The innkeeper leaned against the side of the fireplace, staring into the flames.
"He is dead," briefly.
"Who was he?"
"Her late Highness's court-physician. Oh, have no fear, Herr; this new-found Princess of yours will come into her own," with a bitter smile.
"And why have you kept silent all these years?" I asked.
"Why?" He raised his arms, then let them fall dejectedly. "I loved the Princess Hildegarde. I was jealous that any should share her greatness. I have kept silent because I carried her in my arms till she could walk. Because her father cursed her, and refused to believe her his own. Because she grew around my heart as a vine grows around a rugged oak. And the other? She was nothing to me. I had never seen her. My wife spirited her away when it was night and dark. I took the proofs of her existence as a punishment to my wife, who, without them, would never dare to return to this country again. Herr, when a man loads you with ignominy and contempt and ridicule for something you are not to blame, what do you seek? Revenge. The Prince tried to crush this lonely child of his. It was I who brought her up. It was I who taught her to say her prayers. It was I who made her what she is to-day, a noble woman, with a soul as spotless as yonder snowdrift. That was my revenge."
"Who are you?" I cried. For this innkeeper's affection and eloquence seemed out of place.
"Who am I?" The smile which lit his face was wistful and sad. "The law of man disavows me—the bar sinister. In the eyes of God, who is accountable for our being, I am Gretchen's uncle, her father's brother."
"You?" I was astounded.
"And who knows of this?"