She was looking out carelessly upon them when from among the crowd a man’s eyes met hers. He stared open-mouthed, turned pale, and next instant was at the door. She drew back, but, alas! it was too late. She was without hat or veil, and he had recognised her.
She gave vent to a low cry, half of surprise, half of despair.
Next second the door opened, and the man stood before her, hat in hand.
“Princess!” he gasped in a low, excited voice. “What does this mean? You—alone—going to Vienna?”
“Carl!” she cried, “why are you here? Where have you come from?”
“I have been to my estate up at Rakonitz, before going to Rome,” was his answer. “Is it Destiny that again brings us together like this?”
And entering the carriage, he bent and kissed her hand.
Was it Destiny, or was it Doom?
“You with Ignatia, and no lady-in-waiting? What does this mean?” he inquired, utterly puzzled.
The porter behind him placed his bag in the carriage, while he, in his travelling-ulster and cap, begged permission to remain there.