"Zat von—zat von in ze meedle—wiz ze red 'air," said the baron.
He pointed to Pollyooly in the middle of the ring where she was acting as pitcher, her face flushed, her eyes shining, her red hair a flying cloud.
An immense slow smile spread over the expanse of royal face; and the grand duke cried: "Mein Gott! Bud id is nod a child at all—zat! Id is an anchel—a leedle anchel—Italian renascence! Is id nod, Erkelenz?" And he turned to his slim equerry.
"Yes, Highness: authentic," said the equerry.
The Baron von Habelschwert gasped; he could not believe his ears.
The little girl, batting, whacked the ball over the prince's head.
"Run, Adalbert! Run!" shrieked Pollyooly.
"Roon, Adalbert! Der Teufel! Roon!" bellowed the grand duke.
It is hard to say whether the shriek of Pollyooly or the terrific bellow of his august sire was the sharper spur to the prince's legs; but he saved the rounder.
"Sblendid! 'e did not roon like an ox," said the grand duke almost proudly. "Vhat did you write vas ze name of zat leedle anchel?"