They were crossing a big open space, well lit, planted with trees, and adorned in its centre by a big group of statuary. To their right was a huge gothic building—a high ridged intricate structure of red sandstone—with a tangle of fretted pinnacles and flying buttresses, and a couple of lofty towers that stood out black against the starry heaven.
"A fine building!" commented the American.
"That is where I am going to be crowned," said the Princess, and she laughed a fine, free, silvery laugh that thrilled her companion with admiration.
"That's the right spirit," he said gaily; "and what's this depressing-looking place in front of us?"
"That's where I shall probably be confined," was the cheerful retort.
The building in question occupied the entire side of the square, and was as gloomy as it was vast. It was a plain rectangular structure totally devoid of ornament, and constructed of enormous blocks of rough hewn stone; irregularly spaced windows broke its sombre front with narrow slits and iron gratings, and a high-pitched roof of ruddy tiles crowned the grim precipice of enduring masonry.
"That's the Strafeburg," concluded the Princess, "the Bastille of Weidenbruck!"
"I see myself rescuing you from that topmost window," ventured Trafford.
The Princess turned half round and looked at him curiously.
"Thanks," she murmured, "but I shall keep outside as long as I can. As a foreigner you should visit it—as a sight-seer. It is a most depressing place, but there is a very valuable collection of armour and a collection of instruments of torture without its equal in Europe."