"Father, father!"
"What is it, Dolores?"
"Her Highness, the Princess!"
The old man bustled down the stairs, trembling with added excitement, just as Maria Theresa and Nita were bowed into the tavern by a villager who had accompanied them from the delayed machine.
The peasants trooped into the room from the tap, howling with mediæval enthusiasm.
"Your Gracious Highness does my humble inn great honor," began Pedro, as his local guests imitated the clumsy courtesy with varying ability.
"Thank you, Pedro," replied the Princess graciously as one would address a polite child.
She held out her hand to Dolores, who kissed it reverently, with a bow and a bend of the knee.
"Your Highness, we are poorly prepared for this great favor, ill prepared indeed," apologized Dolores. "Your exalted cousin gave us but short warning of your coming. Our humble tavern is hardly fitting for a great lady."
"My child, any place to remove the dust of travel will do for me." She turned toward the villager at the door. "Tell my chauffeur that when he repairs the car I shall want it kept in readiness to use again."