"Now, say that a girl can't keep a secret," came to her ears from the radiant sister of Dantan. Ravone, at her side, spoke to her, and she turned to him dizzily.
"You first knew me as Ravone, Miss Calhoun," he was saying genially. "Then it became necessary, by royal command, for me to be Prince Dantan. May I have the honor of introducing myself in the proper person? I am Christobal of Rapp-Thorburg, and I shall be no other than he hereafter. The friendship that binds me to Prince Dantan, at last in his proper place beside the Princess of Graustark, is to be strengthened into a dearer relationship before many days have passed."
"The Princess Candace ceases to be his sister," volunteered the Duke of Mizrox. "She is and long has been his affianced wife."
Enchanted and confused over all that had occurred in the last few moments, Beverly murmured her heartfelt congratulations to the joyous couple. The orchestra had again ceased playing. All eyes turned to Baldos,—the real Prince Dantan,—who, glass in hand, rose to his feet.
"Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen: Graustark and Dawsbergen are entering a new era. I pledge you my honor that never again shall the slightest misunderstanding exist between them. They shall go forth to their glorious destiny as one people. Your gracious ruler has seen fit to bestow her hand and affections upon an American gentleman, your esteemed prince consort. We all know how loyally the people have approved her choice. There is one present, a trusted friend of your beautiful princess, and lovingly called in your hearts, Beverly of Graustark. Whose example more worthy for me to follow than that of the Princess Yetive? With whom could I better share my throne and please you more than with your beloved American protege. I ask you to drink a toast to my betrothed, Beverly Calhoun, the future Princess of Dawsbergen."
Every glass was raised and the toast drunk amidst ringing cheers. The military band crashed out the air so dear to all Americans, especially to southern hearts. Beverly was too overcome to speak.
"You all—!" she exclaimed.
There was a tremendous commotion in the gallery. People were standing in their seats half frightened and amused, their attention attracted by the unusual scene. A portly negress totally unconscious of the sensation she was causing, her feet keeping time to the lively strains of music, was frantically waving a red and yellow bandanna handkerchief. It was Aunt Fanny, and in a voice that could be heard all over the banquet hall, she shouted: "Good Lawd, honey, ef der ain't playin' 'Away Down South in Dixie,' Hooray! Hooray!"
Hours later Beverly was running, confused and humbled, through the halls to her room, when a swifter one than she came up and checked her flight.