Her highness leveled her
gaze at the flowers, but her eyes saw only the garret or the barnlike
loneliness of the opera during rehearsals.

Gretchen did not move. She saw that her highness was dreaming; and
she herself had dreams.

"Do you like music?"

"Highness, I am always singing."

"La-la--la!" sang the princess capriciously.

"La-la--la!" sang Gretchen smiling. Her voice was not purer or sweeter;
it was merely stronger, having been accustomed to the open air.

"Brava!" cried the princess, dropping book and whip and folding the note
inside the book. "Who taught you to sing?"

"Nobody, highness."

"What do you do?"

"I am a goose-girl; in the fall and winter I work at odd times in the
Black Eagle."

"The Black Eagle? A tavern?"

"Yes, Highness."

"Tell me all about yourself."

This was easy for Gretchen; there was so little.

"Neither mother nor father. Our lives are something alike. A handsome
girl like you must have a sweetheart."

Gretchen blushed. "Yes, Highness. I am to be married soon. He is a
vintner. I would not trade him for your king, Highness," with a spice of
boldness.

Her highness did not take offense; rather she liked this frankness. In
truth, she liked any one who spoke to her on equal footing; it was a
taste of the old days when she herself could have chosen a vintner and
married him, with none to say her nay. Now she was only a pretty bird in
a gilded cage. She could fly, but whenever she did so she blundered
painfully against the bright wires. If there was any envy between these
two, it existed in the heart of the princess only. To be free like this,
to come and go at will, to love where the heart spoke! She surrendered
to another vagrant impulse.

"Gretchen, I do not think I shall marry the king of Jugendheit."

Gretchen grew red with pride. Her highness was telling her state
secrets!

"You love some one else, Highness?" How should a goose-girl know that
such a question was indelicate?

Her highness did not blush; the color in her cheeks receded. She
fondled the heart-shaped locket which she invariably wore round her
throat. That this peasant girl should thus boldly put a question she
herself had never dared to press!

"You must not ask questions like that, Gretchen."

"Pardon, Highness; I did not think." Gretchen was disturbed.

But the princess comforted her with: "I know it. There are some
questions which should not be asked even by the heart."

This was not understandable to Gretchen; but the locket pleased her eye.
Her highness, observing her interest, slipped the trinket from her neck
and laid it in Gretchen's hand.

"Open it," she said. "It is a picture of my mother, whom I do not
recollect having ever seen. Wait," as Gretchen turned it about
helplessly.

"I will open it for you." Click!

Gretchen sighed deeply. To have had a mother so fair and pretty! She
hadn't an idea how her own mother had looked; indeed, being sensible and
not given much to conjuring, she had rarely bothered her head about it.
Still, as she gazed at this portrait, the sense of her isolation and
loneliness drew down upon her, and she in her turn sought the flowers
and saw them not. After a while she closed the locket and returned it.

"So you love music?" picking up the safer thread.

"Ah, yes, Highness."

"Do you ever go to the opera?"

"As often as I can afford. I am very poor."

"I will give you a ticket for the season. How can I reward you for
bringing this message? Don't have any false pride. Ask for something."

"Well, then, Highness, give me an order on the grand duke's head vintner
for a place."

"For the man who is to become your husband?"

"Yes, Highness."

"You shall have it to-morrow. Now, come with me. I am going to take you
to Herr Ernst. He is the director of the opera. He rehearses in the
court theater this morning."

Gretchen, undetermined whether she was waking or dreaming, followed the
princess. She was serenely unafraid, to her own great wonder. Who could
describe her sensations as she passed through marble halls, up marble
staircases, over great rugs so soft that her step faltered? Her wooden
shoes made a clatter whenever they left the rugs, but she stepped as
lightly as she could. She heard music and voices presently, and the
former she recognized. As her highness entered the Bijou Theater, the
Herr Direktor stopped the music. In the little gallery, which served as
the royal box, sat several ladies and gentlemen of the court, the grand
duke being among them. Her highness nodded at them brightly.

"Good morning, Herr Direktor."

"Good morning, your Highness."

"I have brought you a prima donna," touching Gretchen with her whip.

The Herr Direktor showed his teeth; her highness was always playing some
jest.

"What shall she sing in, your Highness? We are rehearsing _The Bohemian
Girl_."

The chorus and singers on the little stage exchanged smiles.

"I want your first violin," said her highness.

"Anton!"

A youth stood up in the orchestral pit.

"Now, your Highness?" said the Herr Direktor.

"Try her voice."

And the Herr Direktor saw that she was not smiling. He bade the
violinist to draw his bow over a single note.

"Imitate it, Gretchen," commanded her highness; "and don't be afraid of
the Herr Direktor or of the ladies and gentlemen in the gallery."

Gretchen lifted her voice. It was sweeter and mellower than the violin.

"Again!" the Herr Direktor cried, no longer curious.

Without apparent effort Gretchen passed from one note to another, now
high, now low, or strong or soft; a trill, a run. The violinist, of his
own accord, began the jewel song from _Faust_. Gretchen did not know the
words, but she carried the melody without mishap. And then, _I Dreamt I
Dwelt in Marble Halls_. This song she knew word for word, and ah, she
sang it with strange and haunting tenderness! One by one the musicians
dropped their instruments to their knees. The grand duke in the gallery
leaned over the velvet-buffered railing. All realized that a great voice
was being tried before them. The Herr Direktor struck his music-stand
sharply. It was enough.

"Your highness has played a fine jest this day. Where does madame your
guest sing, in Berlin or Vienna?"

"In neither," answered her highness, mightily gratified with Gretchen's
success. "She lives in Dreiberg, and till this morning I doubt if I ever
saw her before."

The Herr Direktor stared blankly from her highness to Gretchen, and back
to her highness again. Then he grasped it. Here was one of those moments
when the gods make gifts to mortals.

"Can you read music?" he asked.

"No, Herr," said Gretchen.

"That is bad. You have a great voice, Fräulein. Well, I shall teach you.
I shall make you a great singer. It is hard work."

"I have always worked hard."

"Good! Your Highness, a thousand thanks! What is your name?" to
Gretchen. She told him. "It is a good name. Come to me Monday at the
opera and I shall put you into good hands. Some day you will be rich,
and I shall become great because I found you."

Then, with the artist's positive indifference to the presence of exalted
blood, he turned his back upon the two young women and roused his men
from the trance.

"So, Gretchen," said her highness, when the two came out again into the
garden, "you are to be rich and famous. That will be fine."

"Thanks, Highness, thanks! God grant the day to come when I may be of
service to you!" Gretchen kissed the hands of her benefactress.

"Whenever you wish to see the gardens," added the princess, "the gates
will be open for you."

As Gretchen went back to the Krumerweg her wooden shoes were golden
slippers and her rough homespun, silk. Rich! Famous! She saw the opera
ablaze with lights, she heard the roll of applause. She saw the horn of
plenty pouring its largess from the fair sky. Rainbow dreams! But
Gretchen never became a prima donna. There was something different on
the knees of the gods.

CHAPTER X

AFFAIRS OF STATE

The grand duke stamped back and forth with a rumble as of distant
thunder. He would search the very deeps of this matter. He was of a
patient mold, but this was the final straw. He would have his revenge if
it upset the whole continent. They would play with him, eh? Well, they
had loosed the lion this time. He had sent his valet to summon her
highness and Herbeck.

"And tell them to put everything else aside."

He kneaded the note in his hand powerfully. It was anonymous, but it
spoke clearly like truth. It had been left with one of the sentries, who
declared that a small boy had delivered it. The sender remained
undiscoverable.

His highness had just that hour returned from the military field. He was
tired; and it was not the psychological moment for a thing like this to
turn up. Had he not opposed it for months? And now, having surrendered
against his better judgment, this gratuitous affront was offered him! It
was damnable. He smote the offending note. He would soon find out
whether it was true or not. Then he flung the thing violently to the
floor. But he realized that this burst of fury would not translate the
muddle, so he stooped and recovered the missive. He laughed, but the
laughter had a grim Homeric sound. War! Nothing less. He was prepared
for it. Twenty thousand troops were now in the valley, and there were
twenty thousand reserves. What Franz Josef of Austria or William of
Prussia said did not amount to the snap of his two fingers. To avenge
himself of the wrongs so long endured of Jugendheit, to wipe out the
score with blood! Did they think that he was in his dotage, to offer an
insult of this magnitude? They should see, aye, that they should! It did
not matter that the news reached him through subterranean channels or by
treachery; there was truth here, and that sufficed.

"Enter!" he cried, as some one knocked on the door.

Herbeck came in, as calm, as imperturbable as ever.

"Your highness sent for me?"

"I did. Why the devil couldn't you have left well enough alone? Read
this!" flinging the note down on his desk.

Herbeck picked it up and worked out the creases. When he had read to the
final word, his hand, even as the duke's, closed spasmodically over the
stiff paper.

"Well?" The query tingled with rage.

The answer on the chancellor's lips was not uttered. Hildegarde came in.
She blew a kiss at her father, who caught the hand and drew her toward
him. He embraced her and kissed her brow.

"What is it, father?"

Herbeck waited.

"Read," said the duke.

As the last word left Herbeck's lips, she slipped from her father's arms
and looked with pity at the chancellor.

"What do you think of this, Hildegarde?"

"Why, father, I think it is the very best thing in the world," dryly.

"An insult like this?" The duke grew rigid. "You accept it calmly, in
this fashion?"

"Shall I weep and tear my hair over a boy I have never seen? No, thank
you. I was about to make known to you this very evening that I had
reconsidered the offer. I shall never marry his majesty."

"A fine time!" The duke's hand trembled. "Why, in God's name, did you
not refuse when the overtures were first made? The truth, Herbeck, the
whole truth; for there is something more than this."

Herbeck, in few words and without evasion, explained the situation.

"Your Highness, the regent is really not to blame, for his majesty had
given him free rein in the matter; and his royal highness, working as I
have been for the best interests of the two countries, never dreamed
that the king would rebel. All my heart and all my mind have been
working toward this end, toward a greater peace and prosperity. The king
has been generous enough to leave the publicity in our hands; that is to
say, he agrees to accept the humiliation of being rejected by her serene
highness."

"That is very generous of him!" said the duke sarcastically. "Send for
Ducwitz."

"Ducwitz, your Highness?" cried the chancellor, chilled.

"Immediately!"

"Father!"

"Must I give an order twice?"

"Your Highness, if you call Ducwitz I shall surrender my portfolio to
you." The chancellor spoke without anger, quietly but firmly.

"Do so. There are others to take up your work." The duke, for the
moment, had thrown reason to the winds. Revenge, the clamor of revenge,
was all the voice he heard.

The chancellor bowed, turned to leave the room, when Hildegarde flew to
the duke's side and snatched at his sleeve.

"Father, you are mad!"

"At least I am master in Ehrenstein. Herbeck, you will have the kindness
to summon General Ducwitz."

"Your Highness," replied Herbeck, "I have worked long and faithfully in
your service. I can not recollect that I ever asked one personal favor.
But I do so now. Do not send for Ducwitz to-night. See him in the
morning. This is no time for haste. You will throw the army into
Jugendheit, and there will follow a bloody war. For I have to inform you
that the prince regent, recognizing the false position he is in, has
taken the ram by the horns. His troops are already bivouacked on the
other side of the pass. This I learned to-day. He will not strike first;
he will wait for you."

"I will have my revenge!" stubbornly.

"Father, listen to me. _I_ am the affronted person; _I_, I alone, have
the right to say what shall be done in the matter. And I say to you if
you do these cruel things, dismiss his excellency and bring war and
death to Ehrenstein, I will never forgive you, never, never! You are
wrong, wrong, and I, your daughter, tell you so frankly. Leave it to me.
There will be neither war nor humiliation."

As the duke gazed at her the wrath gathering in his throat receded and
his admiration grew. His daughter! She was a princess, indeed, as she
stood there, fearless, resolute, beautiful. And her very beauty gave
recurrence to his wrath. A fool of a king he was, a fool of a king!

"My dear child," he said, "I have suffered too much at the hands of
Jugendheit. It was my daughter the first time; it is my honor now,"
proudly.

"Will it balance war and devastation?" the girl asked quietly. "Is it
not pride rather than honor? The prince regent made a pardonable
blunder. Do not you, my father, make an unpardonable one. The king is
without blame, for you appeal to his imagination as a man who deeply
wronged his father. I harbor no ill-feeling against him or his uncle,
because I look at the matter from an impersonal point of view; it was
for the good of the state. This blunder can be undone; therefore it is
not wise to double it, to make it irreparable."

"A Portia to the judgment!" said the chancellor, his eye kindling. "Let
it all rest upon my shoulders. I alone am to blame. It was I who first
suggested the alliance. We all have dreams, active or passive, futile or
purposeful. My ambition was to bring about a real and lasting peace.
Your Highness, I have failed signally. There is nothing to do now but to
appoint my successor." All the chancellor's force and immobility of
countenance gave way, and he looked the broken man.

Notwithstanding that he was generally hasty, the duke was a just man. In
his heart of hearts he understood. He offered his hand, with half a
smile; and when he smiled he was a handsome old man.

"You are bidding me farewell, your Highness?" said Herbeck.

"No, Count. I would not let you go for half my duchy. What should I do
without your solid common sense? No; remain; we are both of us too old
to quarrel. Even a duke may be a fool sometimes."

Herbeck laid his cold hand upon the duke's. Then he went over to her
highness and kissed her hand gratefully, for it was truly at her feet
the wreath of victory lay.

"Highness," he said softly, "you are the fairest, finest princess in the
world, and you shall marry when you will."

"And where?"

"I would that I could make it so. But there is a penalty for being
placed so high. We can not change this unwritten law."

"Heaven did not write it," she replied.

"No, my daughter," said the duke. "Man is at the bottom of all the kinks
and twists in this short life; not Heaven. But Herbeck is right; you
shall marry _when_ you will."

She sprang into his arms and kissed him. It was, however, a traitorous
kiss; for she was saying in her heart that now she would never marry.
Herbeck's eyes wandered to the portrait over the fireplace. It was the
girl's mother.

The knock of the valet was again heard.

"Your Highness, there is a young woman, a peasant, who desires to speak
to her serene highness."

"Where is she?" asked the duke.

"She is outside, your Highness."

"What! She enters the palace without any more trouble than this?"

"By my orders, father," said Hildegarde, who gathered that this
privileged visitor must be Gretchen of the Krumerweg. "Admit her."

"Truly we are becoming socialists," said the duke, appealing to Herbeck,
who replied with his usual grim smile.

Gretchen was ushered in. Her throat was a little full as she recognized
the three most important persons in the grand duchy. Outwardly she was
composed. She made a curtsy to which the duke replied with his most
formal bow of state. The sparkle of amusement was in his eyes.

"The little goose-girl!" he said half-audibly.

"Yes, Highness." Gretchen's face was serious and her eyes were mournful.
She carried an envelope in her hand tightly.

"Come to me, Gretchen," said the princess.

"What is it?"

Gretchen's eyes roamed undecidedly from the duke to Herbeck.

"She is dead, Highness, and I found this letter under her pillow."

It was Herbeck's hand that took the envelope. But he did not open it at
once.

"Dead?" Hildegarde's eyes filled.

"Who is dead?" demanded the duke.

"Emma Schultz, father. Oh, I know you will forgive me for this
deception. She has been in Dreiberg for a month, dying, and I have often
stolen out to see her." She let her tears fall unrestrained.

The duke stared at the rug. Presently he said: "Let her be buried in
consecrated ground. Wrong or right, that chapter is closed, my child,
and I am glad you made her last moments happy. It was like you. It was
like your mother. What is in the letter, Herbeck?"

Herbeck was a strong man; he was always far removed from tears; but
there was a mist over the usual clarity of his vision. He ripped down
the flap. It was only a simple note to her serene highness, begging her
to give the enclosed banknotes to one Gretchen who lived in the
Krumerweg. The notes represented a thousand crowns.

"Take them, little goose-girl," said the duke; "your ship has come in.
This will be your dowry."

An icy shiver ran up and down Gretchen's spine, a shiver of wonder,
delight, terror. A thousand crowns! A fortune!

"Hold out your hand," requested Herbeck. One by one he laid the notes on
the goose-girl's hand. "This is only a just reward for being kind and
gentle to the unfortunate."

"And I shall add to it another thousand," said Hildegarde. "Give them to
me, father."

In all, this fortune amounted to little more than four hundred dollars;
but to Gretchen, frugal and thrifty, to whom a single crown was a large
sum, to her it represented wealth. She was now the richest girl in the
lower town. Dreams of kaleidoscopic variety flew through her head.
Little there was, however, of jewels and gowns. This vast sum would be
the buffer between her and hunger while she pursued the one great
ambition of her life--music. She tried to speak, to thank them, but her
voice was gone. Tears sprang into her eyes. She had the power to do no
more than weep.

The duke was the first to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.

"Count, has it not occurred to you that we stand in the presence of two
very beautiful young women?"

Herbeck scrutinized Gretchen with care; then he compared her with the
princess. The duke was right. The goose-girl was not a whit the inferior
of the princess. And the thing which struck him with most force was
that, while each possessed a beauty individual to herself, it was not
opposite, but strangely alike.

The goose-girl had returned to her gloomy Krumerweg, the princess had
gone to her apartments, and Herbeck to his cabinet. The duke was alone.
For a long period he stood before the portrait of his wife. The beauties
of his courtship trooped past him; for God had given to the grand duke
of Ehrenstein that which He denies most of us, high or low, a perfect
love.

"Always, always, dear heart," he whispered; "in this life and in the
life to come. To love, what is the sickle of death?"

He passed on to his secretary and opened a drawer. He laid a small
bundle on the desk and untied the string. One by one he ranged the
articles; two little yellow shoes, a little cloak trimmed with ermine.
There had been a locket, but that was now worn by her highness.

CHAPTER XI

THE SOCIALISTS

Hermann Breunner lived in the granite lodge, just within the eastern
gates of the royal gardens. He was a widower and shared the ample lodge
with the undergardeners and their families. He lived with them, but
signally apart. They gave him as much respect as if he had been the duke
himself. He was a lonely, taciturn man, deeply concerned with his work,
and a botanical student of no mean order. No comrade helped him pass
away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in
the mug. This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own
selection. He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in
his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at
infrequent intervals.

He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward
the candle. A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life.
Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that
there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write. This note
left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise. It
requested that he present himself at eight o'clock at the office of the
hotel and ask to be directed to the room of Hans Grumbach.

"Now, who is Hans Grumbach? I never knew or heard of a man of that
name."

Nevertheless, he decided to go. Certainly this man Grumbach did not urge
him without some definite purpose. He laid down his pipe, reached for
his hat and coat--for in the lodge he generally went about in his
shirt-sleeves--and went over to the hotel. The concierge, who knew
Hermann, conducted him to room ten on the entresole. Hermann knocked. A
voice bade him enter. Ah, it was the German-American, whose papers had
puzzled his excellency.

"You wished to see me, Herr Grumbach?"

"Yes," said Grumbach, offering a chair.

Hermann accepted the courtesy with dignity. His host drew up another
chair to the opposite side of the reading-table. The light overhead put
both faces in a semishadow.

"You are Hermann Breunner," began Grumbach.

"Yes."

"You once had a brother named Hans."

Hermann grew rigid in his chair. "I have no brother," he replied, his
voice dull and empty.

"Perhaps not now," continued Grumbach, "but you did have."

Hermann's head drooped. "My God, yes, I did have a brother; but he was a
scoundrel."

Grumbach lighted a cigar. He did not offer one to Hermann, who would
have refused it.

"Perhaps he was a scoundrel. He is--dead!" softly.

"God's will be done!" But Hermann's face turned lighter.

"As a boy he loved you."

"And did I not love him?" said Hermann fiercely. "Did I not worship that
boy, who was to me more like a son than a brother? Had not all the
brothers and sisters died but he? But you--who are you to recall these
things?"

"I knew your brother; I knew him well. He was not a scoundrel; only
weak. He went to America and became successful in business. He fought
with the North in the war. He was not a coward; he did his fighting
bravely and honorably."

"Oh, no; Hans could never, have been a coward; even his villainy
required courage. But go on."

"He died facing the enemy, and his last words were of you. He begged
your forgiveness; he implored that you forget that black moment. He was
young, he said; and they offered him a thousand crowns. In a moment of
despair he fell."

"Despair? Did he confess to you the crime he committed?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you to whom he sold his honor?"

"That he never knew. A Gipsy from the hills came to him, so he said.

"From Jugendheit?"

"I say that he knew nothing. He believed that the Gipsy wanted her
highness to hold for ransom. Hans spoke of a girl called Tekla."

"Tekla? Ah, yes; Hans was in love with that doll-face."

"Doll-face or not, Hans evidently loved her. She jilted him, and he did
not care then what happened. His one desire was to leave Dreiberg. And
this Gipsy brought the means and the opportunity."

"Not Jugendheit?"

"Who knows? Hans followed the band of Gipsies into the mountains. The
real horror of his act did not come home to him till then. Ah, the
remorse! But it was too late. They dressed the little one in rags. But
when I ran away from them I took her little shoes and cloak and locket."

Hermann was on his feet!

Grumbach relighted his cigar which had gone out. The smoke wavered about
his face and slowly ascended. His eyes were as bright and glowing as
coals. He waited. He had made the slip without premeditation; but what
was done was done. So he waited.

Hermann dropped his hands on the table and leaned forward.

"Is it you, Hans, and I did not know you?"

"It is I, brother."

"My God!" Hermann sank down weakly. The ceiling spun and the gaslight
separated itself into a hundred flames. "You said he was dead!"

"So I am, to the world, to you, and to all who knew me," quietly.

"Why have you returned?"

Hans shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps I am a fool; perhaps I am willing
to pay the penalty of my crime. At least that was uppermost in my mind
till I learned that her highness had been found."

"Hans, Hans, the duke has sworn to hang you!"

Hans laughed. "The rope is not made that will fit my neck. Will you
denounce me, brother?"

"I?" Hermann shrank back in horror.

"Why not? Five thousand crowns still hang over me."

"Blood-money for me? No, Hans!"

"Besides, I have made a will. At my death you will be rich."

"Rich?"

"Yes, Hermann. I am worth two hundred thousand crowns."

Hermann breathed with effort. So many things had beaten upon his brain
in the past ten minutes that he was dazed. His brother Hans alive and
here, and rich?

"But riches are not everything."

"Sometimes they are little enough," Hans agreed.

"Why did you do it?" Hermann's voice was full of agony.

"Have I not told you, Hermann? There is nothing more to be added." Then,
with rising passion: "Nothing more, now that my heart is blistered and
scarred with regret and remorse. God knows that I have repented and
repented. I went to war because I wanted to be killed. They shot me
here, and here, and here, and this saber-cut would have split the skull
of any other man. But it was willed that I should come back here."

"My poor brother! You must fly from here at once!"

"From what?" tranquilly.

"The chancellor is suspicious."

"I know that. But since you, my brother, failed to identify me,
certainly his excellency will not. I shall make no slip as in your case.
And you will not betray me when I tell you that I have returned
principally to find out whence came those thousand crowns."

"Ah! Find that out, Hans; yes, yes!" Hermann began to look more like
himself. "But what was your part?"

"Mine? I was to tell where her highness and her nurse were to be at a
certain hour of the day. Nothing more was necessary. My running away was
the expression of my guilt; otherwise they would never have connected me
with the abduction."

"Have you any suspicions?"

"None. And remember, you must not know me, Hermann, no matter where we
meet. I am sleepy." Hans rose.

And this, thought Hermann, his bewilderment gaining life once more, and
this calm, unruffled man, whose hair was whiter than his own, a veteran
of the bloodiest civil war in history, this prosperous mechanic, was his
little brother Hans!

"Hans, have you no other greeting?" Hermann asked, spreading out his
arms.

The wanderer's face beamed; and the brothers embraced.

"You forgive me, then, Hermann?"

"Must I not, little Hans? You are all that is left me of the blood.
True, I swore that if ever I saw you again I should curse you."

The two stood back from each other, but with arms still entwined.

"Perhaps, Hans, I did not watch you closely enough in those days."

"And what has become of the principal cause?"

"The cause?"

"Tekla."

"Bah! She is fat and homely and the mother of seven squalling children."

"What a world! To think that Tekla should be at the bottom of all this
tangle! What irony! I ruin my life, I break the heart of the grand duke,
I nearly cause war between two friendly states--why? Tekla, now fat and
homely and the mother of seven, would not marry me. The devil rides
strange horses."

"Good night, Hans."

"Good night, Hermann, and God bless you for your forgiveness. Always
come at night if you wish to see me, but do not come often; they might
remark it."

A rap on the door startled them. Hans, a finger of warning on his lips,
opened the door. Carmichael stood outside.

"Ah, Captain!" Hans took Carmichael by the hand and drew him into the
room.

Carmichael, observing Hermann, was rather confused as to what to do.

"Good evening, Hermann," he said.

"Good evening, Herr Carmichael."

Hermann passed into the hail and softly closed the door after him. It
was better that the American should not see the emotion which still
illumined his face.

"What's the good word, Captain?" inquired Hans.

Carmichael put in a counter-query: "What was your brother doing here?"

"I have told him who I am."

"Was it wise?"

"Hermann sleeps soundly; he will talk neither in his sleep nor in his
waking hours. He has forgiven me."

"For what?" thoughtlessly.

"The time for explanations has not yet come, Captain."

"Pardon me, Grumbach; I was not thinking. But I came to bring you the
invitation to the military ball."

The broad white envelope, emblazoned with the royal arms, fascinated
Hans, not by its resplendency, but by the possibilities which it
afforded.

"Thank you; it was very good of you."

"It was a pleasure, comrade. What do you say to an hour or two at the
Black Eagle? We'll drown our sorrows together."

"Have you any sorrows, Captain?"

"Who hasn't? Life is a patchwork with the rounding-out pieces always
missing. Come along. I'm lonesome to-night."

"So am I," said Hans.

The Black Eagle was lively as usual; and there were some familiar faces.
The vintner was there and so was Gretchen. Carmichael hailed her.

"This is my last night here, Herr Carmichael," she said.

"Somebody has left you a fortune?" There was a jest in Carmichael's
eyes.

"Yes," replied Gretchen, her lips unsmiling.

"The poor lady who lived on the top floor of my grandmother's house was
rich. She left me a thousand crowns."

Carmichael and Grumbach: "A thousand crowns!"

"And what will you do with all that money?" asked Hans.

"I am going to study music."

"I thought you were going to be married soon," said Carmichael.

"Surely. But that will not hinder. I shall have enough for two."
Gretchen saw no reason why she should tell them of the princess'
generosity.

"But how does he take it?" asked Carmichael, with a motion of his head
toward the vintner, half hidden behind a newspaper.

"He doesn't like the idea at all. But the Herr Direktor says that I am a
singer, and that some day I shall be rich and famous."

"When that day comes I shall be there with many a brava!"

The vintner, who sat near enough to catch a bit of the conversation,
scowled over the top of his paper. Carmichael eyed him mischievously.
Gretchen picked up her coppers and went away.

"A beautiful girl," said Hans abstractedly. "She might be Hebe with no
trouble at all."

Carmichael admired Hans. There was always some new phase in the
character of this quiet and unassuming German. A plumber who was
familiar with the classics was not an ordinary person. He raised his
stein and Hans extended his. After that they smoked, with a word or two
occasionally in comment.

At that day there was only one newspaper in Dreiberg. It was a dry and
solid sheet, of four pages, devoted to court news, sciences, and
agriculture. The vintner presently smoothed down the journal, opened his
knife, and cut out a paragraph. Carmichael, following his movements
slyly, wondered what he had seen to interest him to the point of
preservation. The vintner crushed the remains of the sheet into a ball
and dropped it to the floor. Then he finished his beer, rose, and
proceeded toward the stairs leading to the rathskeller below. Down these
he disappeared.

An idea came to Carmichael. He called a waitress and asked her to bring
a copy of that day's paper. Meantime he recovered the vintner's paper,
and when he finally put the two together, it was a simple matter to
replace the missing cutting. Grumbach showed a mild interest over the
procedure.

"Why do you do that, Captain?"

"A little idea I have; it may not amount to anything." But the American
was puzzled over the cutting. There were two sides to it: which had
interested the vintner? "Do you care for another beer?"

"No, I am tired and sleepy, Captain."

"All right; we'll go back to the hotel. There is nothing going on here
to-night."

But Carmichael was mistaken for once.

A little time later Herr Goldberg harangued his fellow socialists
bitterly. Gretchen's business in this society was to serve. They had
selected her because they knew that she inclined toward the propaganda.
Few spoke to her, outside of giving orders, and then kindly.

The rathskeller had several windows and doors. These led to the
_Biergarten_, to the wine-cellar, and to an alley which had no opening
on the street. The police had as yet never arrested anybody; but several
times the police had dispersed Herr Goldberg and his disciples on
account of the noise. The window which led to the blind alley was six
feet from the floor, twice as broad as it was high, and unbarred. Under
this window sat the vintner. He was a probationer, a novitiate; this was
his second attendance. He liked to sit in the shadow and smile at Herr
Goldberg's philosophy, which, summed up briefly, meant that the rich
should divide with the poor and that the poor should hang on to what
they had or got. It may have never occurred to Herr Goldberg that the
poor were generally poor because of their incapabilities, their
ignorance, and incompetence. To-night, however, there were variety and
spice with his Jeremiad.

"Brothers, shall this thing take place? Shall the daughter of Ehrenstein
become Jugendheit's vassal? Oh, how we have fallen! Where is the grand
duke's pride we have heard so much about? Are we, then, afraid of
Jugendheit?"

"No!" roared his auditors, banging their stems and tankards. The vintner
joined the demonstration, banging his stein as lustily as the next one.

"Have you thought what this marriage will cost us in taxes?"

"What?"

"Thousands of crowns, thousands! Do we not always pay for the luxuries
of the rich? Do not their pleasures grind us so much deeper into the
dirt? Yes, we are the corn they grind. And shall we submit, like the
dogs in Flanders, to become beasts of burden?"

"No, no!"

"I have a plan, brothers; it will show the duke to what desperation he
has driven us at last. We will mob the Jugendheit embassy on the day of
the wedding; we will tear it apart, brick by brick, stone by stone."

"Hurrah!" cried the noisy ones. They liked talk of this order. They knew
it was only here that great things happened, the division of riches and
mob-rule. Beer was cheaper by the keg.

The noise subsided. Gretchen spoke.

"Her serene highness will not marry the king of Jugendheit."

Every head swung round in her direction.

"What is that you say?" demanded Herr Goldberg.

Gretchen repeated her statement. It was the first time she had ever
raised her voice in the councils.

"Oh, indeed!" said Goldberg, bowing with ridicule: "Since when did her
serene highness make you her confidante?"

"Her serene highness told me so herself." Gretchen's eyes, which had
held only mildness and good-will, now sparkled with contempt.

A roar of laughter went up, for the majority of them thought that
Gretchen was indulging in a little pleasantry.

"Ho-ho! So you are on speaking terms with her highness?" Herr Goldberg
laughed.

"Is there anything strange in this fact?" she asked, keeping her tones
even.

The vintner made a sign to her, but she ignored it.

"Strange?" echoed Herr Goldberg, becoming furious at having the
interest in himself thus diverted. "Since when did goose-girls and
barmaids become on intimate terms with her serene highness?"

Gretchen pressed the vintner's arm to hold him in his chair.

"Does not your socialism teach that we are all equal?"

The vintner thumped with his stein in approval, and others imitated him.
Goldberg was no ordinary fool. He sidestepped defeat by an assumption of
frankness.

"Tell us about it. If I have spoken harshly it is only reasonable. Tell
us under what circumstance you met her highness and how she happened to
tell you this very important news. Every one knows that this marriage is
to take place."

Gretchen nodded. "Nevertheless, her highness has changed her mind." And
she recounted picturesquely her adventure in the royal gardens, and all
hung on her words in a kind of maze. It was all very well to shout,
"Down with royalty!" it was another matter to converse and shake bands
with it.

"Hurrah!" shouted the vintner. "Long live her highness! Down with
Jugendheit!"

There was a fine chorus.

And there was a fine tableau not down on the evening's program. A police
officer and three assistants came down the stairs quietly.

"Let no one leave this room!" the officer said sternly.

The dramatic pause was succeeded by a babel of confusion. Chairs
scraped, stems clattered, and the would-be liberators huddled together
like so many sheep rounded up by a shepherd-dog.

"Ho, there! Stop him, you!"

It was the vintner who caused this cry; and the agility with which he
scrambled through the window into the blind alley was an inspiration.

"After him!" yelled the officer. "He is probably the one rare bird in
the bunch."

But they searched in vain.

Gretchen stared ruefully at the blank window.

Somehow this flight pained her; somehow it gave her the heartache to
learn that her idol was afraid of such a thing as a policeman.

"Out into the street, every mother's son of you!" cried the officer
angrily to the quaking socialists. "This is your last warning,
Goldberg. The next time you go to prison for seditious teachings. Out
with you!"

The socialists could not have emptied the cellar any quicker had there
been a fire.

Gretchen alone remained. It was her duty to carry the steins up to the
bar. The officer, rather thorough for his kind, studied the floor under
the window. He found a cutting from a newspaper. This interested him.

"Do you know who this fellow was?" with a jerk of his head toward the
window.

"He is Leopold Dietrich, a vintner, and we are soon to be married."
There was a flaw in the usual sweetness of her voice.

"So? What made him run away like this?"

"He is new to Dreiberg. Perhaps he thought you were going to arrest
every one. Oh, he has done nothing wrong; I am sure of that."

"There is one way to prove it."

"And what is that?"

"Ask him if he is not a spy from Jugendheit," roughly.

The steins clicked crisply in Gretchen's arms; one of them fell and
broke at her feet.

CHAPTER XII

LOVE'S DOUBTS

Gretchen, troubled in heart and mind over the strange event of the
night, walked slowly home, her head inclined, her arms swinging
listlessly at her side. A spy, this man to whom she had joyously given
the flower of her heart and soul? There was some mistake; there must be
some mistake. She shivered; for the word spy carried with it all there
was in deceit, treachery, cunning. In war time she knew that spies were
necessary, that brave men took perilous hazards, without reward, without
renown; but in times of peace nothing but opprobrium covered the word. A
political scavenger, the man she loved? No; there was some mistake. The
bit of newspaper cutting did not worry her. Anybody might have been
curious about the doings of the king of Jugendheit and his uncle the
prince regent. Because the king hunted in Bavaria with the crown
prince, and his uncle conferred with the king of Prussia in Berlin, it
did not necessarily follow that Leopold Dietrich was a spy. Gretchen was
just. She would hear his defense before she judged him.

Marking the first crook in the Krumerweg was an ancient lamp hanging
from the side of the wall. The candle in this lamp burned night and day,
through winter's storms and summer's balms. The flame dimmed and glowed,
a kindly reminder in the gloom. It was a shrine to the Virgin Mary; and
before this Gretchen paused, offering a silent prayer that the Holy
Mother preserve this dream of hers.

A footstep from behind caused her to start. The vintner took her roughly
in his arms and kissed her many times.

Her heart shook within her, but she did not surrender her purpose under
these caresses. She freed herself energetically and stood a little away
from him, panting and star-eyed.

"Gretchen?"

She did not speak.

"What is it?"

"You ask?"

"Was it a crime, then, to jump out of the window?" He laughed.

Gretchen's face grew sterner. "Were you afraid?"

"For a moment. I have never run afoul the police. I thought perhaps we
were all to be arrested."

"Well, and what then?"

"What then? Uncomfortable quarters in stone rooms. I preferred
discretion to valor."

"Perhaps you did not care to have the police ask you questions?"

"What is all this about?" He pulled her toward him so that he could look
into her eyes.

"What is the matter? Answer!"

"Are you not a spy from Jugendheit?" thinly.

He flung aside her hand. "So! The first doubt that enters your ear finds
harbor there. A spy from Jugendheit; that is a police suggestion, and
you believed it!"

"Do you deny it?" Gretchen was not cowed by his anger, which her own
evenly matched.

"Yes," proudly, snatching his hat from his head and throwing it
violently at her feet; "yes, I deny it. I am not a spy from any country;
I have not sold the right to look any man in the eye."

"I have asked you many questions," she replied, "but you are always
laughing. It is a pleasant way to avoid answering. I have given you my
heart and all its secrets. Have you opened yours as frankly?"

To meet anger with logic and sense is the simplest way to overcome it.
The vintner saw himself at bay. He stooped to recover his hat, not so
much to regain it but to steal time to conjure up some way out.

"Gretchen, here under the Virgin I swear to you that I love you as a man
loves but once in his life. If I were rich, I would gladly fling these
riches to the wind for your sake. If I were a king, I'd barter my crown
for a smile and a kiss. I have done no wrong; I have committed no crime.
But you must have proof; so be it. We will go together to the
police-bureau and settle this doubt once and for all."

"When?" Gretchen's heart was growing warm again.

"Now, to-night, while they are hunting for me."

"Forgive me!" brokenly.

"Come!"

"No, Leopold, this test is not necessary."

"I insist. This thing must be righted publicly."

"And I was thinking that the man I loved was a coward!"

"I am braver than you dream, Gretchen." And in truth he was, for he was
about to set forth for the lion's den, and only amazing cleverness could
extricate him. Man never enters upon the foolhardy unless it be to
dazzle a woman. And the vintner's love for Gretchen was no passing
thing. "Let us hurry; it is growing late. They will be shutting off the
lights before we return."

The police-bureau was far away, but the distance was nothing to these
healthy young people.

They progressed at a smart pace and in less than twenty minutes they
arrived. It was Gretchen who drew back fearfully.

"After all, will it not be foolish?" she suggested.

"They will be searching for me," he answered.

"It will be easier if I present myself. It will bear testimony that I
am innocent of any wrong."

"I will go in with you," determinedly.

The police officer, or, to be more particular, the sub-chief of the
bureau, received them with ill-concealed surprise.

"I have learned that you are seeking me," said the vintner, taking off
his cap. His yellow curls waved about his forehead in moist profusion.

Immediately the sub-chief did not know what to say. This was out of the
ordinary, conspicuously so. There was little precedent by which to act
in a case like this. So in order to appear that nothing could destroy
his official poise, he let the two stand before his desk while he sorted
some papers.

"You are not a native of Dreiberg," he began.

"No, Herr; I am from Bavaria. If you will look into your records you
will find that my papers were presented two or three weeks ago."

"Let me see them."

The vintner's passports were produced. The sub-chief compared them to
the corresponding number in his book. There was nothing wrong about
them.

"I do not recollect seeing you here before."

"It was one of your assistants who originally went over the papers."

"What is your business?"

"I am a vintner by trade, Herr."

"And are there not plenty of vineyards in Bavaria?"

"We vintners," with an easy gesture, "are of a roving disposition. I
have been all along the Rhine and the Moselle. I prefer grapes to hops."

"But why Dreiberg? The best vineyards are south."

"Who can say where we shall go next? Dreiberg seemed good enough for
me," with a shy glance at Gretchen.

"Why did you jump out of the window?"

"I was frightened at first, Herr. I did not know that you merely
dispersed meetings. I believed that we were all to be arrested. Such
measures are in force in Munich."

"You accused him of being a Jugendheit spy," broke in Gretchen, who was
growing impatient under these questions, which seemed to go nowhere in
particular.

"You be silent," warned the sub-chief.

"I am here because of that accusation," said the vintner.

"What have you to say?"

"I deny it."

"That is easy to do. But can you prove it?"

"It is for you to prove, Herr."

"Read this."

It was the cutting. The vintner read it, his brows drawn together in a
puzzled frown. He turned the slip over carelessly. The sub-chief's eyes
bored into him like gimlets.

"I can make nothing of this, Herr. When I cut this out of the paper it
was to preserve the notice on the other side." The vintner returned the
cutting.

The sub-chief read aloud:

    "Vintners and presses and pruners wanted for the season. Find and
    liberal compensation. Apply, Holtz."

Gretchen laughed joyously; the vintner grinned; the sub-chief swore
under his breath.

"The devil fly away with you both!" he cried, making the best of his
chagrin. "And when you marry, don't invite me to the wedding."

After they had gone, however, he called for an assistant.

"Did you see that young vintner?"

"Yes."

"Follow him, night and day. Find out where he lives and what he does;
and ransack his room if possible. He is either an innocent man or a
sleek rascal. Report to me this time each night."

"And the girl?"

"Don't trouble about her. She is under the patronage of her serene
highness. She's as right as a die. It's the man. He was too easy; he
didn't show enough concern. An ordinary vintner would have been
frightened. This fellow smiled."

"And if I find out anything suspicious?"

"Arrest him out of hand and bring him here at once."

Alone once more the sub-chief studied the cutting with official
thoroughness. He was finally convinced, by the regularity of the line on
the printed side as compared with the irregularity of the line on the
advertising side, that the vintner had lied. And yet there was no proof
that he had.

"This young fellow will go far," he mused, with reluctant admiration.

On reaching the street Gretchen gave rein to her laughter. What promised
to be a tragedy was only a farce. The vintner laughed, too, but Momus
would have criticized his laughter.

The night was not done yet; there were still some more surprises in
store for the vintner. As they turned into the Krumerweg they almost ran
into Carmichael. What was the American consul doing in this part of the
town, so near midnight? Carmichael recognized them both. He lifted his
hat, but the vintner cavalierly refused to respond.

"Herr Carmichael!" said Gretchen. "And what are you doing here this time
of the night?"

"I have been on a fool's errand," urbanely.

"And who sent you?"

"The god of fools himself, I guess. I am looking for a kind of ghost, a
specter in black that leaves the palace early in the evening and returns
late, whose destination has invariably been forty Krumerweg."

The vintner started.

"My house?" cried Gretchen.

"Yours? Perhaps you can dispel this phantom?" said Carmichael.

Gretchen was silent.

"Oh! You know something. Who is she?"

"A lady who comes on a charitable errand. But now she will come no
more."

"And why not?"

"The object of her visits is gone," Gretchen answered sadly.

"My luck!" exclaimed Carmichael ruefully.

"I am always building houses of cards. I don't suppose I shall ever
reform."

"Are you not afraid to walk about in this part of the town so late?" put
in the vintner, who was impatient to be gone.

"Afraid? Of what? Thieves? Bah, my little man, I carry a sword-stick,
and moreover I know how to use it tolerably well. Good night." And he
swung along easily, whistling an air from _The Barber of Seville_.

The insolence in Carmichael's tone set the vintner's ears a-burning, but
he swallowed his wrath.

"I like him," Gretchen declared, as she stopped before the house.

"Why?" jealously.

"Because he is always like that; pleasant, never ruffled, kindly. He
will make a good husband to some woman."

The vintner shrugged. He was not patient to-night.

"Who is this mysterious woman?"

"I am not free to tell you."

"Oh!"

"Leopold, what is the matter with you to-night? You act like a boy."

"Perhaps the police muddle is to blame. Besides, every time I see this
man Carmichael I feel like a baited dog."

"In Heaven's name, why?"

"Nothing that I can remember. But I have asked you a question."

"And I have declined to answer that question. All my secrets are yours,
but this one is another's."

"Is it her highness?"

Gretchen fingered the latch suggestively.

"I am wrong, Gretchen; you are right. Kiss me!"

She liked the tone; she liked the kisses, too, though they hurt.

"Good night, my man!" she whispered.

"Good night, my woman! To-morrow night at eight."

He turned and ran lightly and swiftly up the street. Gretchen remained
standing in the doorway till she could see him no more. Why should he
run like that? She raised the latch and went inside.

From the opposite doorway a mountaineer, a carter, a butcher, and a
baker stepped cautiously forth.

"He heard something," said the mountaineer. "He has ears like a rat for
hearing. What a pretty picture!" cynically. "All the world loves a
lover--sometimes. Touching scene!"

No one replied; no one was expected to reply; more than that, no one
cared to court the fury which lay thinly disguised in the mountaineer's
tones.

"To-morrow night; you heard what he said. I am growing weary of this
play. You will stop him on his way to yonder house. A closed carriage
will be at hand. Before he enters, remember. She watches him too long
when he leaves. Fool!"

The quartet stole along in the darkness, noiselessly and secretly.

The vintner had indeed heard something. He knew not what this noise was,
but it was enough to set his heels to flying. A phase had developed in
his character that defied analysis; suspicion, suspicion of daylight, of
night, of shadows moving by walls, of footsteps behind. Only a little
while ago he had walked free-hearted and careless. This growing habit of
skulking was gall and wormwood. Once in his room, which was directly
over the office of the American consulate, he fell into a chair, inert
and breathless. What a night! What a series of adventures!

"Only a month ago I was a boy. I am a man now, for I know what it is to
suffer. Gretchen, dear Gretchen, I am a black scoundrel! But if I break
your heart I shall break my own along with it. I wonder how much longer
it will last. But for that vintner's notice I should have been lost."

By and by he lighted a candle. The room held a cot, a table, and two
chairs. The vintner's wardrobe consisted of a small pack thrown
carelessly into a corner. Out of the drawer in the table he took
several papers and burned them. The ashes he cast out of the window. He
knew something about police methods; they were by no means all through
with him. Ah! A patch of white paper, just inside the door, caught his
eye. He fetched it to the candle. What he read forced the color from his
cheeks and his hands were touched with transient palsy.

"The devil! What shall I do now?" he muttered, thoroughly dismayed.

What indeed should he do? Which way should he move? How long had _he_
been in Dreiberg? Ah, that would be rich! What a joke! It would afford
him a smile in his old age. Carmichael, Carmichael! The vintner chuckled
softly as he scribbled this note:

    "If Herr Carmichael would learn the secret of number forty
    Krumerweg, let him attire himself as a vintner and be in the
    Krumerweg at eight o'clock to-night."

"So there is a trap, and I am to beware of a mountaineer, a carter, a
butcher, and a baker? Thanks, Scharfenstein, my friend, thanks! You are
watching over me."

He blew out his candle and went to bed.

CHAPTER XIII

A DAY DREAM

Colonel Von Wallenstein curled his mustaches. It was a happy thought
that had taken him into the Adlergasse. This Gretchen had been haunting
his dreams, and here she was, coming into his very arms, as it were. The
sidewalk was narrow. Gretchen, casually noting that an officer stood in
the way, sensibly veered into the road. But to her surprise the soldier
left the sidewalk and planted himself in the middle of the road. There
was no mistaking this second maneuver. The officer, whom she now
recognized, was bent on intercepting her. She stopped, a cold fury in
her heart.

To make sure, she essayed to go round. It was of no use. So she stopped
again.

"Herr," she said quietly, "I wish to pass."

"That is possible, Gretchen."

It was nine o'clock in the morning. The Adlergasse was at this time
deserted.

"Will you stand aside?"

"You have been haunting my dreams, Gretchen."

"That would be a pity. But I wish to pass."

"Presently. Do you know that you are the most beautiful being in all
Dreiberg?"

"I am in a hurry," said Gretchen.

"There is plenty of time."

"Not to listen to foolish speeches."

"I am not going to let you pass till I have had a kiss."

"Ah!" Battle flamed up in Gretchen's eyes. Somewhere in the past, in
some remote age, her forebears had been men-at-arms or knights in the
crusades.

"You are very hard to please. Some women--"

"But what kind of women?" bitingly. "Not such as I should care to meet.
Will you let me by peacefully?"

"After the toll, after the toll!"

Too late she started to run. He laughed and caught hold of her. Slowly
but irresistibly he drew her toward his heart. The dead-white of her
face should have warned him. With a supreme effort she freed herself
and struck him across the face; and there was a man's strength in the
flat of her hand. Quick as a flash she whirled round and ran up the
street, he hot upon her heels. He was raging now with pain and chagrin.
The one hope for Gretchen now lay in the Black Eagle; and into the
tavern she darted excitedly.

"Fräu Bauer," she cried, gasping as much in wrath as for lack of breath,
"may I come behind your counter?"

"To be sure, child. Whatever is the matter?"

Wallenstein's entrance was answer sufficient. His hand, held against his
stinging cheek, was telltale enough for the proprietress of the Black
Eagle.

"Shame!" she cried. She knew her rights. She was not afraid to speak
plainly to any officer in the duchy, however high he might be placed.

"I can not get at you there, Gretchen," said the colonel, giving to his
voice that venom which the lady's man always has at hand when thwarted
in his gallantries. "You will have to come hence presently."

"She shall stay here all day," declared Fräu Bauer decidedly.

"I can wait." The colonel, now possessing two smarts, one to his cheek
and one to his vanity, made for the door. But there was a bulk in the
doorway formidable enough to be worth serious contemplation.

"What is going on here, little goose-girl?" asked the grizzled old man,
folding his arms round his oak staff.

"Herr Colonel insulted me."

"Insulted you?" The colonel laughed boisterously. This was good; an
officer insult a wench of this order! "Out of the way!" he snarled at
the obstruction in the doorway.

"What did he try to do to you, Gretchen?"

"He tried to kiss me!"

"The man who tries to kiss a woman against her will is always at heart a
coward," said the mountaineer.

The colonel seized the old man by the shoulder to push him aside. The
other never so much as stirred. He put out one of his arms and clasped
the colonel in such a manner that he gasped. He was in the clutch of a
Carpathian bear.

"Well, my little soldier?" said the mountaineer, his voice even and not
a vein showing in his neck.

"I will kill you for this!" breathed the colonel heavily.

"So?" The old man thrust him back several feet, without any visible
exertion. He let his staff slide into his hand.

The moment the colonel felt himself liberated, he drew his saber and
lunged toward his assailant. There was murder in his heart. The two
women screamed. The old man laughed. He turned the thrust with his
staff. The colonel, throwing caution to the four winds, surrendered to
his rage. He struck again. The saber rang against the oak. This
dexterity with the staff carried no warning to the enraged officer. He
struck again and again. Then the old man struck back. The pain in the
colonel's arm was excruciating. His saber rattled to the stone flooring.
Before he could recover the weapon the victor had put his foot upon it.
He was still smiling, as if the whole affair was a bit of pastime.

On his part the colonel's blood suddenly cooled. This was no accident;
this meddling peasant had at some time or other held a saber in his hand
and knew how to use it famously well. The colonel realized that he had
played the fool nicely.

"My sword," he demanded, with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Will you sheathe it?" the old man asked mildly.

"Since it is of no particular use," bitterly.

"I could have broken it half a dozen times. Here, take it. But be wise
in the future, and draw it only in the right."

The gall was bitter on the colonel's tongue, but his head was evenly
balanced now. He jammed the blade into the scabbard.

"I should like a word or two with you outside," said the mountaineer.

"To what purpose?"

"To a good one, as you will learn."

The two of them went out. Gretchen, overcome, fell upon Fräu Bauer's
neck and wept soundly. The whole affair had been so sudden and
appalling.

Outside the old man laid his hand on the colonel's arm.

"You must never bother her again."

"Must?"

"The very word. Listen, and do not be a fool because you have some
authority on the general staff. You are Colonel von Wallenstein; you are
something more besides."

"What do you infer?"

"I infer nothing. Now and then there happens strange leakage in the
duke's affairs. The man is well paid. He is a gambler, and one is always
reasonably certain that the gambler will be wanting money. Do you begin
to understand me, or must I be more explicit?"

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no present consequence. But I know who and _what_ you
are. That is all-sufficient. If you behave yourself in the future, you
will be allowed to continue in prosperity. But if you attempt to molest
that girl again and I hear of it, there will be no more gold coming over
the frontier from Jugendheit. Now, do you understand?"

"Yes." The colonel experienced a weakness in the knees.

"Go. But be advised and walk circumspectly." The speaker showed his
back insolently, and reëntered the Black Eagle.

The colonel, pale and distrait, stared at the empty door; and he saw in
his mind's eye a squad of soldiers, a wall, a single volley, and a
dishonored roll of earth. Military informers were given short shrift. It
was not a matter of tearing off orders and buttons; it was death. Who
was this terrible old man, with the mind of a serpent and the strength
of a bear? The colonel went to the barracks, but his usual debonair was
missing.

"I am going into the garden, Gretchen. Bring me a stein of brown." The
mountaineer smiled genially.

"But I am not working here any more," said Gretchen.

"No?"

"She has had a fortune left her," said Fräu Bauer.

"Well, well!" The mountaineer seemed vastly pleased. "And how much is
this fortune?"

"Two thousand crowns." Gretchen was not sure, but to her there always
seemed to be a secret laughter behind those clear eyes.

"Handsome! And what will you do now?"

"She is to study for the opera."

"Did I not prophesy it?" he cried jubilantly.

"Did I not say that some impresario would discover you and make your
fortune?"

"There is plenty of work ahead," said Gretchen sagely.

"Always, no matter what we strive for. But a brave heart and a cheerful
smile carry you half-way up the hill. Where were you going when this
popinjay stopped you?"

"I was going to the clock-mender's for a clock he is repairing."

"I've nothing to do. I'll go with you. I've an idea that I should like
to talk with you about a very important matter. Perhaps it would be
easier to talk first and then go for the clock. If you have it you'll be
watching it. Will you come into the garden with me now?"

"Yes, Herr." Gretchen would have gone anywhere with this strange man. He
inspired confidence.

The garden was a snug little place; a few peach-trees and arbor-vines
and vegetables, and tables and chairs on the brick walk.

"So you are going to become a prima donna?" he began, seating himself
opposite her.

"I am going to try," she smiled. "What is it you wish to say to me?"

"I am wondering how to begin," looking at the blue sky.

"Is it difficult?"

"Yes, very."

"Then why bother?"

"Some things are written before we are born. And I must, in the order of
things, read this writing to you."

"Begin," said Gretchen.

"Have you any dreams?"

"Yes," vaguely.

"I mean the kind one has in the daytime, the dreams when the eyes are
wide open."

"Oh, yes!"

"Who has not dreamed of riding in carriages, of dressing in silks, of
wearing rich ornaments?"

"Ah!" Gretchen clasped her hands and leaned on her elbows. "And there
are palaces, too."

"To be sure." There was a long pause. "How would you like a dream of
this kind to come true?"

"Do they ever come true?"

"In this particular case, I am a fairy. I know that I do not look it;
still, I am. With one touch of my wand--this oak staff--I can bring you
all these things you have dreamed about."

"But what would I do with carriages and jewels? I am only a goose-girl,
and I am to be married."

"To that young rascal of a vintner?"

"He is not a rascal!" loyally.

"It will take but little to make him one," with an odd grimness.

Gretchen did not understand.

He resumed, "how would you like a little palace, with servants at your
beck and call, with carriages to ride in, with silks and velvets to
wear, and jewels to adorn your hair? How would you like these things?
Eh? Never again to worry about your hands, never again to know the
weariness of toil, to be mistress of swans instead of geese?"

A shadow fell upon Gretchen's face; the eagerness died out of her eyes.

"I do not understand you, Herr. By what right should I possess these
things?"

"By the supreme right of beauty, beauty alone."

"Would it be--honest?"

For the first time he lowered his eyes. The clear crystal spirit in hers
embarrassed him.

"Come, let us go for your clock," he said, rising. "I am an old fool. I
forgot that one talks like this only to opera-dancers."

Then Gretchen understood. "I am all alone," she said; "I have had to
fight my battles with these two hands."

"I am a black devil, _Kindchen_. Forget what I have said. You are worthy
the brightest crown in Europe; but you wear a better one than
that--goodness. If any one should ever make you unhappy, come to me. I
will be your godfather. Will you forgive an old man who ought to have
known better?"

There was such unmistakable honesty in his face and eyes that she did
not hesitate, but placed her hand in his.

"Why did you ask all those questions?" she inquired.

"Perhaps it was only to test your strength. You are a brave and honest
girl."

"And if trouble came," now smiling, "where should I find you?"

"I shall be near when it comes. Good fairies are always close at hand."
He swept his hat from his head; ease and grace were in the movement; no
irony, nothing but respect. "And do you love this vintner?"

"With all my heart."

"And he loves you?"

"Yes. His lips might lie, but not his eyes and the touch of his hand."

"So much the worse!" said the mountaineer inaudibly.

Gretchen had gone home with her clock; but still Herr Ludwig, as the
mountaineer called himself, tarried in the dim and dusty shop. Clocks,
old and new, broken and whole, clocks from the four ends of the world;
and watches, thick and clumsy, thin and graceful, of gold and silver and
pewter.

"Is there anything you want?" asked the clock-mender.

Herr Ludwig turned. How old this clock-mender was, how very old!

"Yes," he said. "I've a watch I should like you to look over." And he
carelessly laid the beautiful time-piece on the worn wooden counter.

The clock-mender literally pounced upon it. "Where did you get a watch
like this?" he demanded suspiciously.

"It is mine. You will find my name engraved inside the back lid."

The clock-mender pried open the case, adjusted his glass--and dropped
it, shaking with terror.

"You?" he whispered.

"Sh!" said Herr Ludwig, putting a finger to his lips.

CHAPTER XIV

FIND THE WOMAN

The watch, slipping from the clock-mender's hand, spun like a coin on
the counter, while the clock-mender himself, his eyes bulging, his jaw
dangling, it might be said, staggered back upon his stool.

"So this is the end?" he said in a kind of mutter.

"The end of what?" demanded the owner of the watch.

"Of all my labors, to me and to what little I have left!"

"Fiddlesticks! I am here for no purpose regarding you, my comrade. So
far as I am concerned, your secret is as dead as it ever was. I had a
fancy that you were living in Paris."

"Paris! _Gott!_ For seventeen, eighteen years I have traveled hither and
thither, always on some false clue. Never a band of Gipsies I heard of
that I did not seek them out. Nothing, nothing! You will never know what
I have gone through, and uselessly, to prove my innocence. It always
comes back in a circle; what benefit to me would have been a crime like
that of which I was accused? Was I not high in honor? Was I not wealthy?
Was not my home life a happy one? What benefit to me, I say?" a growing
fierceness in his voice and gestures. "All my estates confiscated, my
wife dead of shame, and I molding among these clocks!"

"But why the clocks?" in wonder.

"It was a pastime of mine when I was a boy. I used to be tinkering among
all the clocks in the house. So I bought out this old shop. From time to
time I have left it in the hands of an assistant. The grand duke has a
wonderful Friesian clock. One day it fell out of order, and the court
jeweler could do nothing with it. I was summoned, I! No one recognized
me, I have changed so. I mended the clock and went away."

"But what is the use of all this, now that her highness is found?"

"My honor; to the duke it is black as ever."

"Have you gone forward any?"

"Like Sisyphus! I had begun to give up hope, when the Gipsy I was
seeking was seen by one of my agents. He alone knows the secret. And I
am waiting, waiting. But you believe, Ludwig?"

"Carl, you are as innocent of it all as I am or as my brother was. Come
with me to Jugendheit."

"No, Ludwig, this is my country, however unjustly it has treated me."

"Yes, yes. And to think that you and I and the grand duke were comrades
at Heidelberg! But if your Gipsy fails you?"

"Still I shall remain. This will be all I shall have, these clocks. I am
only sixty-eight, yet no one would believe me under eighty. I no longer
gaze into mirrors. I have forgotten how I look. There were letters found
in my desk, all forgeries, I knew, but so cleverly done I could only
deny. I saw that my case was hopeless, so I fled to Paris. I wrote
Herbeck once while there. He believed that I was innocent. I have his
letter yet. He has a great heart, Ludwig, and he has done splendid work
for Ehrenstein."

"He keeps a steady hand on the duke."

"But you, what are you doing in Dreiberg, in this guise?"

Herr Ludwig sat upon the counter and clasped a knee. "Do you care for
fairy-stories?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, once upon a time there lived a king. He was young. He had an
uncle who watched over him and his affairs. They call such uncles prince
regents. This prince regent had an idea regarding the future welfare of
this nephew. He would bring him up to be a man, well educated,
broad-minded, and clean-lived. He should have a pilot to guide him past
the traps and vices which befall the young. Time wore on. The lad grew
up, clean in mind, strong in body, liberal; a fine prince. No scandalous
entanglements; no gaming; no wine-bibbing beyond what any decent man may
do. In his palace few saw anything of him after his fifteenth year. He
went into the world under an assumed name. By and by he came home,
quietly. His uncle was proud of him, for his eye was clear and his
tongue was clean. In one month he was to be coronated. And now what do
you think? He must have one more adventure, just one. Would his uncle
go with him? Certainly not. Moreover, the time for adventure was over.
He must no longer wander about; he was a king; he must put his hand to
king-craft. And one morning his uncle found him gone, gone as completely
as if he had never existed. What to do? Ah! The prince regent set it
going that his majesty had gone a-hunting in Bavaria. Then the prince
regent put on some old clothes and went a-venturing himself."

"And the end?"

"God knows!" said Ludwig, sliding off the counter.

Nothing but the ticking of the clocks was heard.

"And fatuous fool that this uncle was, he committed an almost
irreparable blunder. He tried to marry his nephew."

"I understand. But if you are discovered here?"

"That is not likely."

"Ah, Ludwig, it is not the expected that always happens. Be careful; you
know the full wording of Herbeck's treaty."

"Herbeck; there's a man," said Herr Ludwig admiringly. "To have found
her highness as he did!"

"He is lucky," but without resentment.

The other picked up his watch. "Can I be of material assistance?"

"I want nothing," haughtily.

"Proud old imbecile!" replied the mountaineer kindly. "You have been
deeply wronged, but some day you will pick up the thread in the
labyrinth, and there will be light forward. I myself shall see what can
be done with the duke."

"He will never be brought to reason unless indubitable evidence of my
innocence confronts him. With the restoration of the princess fifty
political prisoners were given their liberty and restored to
citizenship. The place once occupied by my name is still blank,
obliterated. It is hard. I have given the best of my heart and of my
brain to Ehrenstein--for this! I am innocent."

"I believe you, Carl. Remember, Jugendheit will always welcome you. I
must be going. I have much to do between now and midnight. The good God
will unravel the snarl."

"Or forget it," cynically. "Good-by, Ludwig."

There was a hand-clasp, and the mountaineer took himself off. The
clock-mender philosophically reached for his tools. He had wasted time
enough over retrospection; he determined to occupy himself with the
present only. Tick-tock! tick-tock! sang the clocks about him. All at
once a volume of musical sounds broke forth; cuckoo-calls, chimes,
tinkles light and thin, booms deep and vibrant. But the clock-mender
bent over his work; all he was conscious of was the eternal tick-tock!
tick-tock! on and on, without cessation.

Carmichael walked his horse. This morning he had ridden out almost to
the frontier and was now on his return. As he passed through the last
grove of pines and came into the clearing the picture was exquisite; the
three majestic bergs of ice and snow above Dreiberg, the city shining
white and fairylike in the mid-morning's sun, and the long,
half-circling ribbon of a road. He sighed, and the horse cocked his ears
at the sound.

No longer did Carmichael take the south pass for his morning rides.
That was the favored going of her highness, and he avoided her now. In
truth, he dared not meet her now; it would have been out of wisdom. So
long as she had been free his presence had caused no comment, only
tolerant amusement among the nobles at court. It chafed him to be
regarded as a harmless individual, for he knew that he was far from
being in that class. There was a wild strain in him. Dreiberg might have
waked up some fine morning to learn that for a second time her princess
had been stolen, and that there was a vacancy in the American consulate.
How many times had he been seized with the mad desire to snatch the
bridle of her horse and ride away with her into a far country! How often
had his arms started out toward her, only to drop stiffly to his sides!

March hares! They were Solons as compared with his own futile madness.
But it was different now. She was to marry the king of Jugendheit; it
was in the order of things that he ride alone. He knew that court
etiquette demanded the isolation of the Princess Hildegarde from male
escort other than that formally provided. The two soldiers detailed to
act as her grooms or bodyguards were not, of course, to be considered.
So, of the morning, he went down to the military field to watch the
maneuvers, which were drawing to a close; or rode out to the frontier,
or took the side road to Eissen, where the summer palaces were. But it
was all dreary; the zest of living had somehow dropped out of things.

The road to Eissen began about six miles north of the base of the
Dreiberg mountain. It swerved to the east. As Carmichael reached the
fork his horse began to limp. He jumped down and removed the stone. It
was then that he heard the far-off mutter of hoofs. Coming along the
road from Eissen were a trio of riders. Carmichael laughed weakly.

"I swear to Heaven that this is no fault of mine!"

Should he mount and be off before she made the turn? Bah! It was an
accident; he would make the most of it. The bodyguard could easily
vindicate him, in any event. He remounted and waited.

She came in full flight, rosy, radiant, as lovely as Diana. Carmichael
swung his cap boyishly; and there was a swirl of dust as she drew up.

"Good morning, Herr Carmichael!"

"Good morning, your Highness!"

"Which way have you been riding?"

"Toward Jugendheit."

"And you are returning?" With a short nod of her head she signaled for
the two soldiers to fall back.

The two looked at each other embarrassedly.

"Pardon, Highness," said one of them, "but the orders of the duke will
not permit us to leave you. There have been thieves along the road of
late."

Thieves? This was the first time Carmichael had heard of it. The real
significance of the maneuver escaped him; but her highness was not
fooled.

"Very well," she replied. "One of you ride forward and one of you take
the rear." Then she spoke to Carmichael in English.

The soldiers shrugged. To them it did not matter what language her
highness adopted so long as they obeyed the letter of the duke's
instructions. The little cavalcade directed its course toward the city.

"You have not been riding of late," she said.

Then she had missed him. Carmichael's heart expanded. To be missed is to
be regretted, and one regrets only those in whom one is interested.

"I have ridden the same as usual, your Highness; only I have taken this
road for a change."

"Ah!" She patted the glistening neck of her mare. So he had purposely
tried to avoid her? Why? She stole a sly glance at him. Why were not
kings molded in this form? All the kings she had met had something the
matter with them, crooked legs, weak eyes, bald, young, or old, and daft
over gaming-tables and opera-dancers. And the one man among them all--at
least she had been informed that the king of Jugendheit was all of a
man--had politely declined. There was some chagrin in this for her, but
no bitterness or rancor. In truth, she was more chagrined on her
father's account than on her own.

"You should have taken the south pass. It was lovely yesterday."

"Perhaps this way has been wisest."

"Are you become afraid of me?" archly.

"Yes, your Highness." If he had looked at her instead of his horse's
ears, and smiled, all would have been well.

She instantly regretted the question. "I am sorry that I have become an
ogress."

"To me your highness is the most perfect of women. I am guilty of
lese-majesty."

"I shall not lock you up," she said, and added under her breath, "as my
good father would like to! Besides," she continued aloud, "I rather like
to set the court by the ears. Whoever heard of a serene highness doing
the things I do? I suppose it is because I have known years of freedom,
freedom of action, of thought, of speech. These habits can not change at
once. In fact, I do not believe they ever will. But the duke, my father,
is good; he understands and trusts me. Ah, but I shall lead some king a
merry life!" with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Frederick of Jugendheit?"

"Is it true that you have not heard yet? I have declined the honor."

"Your highness?"

"My serene highness," with a smile. "This, of course, is as yet a state
secret; and my reason for telling you is not a princess', but a woman's.
Solve it if you can."

Carmichael fumbled the reins blindly. "They say that he is a handsome
young man."

"What has that to do with it? The interest he takes in his kingdom is
positively negative. I have learned that he has been to his capital but
twice since he was fifteen. He is even now absent on a hunting trip in
Bavaria, and his coronation but a few days off. There will be only one
king in Jugendheit, and that will be the prince regent."

"He has done tolerably well up to the present," observed Carmichael,
welcoming this change. "Jugendheit is prosperous; it has a splendid
army. The prince regent is a fine type of man, they say, rugged,
patient, frugal and sensible."

"There is an instance where he made a cruel blunder."

"No man is infallible," said he, wondering what this blunder was.

"I suppose not. Look! The artillery is firing."

Boom-boom! They saw the smoke leap from the muzzles of the cannon, and
it seemed minutes before the sound reached them.

"I have a fine country, too," she said, with pride; "prosperous, and an
army not inferior to that of Jugendheit."

"I was not making comparisons, your Highness."

"I know that, my friend. I was simply speaking from the heart. But I
doubt if the prince regent is a better man than our Herbeck."

"I prefer Herbeck, never having met the prince regent. But I have some
news for your highness."

"News for me?"

"Yes. I am about to ask for my recall," he said, the idea having come
into his mind at that precise moment.

"Your recall?"

Had he been looking at her he would have noticed that the color on her
fair cheeks had gone a shade lighter.

"Yes."

"Is not this sudden? it is not very complimentary to Ehrenstein."

"The happiest days in my life have been spent here."

"Then why seek to be recalled?"

"I am essentially a man of action, your Highness. I am growing dull and
stupid amid these charming pleasures. Action; I have always been mixed
up in some trouble or other. Here it is a round of pleasure from day to
day. I long for buffets. I am wicked enough to wish for war."

"_Cherchez la femme!_" she cried. "There is a woman?"

"Oh, yes!" recklessly.

"Then go to her, my friend, go to her." And she waved her crop over his
head as in benediction. "Some day, before you go, I shall ask you all
about her." Ah, as if she did not know! But half the charm in life is
playing with hidden dangers.

He did not speak, but caught up the reins firmly. She touched her mare
on the flank, and the four began trotting, a pace which they maintained
as far as the military field. Here they paused, for the scene was
animated and full of color. Squadrons of cavalry raced across the
field; infantry closed in or deployed; artillery rumbled, wheeled,
stopped, unlimbered. Bang-bang! The earth shivered and rocked. Guerdons
were flying, bugles were blowing, and sabers were flashing.

"It is beautiful," she cried, "this mimic war."

"May your highness never see aught else!" he replied fervently.

"Yes, yes; you have seen it divested of all its pomp. You have seen it
in all its cruelty and horror."

"I have known even the terror of it."

"You were afraid?"

"Many times."

She laughed. It is only the coward who denies fear.

He would certainly ask for his recall or transfer. He was eating his
heart out here in Dreiberg.

They began the incline. She did most of the talking, brightly and gaily;
but his ears were dull, for the undercurrent passed by him. He was, for
the first time, impressed with the fact that the young ladies of the
court never accompanied her on her morning rides. There were frequent
afternoon excursions, when several ladies and gentlemen rode with her
highness, but in the mornings, never.

"Will you return to America?" she queried.

"I shall idle in Paris for a while. I have an idea that there will be
war one of these days."

"And which side will you take?"

"I should be a traitor if I fought for France; I should be an ingrate if
I fought against her. I should be a spectator, a neutral."

"That would expose you to danger without the right to strike a blow in
defense."

"If I were hurt it would be but an accident. War correspondents would
run a hundred more risks than I. Oh, I should be careful; I know war too
well not to be."

"All this is strange talk for a man who is a confessed lover."

"Pardon me!" his eyes rather empty.

"Why, you tell me there is a woman; and all your talk is about war and
danger. These are opposites; please explain."

"There is a woman, but she will not hinder me in any way. She will, in
fact, know nothing about it."

"You are a strange lover. I never read anything like you in
story-books. Forgive me! I am thoughtless. The subject may be painful to
you."

The horses began to pull. Under normal circumstances Carmichael would
not have dismounted, but his horse had carried him many miles that
morning, and he was a merciful rider. In the war days often had his life
depended upon the care of his horse.

"You have been riding hard?"

"No, only far."

"I do not believe that there is a finer horseman in all Ehrenstein than
yourself."

"Your highness is very good to say that." Why had he not gone on instead
of waiting at the fork?

Within a few hundred yards of the gates he mounted again. And then he
saw a lonely figure sitting on the parapet. He would have recognized
that square form anywhere. And he welcomed the sight of it.

"Your Highness, do you see that man yonder, on the parapet? We fought in
the same cavalry. He is covered with scars. Not one man in a thousand
would have gone through what he did and lived."

"Is he an American?"

"By adoption. And may I ask a favor of your highness?"

"Two!" merrily.

"May I present him? It will be the joy of his life."

"Certainly. All brave men interest me."

Grumbach rose up, uncovered, thinking that the riders were going to pass
him. But to his surprise his friend Carmichael stopped his horse and
beckoned to him.

"Herr Grumbach," said Carmichael, "her serene highness desires me to
present you."

Hans was stricken dumb. He knew of no greater honor.

"Mr. Carmichael," she said in English, "tells me that you fought with
him in the American war?"

"Yes, Highness."

She plied him with a number of questions; how many battles they had
fought in, how many times they had been wounded, how they lived in camp,
and so forth; and which was the more powerful engine of war, the
infantry or the cavalry.

"The cavalry, Highness," said Hans, without hesitation.

She laughed. "If you had been a foot-soldier, you would have said the
infantry; of the artillery, you would have sworn by the cannon."

"That is true, Highness. The three arms are necessary, but there is ever
the individual pride in the arm one serves in."

"And that is right. You speak good English," she remarked.

"I have lived more than sixteen years in America, Highness."

"Do you like it there?"

"It is a great country, full of great ideas and great men, Highness."

"And you will go back?"

"Soon, Highness."

The mare, knowing that this was the way home, grew restive and began
prancing and pawing the road. She reined in quickly. As she did so,
something yellow flashed downward and tinkled as it struck the ground.
Grumbach hastened forward.

"My locket," said her highness anxiously.

"It is not broken, Highness," said Grumbach; "only the chain has come
apart." Then he handed it to her gravely.

"Thank you!" Her highness put both chain and locket into a small purse
which she carried in her belt, touched the mare, and sped up the road,
Carmichael following.

Grumbach returned to the parapet. He followed them till they passed out
of sight beyond the gates.

"_Gott!_" he murmured.

His face was as livid as the scar on his head.

CHAPTER XV

THE WRONG MAN

Herbeck dropped his quill, and there was a dream in his eyes. His desk
was littered with papers, well covered with ink; flowing sentences, and
innumerable figures. He was the watch-dog of the duchy. Never a bill
from the Reichstag that did not pass under his cold eye before it went
to the duke for his signature, his approval, or veto. Not a copper was
needlessly wasted, and never was one held back unnecessarily. Herbeck
was just both in great and little things. The commoners could neither
fool nor browbeat him.

The dream in his eyes grew; it was tender and kindly. The bar of
sunlight lengthened across his desk, and finally passed on. Still he sat
there, motionless, rapt. And thus the duke found him. But there was no
dream in _his_ eyes; they were cold with implacable anger. He held a
letter in his hand and tossed it to Herbeck.

"I shall throw ten thousand men across the frontier to-night, let the
consequences be what they may."

"Ten thousand men?" The dream was shattered. War again?

"Read that. It is the second anonymous communication I have received
within a week. As the first was truthful, there is no reason to believe
this one to be false."

Herbeck read, and he was genuinely startled.

"What do you say to that?" triumphantly.

"This," with that rapid decision which made him the really great
tactician he was. "Let them go quietly back to Jugendheit."

"No!" blazed the duke.

"Are we rich enough for war?"

"Always questions, questions! What the devil is my army for if not to
uphold my dignity? Herbeck, you shall not argue me out of this."

"Rather let me reason. This is some prank, which I am sure does not
concern Ehrenstein in the least. They would never dare enter Dreiberg
for aught else. There must be a flaw in our secret service."

"Doubtless."

"I have seen this writing before," said Herbeck. "I shall make it my
business to inquire who it is that takes this kindly interest in the
affairs of state."

The duke struck the bell violently.

"Summon the chief of the police," he said to the secretary.

"Yes, yes, your Highness, let it be a police affair. This letter does
not state the why and wherefore of their presence here."

"It holds enough for me."

"Will your highness leave the matter in my hands?"

"Herbeck, in some things you are weak."

"And in others I am strong," smiled the chancellor. "I am weak when
there is talk of war; I am strong when peace is in the balance."

"Is it possible, Herbeck, that you do not appreciate the magnitude of
the situation?"

"It is precisely because I do that I wish to move slowly. Wait. Let the
police find out _why_ they are here. There will be time enough then to
declare war. They have never seen her highness. Who knows?"

"Ah! But they have violated the treaty."

"That depends upon whether their presence here is or is not a menace to
the state. If they are here on private concerns which in no wise touch
Ehrenstein, it would be foolhardy to declare war. Your highness is
always letting your personal wounds blur your eyesight. Some day you
will find that Jugendheit is innocent."

"God hasten the day and hour!"

"Yes, let us hope that the mystery of it all will be cleared up. You are
just and patient in everything but this." Herbeck idled with his quill.
The little finger of his right hand was badly scarred, the mutilation of
a fencing-bout in his student days.

"What do you advise?" wearily. It seemed to the duke that Herbeck of
late never agreed with him.

"My advice is to wait. In a day or so arrest them under the pretext that
you believe them to be spies. If they remain mute, then the case is
serious, and you will have them on the hip. If, on the other hand, this
invasion is harmless and they declare themselves, the matter can be
adjusted in this wise: ignore their declaration and confine them a day
or two in the city prison, then publish the news broadcast. Having
themselves broken the letter if not the spirit of the treaty, they will
not dare declare war. Every court in Europe will laugh."

The duke struck his hands together. "You are always right, Herbeck. This
plan could not have been devised better or more to my satisfaction." The
duke laughed. "You are right. Ah, here is the chief."

Herbeck read the letter in part to the chief, who jotted down the words,
repeating aloud in a kind of mutter: "A mountaineer, a vintner, a
carter, a butcher, and a baker. You will give me their descriptions,
your Excellency?"

Herbeck read the postscript.

"But you don't tell him who--"

"Why should he know?" said Herbeck, glancing shrewdly at the duke. "His
ignorance will be all the better for the plot."

"Then this is big game, your Highness?" asked the chief.

"Big game."

"One is as big and powerful as a Carpathian bear. Look out," warned
Herbeck.

"And he is?"

"The mountaineer."

"And the vintner?"

"Oh, he is a little fellow, and hasn't grown his bite yet," said Herbeck
dryly.

The duke laughed again. It would be as good as a play.

"I thank you, Herbeck. You have neatly arranged a fine comedy. I do not
think so clearly as I used to. When the arrest is made, give it as much
publicity as possible. Take a squad of soldiers; it will give it a
military look. Will you be on the field this afternoon?"

"No, your highness," touching the papers which strewed his desk; "this
will keep me busy well into evening."

The duke waved his hand cheerfully and left the cabinet.

"Your excellency, then, really leaves me to work in the dark?" asked the
chief uneasily.

"Yes," tearing up the note. "But you will not be in the dark long after
you have arrested these persons. Begin with the mountaineer and the
vintner; the others do not matter so much." Then Herbeck laughed. The
chief raised his head. He had not heard his excellency laugh like that
in many moons. "Report to me your progress. Unfortunately my informant
does not state just where these fellows are to be found."

"That is my business, your Excellency."

"Good luck to you!" responded Herbeck, with a gesture of dismissal.

When her highness came in from her morning's ride she found the duke
waiting in her apartments.

"Why, father," kissing him, "what brings you here?"

"A little idea I have in mind." He drew her down to the arm of the
chair. "We all have our little day-dreams."

"Who does not, father?" She slid her arm round his neck. She was full of
affection for this kindly parent.

"But there are those of us who must not accept day-dreams as realities;
for then there will be heartaches and futile longings."

"You are warning me. About what, father?" There was a little stab in her
heart.

"Herr Carmichael is a fine fellow, brave, witty, shrewd. If all
Americans are like him, America will soon become a force in the world.
I have taken a fancy to him; and you know what they say of your
father--no formality with those whom he likes. Humanly, I am right; but
in the virtue of everyday events in court life, I am wrong."

She moved uneasily.

He went on: "Herbeck has spoken of it, the older women speak of it; and
they all say--"

"Say!" she cried hotly, leaping to her feet. "What do I care what they
say? Are you not the grand duke, and am I not your daughter?"

In his turn the duke felt the stab.

"You must ride no more with Herr Carmichael. It is neither wise nor
safe."

"Father!"

He was up, with his arms folding round her. "Child, it is only for your
sake. Listen to me. I married your mother because I loved her and she
loved me. The case is isolated, rare, out of the beaten path in the
affairs of rulers. But you, you must be a princess. You must steel your
heart against the invasion of love, unless it comes from a state equal
or superior to your own. It is harsh and cruel, but it is a law that
will neither bend nor break. Do you understand me?"

The girl stared blindly at the wall. "Yes, father."

"It is all my fault," said the duke, deeply agitated, for the girl
trembled under his touch.

"I shall not ride with him any more."

"There's a good girl," patting her shoulder.

"I have been a princess such a little while."

He kissed the wheaten-colored hair. "Be a brave heart, and I shall
engage to find a king for you."

"I don't want any playthings, father," with the old light touch; and
then she looked him full in the eyes. "I promise to do nothing more to
create comment if, on the other hand, you will promise to give me two
years more of freedom."

The duke readily assented, and shortly returned to his own suite, rather
pleased that there had been no scene; not that he had expected any.

Now that she was alone, she slipped into the chair, beat a light tattoo
with her riding-whip against her teeth, and looked fixedly at the wall
again, as if to gaze beyond it, into the dim future. But she saw nothing
save that she was young and that the days in Dresden, for all their
penury, were far pleasanter than these.

Meantime the chief of police called his subaltern and placed in his
hands the peculiar descriptions. The word vintner caused him to give
vent to an ejaculation of surprise.

"He was in here last night. I have had him followed all day. He lives
over the American consulate. Among his things was found the uniform of a
colonel in the Prussian Uhlans."

"Ha! Arrest him to-morrow, or the day after at the latest. But the
mountaineer is the big game. Do not arrest the vintner till you have
him. Where one is the other is likely to be. But on the moment of arrest
you must have a squad of soldiers at your back."

"Soldiers?" doubtfully.

"Express orders of his highness."

"It shall be done."

Considerable activity was manifest in the police bureau the rest of that
day.

To return to Carmichael. He had never before concerned himself with
resignations. Up to this hour he had never resigned anything he had set
his heart upon. So it was not an easy matter for him to compose a
letter to the secretary of state, resigning the post at Dreiberg. True,
he added that he desired to be transferred to a seaport town, France or
Italy preferred. The high altitude in Dreiberg had affected his heart.
However, in case there was no other available post, they would kindly
appoint his successor at once. Carmichael never faltered where his
courage was concerned, and it needed a fine quality of moral courage to
write this letter and enclose it in the diplomatic pouch which went into
the mails that night. It took courage indeed to face the matter squarely
and resolutely, when there was the urging desire to linger on and on,
indefinitely. That she was not going to marry the king of Jugendheit did
not alter his affairs in the least. It was all hopeless, absurd, and
impossible. He must go.

Some one was knocking on the door.

"Come in."

"A letter for your excellency," said the concierge.

"Wait till I read it. There may be an answer."

"If Herr Carmichael would learn the secret of number forty Krumerweg,
let him attire himself as a vintner and be in the Krumerweg at eight
o'clock to-night."

This note was as welcome to the recipient as the flowers in the spring.
An adventure? He was ready, now and always. Anything to take his mind
off his own dismal affairs. Then he recalled the woman in black; the
letter could apply to none but her. More than this, he might light upon
the puzzle regarding the vintner. He had met the fellow before. But
where?

"What sort of clothes does a vintner wear?" he asked.

"A vintner, your Excellency?"

"Yes. I shall need the costume of a vintner this evening."

"Oh, that will be easy," affirmed the concierge, "if your excellency
does not mind wearing clothes that have already been worn."

"My excellency will not care a hang. Procure them as soon as you can."

So it came about that Carmichael, dressed as a vintner, his hat over his
eyes, stole into the misty night and took the way to the Krumerweg. He
knew exactly where he wished to go: number forty. It was gray-black in
the small streets; and but for the occasional light in a window the dark
would have had no modification. Sometimes he would lose the point of the
compass and blunder against a wall or find himself feeling for the curb,