"How shall I describe her?" he said. "I have seen only paintings and marbles, and these are inanimate. I have never seen angels, so I can not draw a comparison there. Have you ever seen ripe wheat in a rain-storm? That is the color of her hair. There is jade and lapis-lazuli in her eyes. And Ole Bull could not imitate the music of her voice." He leaned toward her. "And I love her better than life, better than hope; and between us there is the distance of a thousand worlds. So I must give up the dream and go away, as an honorable man should."
Neither of them heard the chancellor's approach.
"And because I love her."
The fan in her hand slipped unheeded to the floor.
"Your Highness," broke in the cold even tones of Herbeck, "your father is making inquiries about you."
Carmichael rose instantly, white as the frill in his shirt.
Hildegarde, however, was a princess. She gained her feet leisurely, with half a smile on her lips.
"Count, Herr Carmichael tells me that he is soon to leave Dreiberg."
"Ah!" There was satisfaction in Herbeck's ejaculation, satisfaction of a frank order. But there was a glint of admiration in his eyes as he recognized the challenge in Carmichael's. He saw that he must step carefully in regard to this hot-headed young Irishman. "We shall miss Herr Carmichael."
Her highness moved serenely toward the door. Carmichael waited till she was gone from sight, then he stooped and picked up the fan. Herbeck at once held out his hand.