A CROWN OF STRAW

A
CROWN OF STRAW

BY
ALLEN UPWARD
AUTHOR OF
“THE QUEEN AGAINST OWEN,” “THE PRINCE OF
BALKISTAN,” ETC.

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1896

Copyright, 1896,
By Dodd, Mead and Company.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

PREFACE

The term novel has been made to cover books of such diverse character, now-a-days, that the reader is almost entitled to demand of a novelist that he shall affix some distinct label to the book he is putting forth, and make it clear beforehand whether his work is a dialogue on religion, a satire on morals, a political tract, a study in slum life, or a mere romance. This consideration must serve as my excuse for saying a few words about the ideas which have guided me in writing the present work; although I shall incur the danger of a comparison between the moon at which I have aimed, and the humble tree which I have hit.

In this story, then, as in some others which I have written, or am writing, I have sought to embody the romance of contemporary history. It cannot be true that one age or country is in reality more poetical than any other; the difference, if any, must be that it requires a little more imagination to perceive the romance which lies around us, than that which is ready gathered for us in the pages of the historian. If it be said that some of the greatest masters have gone to past times for their inspiration, their disciple may perhaps allege that as a reason for not venturing into the well-trodden ground. But in fact many of the books which have been most admired in the class of what are called historical novels have owed a part of their charm to the flavour of antiquity which their accomplished writers have contrived to impart to them by mannerisms of style and by the copious use of historical allusion. However great the attraction of such writing may be, it must not be forgotten that the greatest, perhaps the first, of historical romancers—I mean Shakespeare—relied upon no such artifices, but on the intrinsic interest of his themes and his dramatic presentation of them. Neither is it the antiquarian taste which is appealed to by such a book as the “Three Musketeers.” It may even be affirmed, on the other hand, that the interest with which stories are thus invested is essentially false, and foreign to the story-teller’s art.

The keen pleasure with which the historical scholar reads the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey” is the accidental result of time, and certainly never entered into the aims of the composer or compiler of those works. The novels of Emile Zola may similarly fascinate the student in years to come, because he will feel that the manners they record are genuine. But with what confidence can he regard the Wardour Street properties which bulk so largely in the novels of some modern writers? Unless these books tell stories whose interest is independent of adventitious attraction, assuredly they will not continue to be read.

The true aim of the artist in fiction must always be to describe an interesting action,—the Greeks would have said, a great action. The characters which still live for us in fiction are those which their creators have revealed to us through their actions. The analytical novel of character, as it is termed, bears the same relation to true romance as the surgeon’s anatomical model bears to a portrait of Velasquez. It is the business of the story-teller to produce, not a photograph of one who sits in a chair, but a kinetoscope, with every limb in motion. The analytical novelist, when he has written his analytical novel, should regard it as merely a preparatory study, and should tear it up and then write a real novel in which the characters so carefully analysed will by their movements disclose all those traits of which their creator has laboured to convince himself.

This is why the play is greater than the novel. The playwright—robbed of his Chorus—cannot inflict upon us these tedious dissertations, he cannot leave his persons standing about idly on the stage, while he lectures to us on their inner nature as revealed to his Röntgen vision. The story told in these pages was conceived by the author as the subject of a play. The only reason it appears in the guise of a novel is because, when it was written, the author had no acquaintance with theatrical managers, and a play written merely to be read in a book has always appeared to him a monstrosity. He therefore reconstructed his romance, making such alterations as seemed needful when the characters were no longer visible of themselves, and when, moreover, he was debarred from that crowding of circumstance, that rush and climax of events, which the stage demands and justifies, but which on the written page would seem abrupt and harsh.

Most readers will trace in the hero of this book a resemblance to a certain king whose fate attracted attention not so very many years ago. I would ask that the comparison shall be carried no farther. This book is in no sense taken from history. All that I have intended to do has been to conceive a romantic interpretation for a tragical event, and to set forth that interpretation as a story to be read for its own sake, if at all.

A. U.

CONTENTS

A CROWN OF STRAW

PROLOGUE

I
THE LOADING OF THE PISTOL

In the inner room of a small, dimly lighted house, half hidden behind the dark walls of the arsenal of Stuttgart, in Germany, a group of three men were occupied in loading a pistol.

Their method of proceeding was singular. They were seated around a small deal table which stood at the far end of the room from the door. On the table was a small open lamp, and the dirty yellow flame which struggled upwards from its untrimmed wick flared upon the faces of the three, and brought them into pallid relief against the surrounding shadow. As the sickly light wandered off into the corners of the bare, gloomy room, it revealed the obscure form of a fourth man, younger than any of the first three, who sat by himself on a bench next to the door.

The group engaged in loading the pistol, absorbed in their task, took no notice of their comrade, who watched them with brooding eyes as they bent their heads together across the table, or spoke to each other in low whispers from time to time. Once or twice he turned his head and gazed abstractedly at the door. It was locked; and the high, narrow window at the opposite end of the chamber was closely shuttered and barred.

The leader of the party, a man whose grey hairs and deeply wrinkled face showed him to be by many years the eldest of the four, had commenced the proceedings by opening a small wooden case which lay on the table between the three, and taking out the pistol, which he first carefully examined, and then handed silently to the man seated next to him.

This man, a burly giant, with tremendous red whiskers and beard, in which his face was almost concealed, caught at the pistol with a grunt of satisfaction. In his huge grasp the weapon looked like a toy, as he held it up to the light, glanced down the barrel, and snapped the trigger. At this sound the youth by the door started ever so slightly, and a frown contracted his brows. Then the red-bearded giant passed on the pistol to the last of the three.

“Here, Johann,” he remarked in low tones, “see if you can find anything wrong with it.”

The man addressed as Johann, who appeared much younger than either of his companions, received the pistol in silence, as silently turned it over, and passed it back to the old man.

The pistol was of old-fashioned make, and had but a single barrel. Evidently it was only meant to fire one shot.

While the others were handling it, the leader had gone on with his preparations. From the small wooden case already mentioned he had taken out a small powder-flask, a wad, a short steel ramrod, and a bullet. To these he added an ordinary percussion-cap, and last of all came a bar of black sealing-wax, and a curious narrow stick tipped with a steel button. On this button a cipher of some kind appeared to be engraved.

Having ranged these articles on the table before himself and his comrades, the old man received back the pistol, and proceeded to load it at the muzzle from the powder-flask. Slowly the stream of black salt trickled out, sprinkling its course with tiny sparks of light, as the sharp-edged particles caught and flashed back the glow from the sputtering lamp. Then the weapon again changed hands, and the man with the red beard fitted in the wad, and vigorously rammed it home.

This done, he handed the pistol again to Johann, with the whispered exclamation, “Now for the sugar-plum!”

His younger comrade took it from him as quietly as before, dropped in the bullet, and returned the weapon once more to the senior of the three.

All this time the young man by the door had neither moved nor spoken. A faint shiver which passed through his frame when the bullet tinkled against the edge of the barrel alone told that he was keenly alive to what was going forward.

Now came the remarkable part of the ceremony. As soon as the old man got possession of the pistol for the third time, he rose solemnly to his feet, and taking up the bar of sealing-wax, ignited it over the naked flame of the lamp. As the wax hissed and flared up, he brought it directly over the upright muzzle of the pistol, allowing the burning drops to fall right down the barrel. The next moment he dropped the bar of sealing-wax, and seizing the narrow rod already described, plunged it down the barrel, and sealed the bullet firmly in its place.

The giant, who had watched this operation with the closest attention, now took the pistol once more, and completed the work of preparation by fitting on the percussion-cap, over which he allowed the hammer to close down.

All being ready, Johann received the loaded weapon in his hands, while the fourth member of the party rose from his seat beside the door, and advanced at a given signal towards the others.

“Don’t be afraid, Karl,” said the big man good-naturedly, as he caught sight of his young comrade’s face. “The pistol has not been loaded for you.”

The two others frowned at this remark, and the elder man held up his hand in rebuke.

“Hush! Our brother is right to feel afraid—afraid lest the sealed bullet should fail to reach its mark.” And he thoughtfully scanned the young man’s features, now looking almost livid in the wan glow of the lamp.

Meanwhile the other young man had risen to his feet. Holding the mysterious weapon in his hand, he put the following question to his comrade:—

“Brother, the lot has chosen you to fire this pistol. Are you ready to take it, and carry out the instructions you will receive?”

“I am,” came in husky tones from the youth.

He put out a shaking hand, and received the pistol from Johann.

Then the elder man pulled out a drawer in the table, took out a piece of paper, wrote on it a single word of seven letters, and handed it to the man with the red beard.

He glanced at it amid a dead silence, nodded his head, and passed it on to Johann, who by this time had sat down again. He read the word with a grim smile, and returned the paper to the leader of the party.

The old man solemnly folded up the paper, sealed it with the cipher already used for the bullet, and placed it in the hands of the giant.

It was now his turn to rise and address the agitated Karl.

“Here are your instructions. Do you undertake to return here, if you are alive and free, at the end of three months, and give an account of your mission?”

“I do.”

This time it was little more than a hoarse whisper which came from the young man.

The others appeared satisfied.

The old man arose, and moving out from behind the table, went up to the youth and gave him a solemn embrace.

The good-natured giant followed, and took advantage of the opportunity to whisper in his comrade’s ear—

“Keep up a good heart, my boy; and if you want help, rely on us.”

Then Johann made a step forward, but stopped short.

He was interrupted by an unexpected sound.

The noise of hurrying feet was heard in the passage outside, and was instantly followed by a succession of low distinct taps on the bottom panel of the door.

The four men simultaneously raised their heads and exchanged glances of inquiry and alarm. Only on the face of one of them, he who held the sealed weapon beneath his dress, was the look of dread chequered by a faint expression of relief.

The next moment Johann moved towards the door.

II
THE SEALED INSTRUCTIONS

The word written inside the sealed paper was a name.

The name was Leopold.

Who was this Leopold—and for what cause had his name come to figure so ominously in these surroundings? To-day he is forgotten; the whole of Europe rang then with the name of Leopold IX., the wicked King of Franconia.

A few words as to this personage will serve to throw light on the more recent events with which this story is concerned.

The race from which he sprang has long held an evil renown upon the Continent. For more than a century a dark cloud has overshadowed the royal line of Astolf. A mysterious taint in the blood has broken out time after time in the Franconian princes, betraying itself in wild freaks and excesses, which are rather whispered of than named. A monotonous chronicle of madness and crime makes up the gloomy annals of the House.

Something of this doubtless has been due to the peculiar character of their sovereignty. While smaller kingdoms, with narrower resources, have played an independent part on the European stage, Franconia, hampered by its position in the great Germanic body, has remained a petty State, compelled to be a mere satellite in the train of one of the two great monarchies which have contended for the dominion of Germany. In former ages her kings had received ambassadors, and their alliance had been alternately courted by Austria and France. To-day, closely enswathed in the iron bonds of Prussia’s military empire, the Franconian kingdom has ceased to have an international existence. In the eyes of diplomacy she is no better than a province of the Kaiser’s dominions, and in the council of nations her voice is no longer heard.

Yet within their own borders the kings of Franconia continue to be supreme. Deprived of their authority in the great questions of peace and war, in all matters of local interest they rule their kingdom with an independent sway. It would even seem as though the peculiar relations between them and the Imperial Government had added to the security of their throne. It would require no ordinary degree of misgovernment to provoke a rebellion whose success must mean the extinction of Franconian nationality, and its final subjection to the formidable Prussian yoke.

Their situation resembles that of those satraps who reign with absolute power over the provinces of Oriental empires. The difference is that they are irremovable, and hand on their dominion to their heirs.

To the intoxication of despotism add the intoxication of security. The strongest brain will reel under such pressure. History recalls the line of maniacs who slew and wantoned in Imperial Rome.

In modern Europe a bloodthirsty despot has become an impossibility. A king no longer dares to kill his subjects for the pleasure of it. All that has been put an end to by a glorious invention of the physicians. They have invented the word monomania, a tremendous exorcism, the mere utterance of which reduces the most powerful monarch to impotence, scares away his courtiers, paralyses the arms of his guards, and tears him from his throne to bury him behind iron doors.

It was with this spell that their bewildered subjects had fought the kings of Franconia for the last two generations. There was only one man in the kingdom more powerful than the monarch. This was the Court physician.

He glided in and out among the brightly dressed throng of courtiers, wrapped in his black cloak, with his finger on his lips, and watched everything. It was like the mummy at the Egyptian feast, only more terrible, as if it had been a mummy which might at any instant start to life, and bid the giver of the feast take its place in the sarcophagus.

When the time came, the physician unclosed his lips and pronounced the fatal word. Then the king disappeared silently from view, and a new ruler took his place.

This was the new Vehmgericht.

Like the ancient Venetian doges, the kings of Franconia walked everywhere, surrounded by an atmosphere of mysterious dread. Secret eyes were upon them always. Oubliettes were prepared under their feet, into which they never knew the moment when they might not be cast. And from these oubliettes there was no chance of escape.

The dooms of science are more relentless than the dooms of superstition. In the bosom of a Grand Inquisitor there might lurk mercy as much as a grain of mustard seed. Mercy is a word which science is unable to comprehend. Its judgments are merely conclusions. Mathematical reasoning cannot be bent aside by emotional considerations.

Leopold IX. was the worst king of this line. This was because he was the most sane. He was selfish, ignorant, utterly heartless, grasping, cruel, lustful, a glutton, and a bad son and father. But he was neither a drunkard nor an epileptic. To such a man science had nothing to say. The secret inquisitor was powerless. Leopold IX. had broken the curse. He was too much like the average man to be mad.

His younger brother Otto had been an easier victim. Within a year of his marriage with the beautiful Hermengarde of Schwerin-Strelitz, he had disappeared. Men whispered that the stately, cold-looking bride had given her approval to this consummation. Be that as it may, Otto passed the years till his death plaiting straw, like many another of the Astolf princes. Some of them plaited crowns; these were light and easy to wear.

Leopold reigned on. His people had to suffer a great deal. A few of his exploits are on record.

A jeweller in the capital had made his fortune. He was getting old, and meant to retire. The last transaction he undertook was a heavy purchase of diamonds. The stones were lying in his safe, when one night a troop of masked burglars broke in and carried off everything. The police of the capital were under the royal control, and on this particular night they had left that quarter of the city deserted. The robbers got off in perfect safety, and the old jeweller was ruined. Shortly afterwards he left the city. It was rumoured that he had retired to Stuttgart, the capital of a neighbouring kingdom.

A sergeant in the royal bodyguard had been imprisoned for a few months, and then banished, shortly before this event. This punishment had been awarded for certain angry expressions which he had been heard to use about his royal master. The fellow had been let off lightly, as his mind was supposed to be affected by a family trouble. His daughter, a very beautiful young girl, had taken her own life and that of her unborn infant. The name of its father had not transpired. This sergeant was a man remarkable for his size and for the redness of his beard.

Riding out in the royal park one day, Leopold met a forester’s boy, a lad of seventeen. He gave him a cut across the face with his whip, which drew blood. This boy, too, had not been seen for some time. His name was Karl Fink.

Leopold had a wise dread of education. The schools which he found existing in his kingdom he would have put down if he dared. His anger was roused when he learned that some of the young artisans in his capital had started night classes in which they studied draughtsmanship, mathematics, and engineering. He ordered his police to break up these schools, and prosecute the ringleaders of the movement. They were afterwards discharged, but those of them who were still bent on acquiring knowledge had to turn their steps abroad. The chief of these young men was one Johann Mark, a journeyman printer.

Of late Leopold had begun to show himself more cruel. His own son Maximilian, it was said, had to endure a good deal at his father’s hands.

Maximilian was a shy, delicate youth, with a passion for art and music. He resembled his mother, a gentle princess of Spanish birth, who was commonly believed to have died of a broken heart. Some there were who spoke of direct acts of violence, but history cannot dwell on the gossip of chamberwomen. Leopold had sought a fresh alliance abroad without success, and was now living in morganatic relations with an ugly countess of fifty.

She was the only person in his dominions who was not afraid of him.

It was known that she exerted her influence with his father on behalf of Maximilian, and saved him from much ill-usage. Very likely she did this with an eye to her future interest. Maximilian thought it was sheer good nature, and liked the woman.

Leopold hated her.

For the rest he was a short, squat man, with a red face, and prominent eyes like marbles, of some colour between blue and green; and he had a habit, when excited, of pressing his forefinger lengthways against his upper lip.

He was forty-eight years of age, and had reigned since he was twenty-nine.

III
THE FIRING OF THE PISTOL

Johann stepped cautiously towards the door.

Arrived before the keyhole, he put his eye to it. All was dark outside.

“Who are you?” he whispered after a moment’s pause.

The answer came also in a whisper. It seemed to satisfy him. Nodding to his comrades inside to signify that all was right, he quietly unlocked the door.

The man who entered was not a particularly striking figure in himself, but there was that in his appearance which instantly aroused the interest of the four inmates of the room, and caused them to gather eagerly around him.

His clothes were disordered, his face was flushed and bedewed with perspiration, and his short, quick breaths bore witness to the exertion he had made in getting there. But it was not this which arrested the attention of the others. They perceived a nervous excitement in his bearing, and an eager light in his eye, which warned them that he was the bearer of extraordinary tidings.

His first act on entering was to look round and number with a glance the men who stood inside. This done, a sigh of relief escaped him.

“Thank Heaven, I am in time!” he exclaimed.

“Why, what is it?” demanded the old man.

The new-comer dropped on to the bench beside the door before answering. Then, assuming a more solemn expression, he said in impressive tones—

“Your work has been done. This morning King Leopold went mad and cut his throat. He died at noon.”

As soon as he had finished speaking the young man who had been entrusted with the sealed weapon gave a loud cry, and tottered as though he would fall.

The giant rushed to his assistance, and, taking the pistol from his nerveless clasp, handed it to the leader.

He took it, and pointed it downwards.

“You have spoken truth,” he said gravely. “God has done our work.”

And he fired the pistol.

He was about to throw away the smoking weapon when Johann stepped forward and laid his hand upon it.

“Stay. It may be wanted yet,” he observed quietly.

“For whom?” the old man asked, with astonishment.

“For Maximilian.”

The other four men recoiled.

Half an hour after the house was empty. The comrades had dispersed. It was to be after many years, and under widely different circumstances, that some of them were to meet again.

Meanwhile Maximilian ascended the throne and reigned in peace.

CHAPTER I
THE GARDEN OF EDEN

“Can you see him, father?”

The old forester looked round, and saw his daughter coming down the narrow path, bordered with dwarf apple trees, which led from the front door of the cottage to the garden gate.

Answering by a slight shake of the head, he turned round again, and leant over the gate, resuming his occupation of drawing long slow puffs at a huge pipe which he held in one hand. The pipe had a long cherry-wood stem, ending in a deep china bowl, which was capped with a lid of copper. From the holes in this lid came thin blue spirals of smoke, which floated away till they were lost to view against the green background of forest.

Dorothea ran forward lightly, her white muslin skirts just touching the espaliers as she passed, and, coming up to the gate, leant over it beside her father. She rested her soft cheek against his arm, and gazed with dreamy eyes at the smoke-rings, trying to follow them till they dissolved in the surrounding atmosphere.

The summer heat lay like a film over the afternoon. The hush of the landscape was not even disturbed by the call of a bird or the dry chirp of a cricket. In front of the gateway at which they stood stretched a clear space of rolling turf for one or two hundred paces, at the end of which the grass began to go out of sight beneath short undergrowth and scattered trees, the fringe of a stately woodland. To the right and left of the forester’s lodge the trees gathered in again. Behind, it was approached by a footpath over a widening tract of fields, a tongue of meadow-land thrust into the forest. Far away over the fields, had they looked, rose the faint tower of a church and the signs of a peopled land.

“It is more than two months since he first began coming here,” murmured the young girl, presently. “I wonder who he can be?”

The forester turned his head and smiled, as though there were something in his daughter’s words which caused him secret amusement. Then he took another deep puff at his pipe, and answered—

“It is best not to ask. If he wished us to know he would tell us himself. Take care to please him, without being too curious.”

“I know he comes from the Castle, so he must be one of the gentlemen of the Court,” said Dorothea, speaking slowly, as if to herself. “Who knows? perhaps he is a count.”

As she uttered the word Castle, she raised her eyes, and turned them on an opening in the forest in front, between which and the cottage gate there ran a beaten path. For, a mile and more away through that forest, there rose the royal Castle of Neustadt; and old Franz Gitten was a forester in the service of King Maximilian.

This time Franz spoke more roughly, as if ill pleased with Dorothea’s words.

“It is no business of ours who he is. As long as he likes to come here and drink our cider he is welcome. I tell you not to trouble your head about it.”

Checked in this direction, the girl let a few minutes pass before speaking again.

“I wonder why he comes here so often,” was her next remark. “Surely the wines at the Castle must be better than our cider.”

Again the forester smiled to himself, as he went on smoking without any response.

Dorothea continued—

“The King is at Neustadt now. Will you take me over, some time, father? I have never seen the King.”

Old Franz interrupted her. He raised himself up, with a grunt of satisfaction, and stood looking at the opening in the wood.

Dorothea followed the direction of his glance, and uttered an exclamation.

Two men had just emerged from the shadow of the forest, and were walking through the sheet of sunlight which lay between it and the forester’s lodge.

The ages of these two men differed by a good many years. The elder of the two was a man of over forty, tall, with auburn hair, and restless eyes which glanced perpetually from side to side as he walked along. His dress was easy—a knickerbocker suit of brown velveteen, with a loose open collar, and crimson tie, and a hat of soft black felt with a wide brim. This brim he pulled down over his face as soon as the sunlight struck upon it, and thus partly screened his features from the curious gaze of Dorothea.

“Whom is he bringing with him?” she whispered to her father. “This is the first time he has not come alone.”

The forester took no notice of the question. His attention, after the first brief look, was engaged by the other of the two companions.

In itself the younger man’s figure was not striking. He was short, and yet too slender for symmetry. It was his face which aroused interest, and, with the long straight nose and pointed chin, conveyed the curious suggestion of a younger and handsomer Don Quixote. The delicate contour of the features was like a woman’s, and there was something at once strange and fascinating in the colour of the eyes, which glowed in the bright sunshine with that pale green flame only seen in the field of a rich sunset or in the hollow of certain shells of the Indian seas. But an almost uncanny note was that struck by the young man’s costume. He wore a close-fitting suit of a shade of green exactly matching the grass across which he was walking, so that it was nearly as difficult for the eye to follow the outline of his figure as it is to pick out a green caterpillar against a leaf. This affectation was carried out even to the green acacia stick which swung between his fingers. Only his hat and boots were black, the former similar to his companion’s, but enriched by the addition of a tiny band of gold lacework round the edge. He walked with a light, swift step, and as he came within view of the figures at the lodge gate his face relaxed into a pleased smile.

As the two drew near the entrance, Franz took his pipe from his mouth, and held the gate open for them to pass. At the same time he removed his hat and greeted the younger one, who entered first, with a deep bow.

“Good day, Herr Maurice,” he said, in respectful tones.

“Good day, Franz,” responded the other carelessly. “I have brought my friend, Herr Auguste, to taste your cider. And how is my little Dorothea?”

He went up to her as he spoke, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. The young girl submitted to the embrace with an unconsciousness which was more innocent than any show of bashfulness. Then he turned to his companion.

“Here, Auguste, let me present you to the Fräulein.”

The elder man gravely lifted his hat and bowed. Dorothea returned a deep curtsey, and then made a movement towards the door of the cottage.

“I will go into the house and get another glass for Herr Auguste,” she said to the one who was called Maurice.

He nodded, and, beckoning his friend to follow, led the way to a corner of the garden, where a quaint, old-fashioned arbour made a pleasant nook to shelter in from the glare of the sun outside. In the arbour stood a rustic table, formed out of a broad slice sawn off the trunk of an oak tree, and still retaining the bark round its uneven edge. It was supported by an upright log, cut, perhaps, from a branch of the same tree. The table was set out with a tall silver flagon of antique workmanship, and a long narrow goblet of dark green glass of a manufacture peculiar to the district. The two men seated themselves on a bench of materials to match the table, and gazed thoughtfully at one another for a moment without speaking.

Presently Maurice raised his hand and gave the other a playful tap on the shoulder.

“Come, Auguste, why so serious? What do you think of my favourite, now you have seen her? Remember, I want you to tell me frankly.”

Auguste played with the glass goblet, and looked away from his friend’s eyes.

“I am wondering what would happen if I were to take you at your word,” he answered, with a smile of some cynicism.

“What do you mean?”

“It is easy to ask for a frank opinion. It is not so easy to receive it, when it does not happen to be the one we want.”

“Auguste! Why do you talk like that? Surely you cannot help liking her?”

The other man shook off his moody fit, and sat upright.

“She is perfectly charming, my dear friend. You have discovered a gem. I am only trying to think what you will do with it.”

The young man gave a dissatisfied frown.

“How long have you learned to be so discreet?” he said in a tone of reproach. “What have we to do with the future? Surely it is enough to enjoy this moment while it lasts? Since I found out this delightful spot, I have been happy. Your absence has been my only cause of regret; and even that I have forgotten during the hours I have spent here in the company of this beautiful child.”

“Ah,” murmured the other, with a touch of sadness, “the sunshine of love soon puts out the fire of friendship.”

“No, no,” protested Maurice, eagerly. “Do you trust me so little after all these years? When have I ever doubted you?”

He spoke earnestly. The elder man was moved. Laying his hand gently on his friend’s arm, he said softly—

“I know. You must forgive my jealousy. The only wonder is that I have had you to myself for so long.”

“And you have still. Believe me, you do not understand my feelings towards this child. Love? I hardly know whether it is love or not. And she? She, I am certain, has never guessed what brings me here day after day. I almost wish she did. I am afraid sometimes lest, if I ever speak to her of love, I shall frighten her from me altogether, like some timid bird.”

He broke off, catching the sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside. The next moment Dorothea herself appeared under the archway which led into the arbour, framed like a picture in the green trellis-work. She bore in her hand a second goblet, like the first, but with a small piece chipped out of the rim.

“You must excuse the flaw, sir,” she said, with a bright smile, as she set it down before Herr Auguste. “It was done by my cousin Johann when he was a boy.”

Rising from his seat at this moment, Maurice moved to the other side of the table, and invited Dorothea to take the place by his side; but she preferred to remain standing, and busied herself in pouring out cider for her guests. Auguste kept his eyes fixed on the pair, and shrewdly noted everything as he sipped from time to time at the pale straw-coloured beverage in the cool green chalice.

The other two kept up a half-confidential chat, during which old Franz drew slowly near, and took up a post of observation on the path outside. His face wore an expression of satisfaction, though he threw an occasional glance of suspicion at Auguste.

Suddenly, during a pause in the conversation, Maurice bethought himself, and slipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket.

“See,” he said, drawing into view a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper, “I have brought you a keepsake.”

Dorothea’s eyes sparkled. Half eagerly, half timidly, she held out her hand.

Laughingly the young man placed the packet in her outstretched palm. She tore off the wrappings, and the next instant was gazing in breathless delight at a tiny brooch, which had a bright yellow carbuncle in the centre, set round with a ring of white petals, each of them represented by a pearl.

“It is a daisy! Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Look, father; see what Herr Maurice has given me!”

And before Maurice could check the movement, she had darted out of the arbour to show her treasure to the forester.

Franz weighed it in his hand, and inspected it with the careful eye of a dealer.

“The Herr is very generous,” he remarked approvingly. “It must be worth at least a hundred florins.”

Auguste, who overheard him, could not forbear a smile. He knew that the little brooch had been specially manufactured by the most famous jeweller in Paris, and that it had taken weeks to bring together the perfectly shaped gems which formed the petals of the flower.

But Dorothea had been appalled by the magnitude of the sum named by her father. She came back slowly, and gazed at Maurice with a look of shy alarm.

“It is too good for me,” she said doubtfully. “You might have given it to one of the ladies up at the Castle.”

Maurice laughed.

“Yes, I think I might have prevailed on one of them to accept it—what do you say, Auguste?”

“I do not know one lady of the Court on whom it would look better than on the Fräulein,” was the response.

“Come, let me see it on your neck,” said Maurice. “I think I am entitled to fasten it in its place.”

He went towards her for the purpose; and Auguste, glancing round to see if the forester were still about, strolled out of the arbour and joined him.

Left alone with Dorothea, Maurice took a more caressing tone; and the young girl, on her side, seemed to feel more at her ease. They sat side by side, and talked to each other in low tones which could not be heard outside.

After a little while, however, Dorothea noticed that her companion was in a more serious mood than was his wont. Some change seemed to have come over him, and now and again she caught him gazing at her with a meditative air, as if he wished to say something, but were doubtful how to begin.

At length, after a longer pause than usual, he said slowly—

“Have you ever been away from here, Dorothea? Have you seen anything of the outside world?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered readily. “I often go into the village, and once or twice father has taken me to Dresselburg.” This was the name of a small market town some seven miles away. “Besides,” she added, “I sometimes go to the Castle when the Court is not there, and see all over it.”

“Ah!” The young man’s face brightened, as if he had found the opening he sought. “Do you like the Castle? Do you think you should care to come and live there yourself, and see the Court as well?”

Dorothea’s blue eyes grew round with awe.

“Oh!” she cried breathlessly, too overcome by the suggestion to take it in all at once. But the next moment she gave her head a shake which stirred all the little golden curls that fringed her face. “I do not think I should like it,” she said. “I should be afraid of all those people. And King Maximilian—if he were to speak to me I think I should sink into the earth.”

A frown crossed the young man’s face.

“Is Maximilian so very terrible, then?” he asked. “Has any one taught you to dread him?”

“No, no. It is not that. But it is because he is the King. I should feel afraid of him—I do not know why. And yet I have often wished that I could see him, if I could be hidden behind something, so that he would not know I was there.”

“You do not feel unkindly towards him, then?”

“Unkindly? Oh, no! How could I, when he is our King? I bless him every night when I say my prayers, and ask God not to let him go mad, like his father.”

The young man trembled. He allowed one or two minutes to go by in silence, and when he spoke again his voice was low and indistinct.

“Do you think,” he said slowly—“do people say, that there is any likelihood of that?”

“I never heard that,” was the answer. “But of course it is in the blood, and they say that when that is so, it may break out at any moment. Do you think it is true that Doctor Krauss, the great mind doctor, is always on the watch, and follows the King secretly wherever he goes?”

She stopped, surprised at the agitation of her companion, who had buried his face in his hands, and was stifling a groan.

“What is it, Herr Maurice?” she asked anxiously. “Are you ill? Shall I call father?”

“No. Say nothing. Take no notice.”

And he got up abruptly, and made his way out of the arbour.

In the mean time Herr Auguste had gone for a stroll round the garden with old Franz.

On the way he engaged in conversation about Dorothea.

“How old is your daughter?” he began.

“Just seventeen, Excellency.”

“Do not call me that,” said the other quickly. “I have no title, except plain Herr.”

“As the Herr pleases,” returned the forester bowing, with evident incredulity. “Dorothea is a good girl,” he added. “She does what her father tells her, in everything.”

“Humph! And pray what is to be the end of this?” He jerked his hand back in the direction of the arbour.

The old man assumed a look of impenetrable stupidity.

“I do not understand. Herr Maurice is very kind and generous. He comes here often, and has made us many presents.”

“Nonsense, man! That is not the way to talk to me. Do you think I am blind? But perhaps I ought to tell you my name, and then you may know who I am. Have you heard of Auguste Bernal?”

Franz bowed with deep respect. The name was well known to every one connected with the Court.

“His Majesty’s friend?” he said.

“Yes. Understand that my only interest in this matter is a friendly one. I wish no ill to you or your charming little daughter. But what advice am I to give to my friend Maurice? You are not a fool, and you must know what an affair like this is likely to lead to.”

The forester drew himself up and gave his questioner a cunning leer.

“I have seen to that,” he said. “I have spoken to Herr Maurice already. He has promised to make me Ranger of the forest, and to settle a pension on Dorothea for life.”

He spoke with an air of pride, like one who feels that he has done everything that can reasonably be expected of him, and come well out of a trying situation.

Bernal turned on him a look of the most profound disgust, which the forester was too absorbed in his inward self-gratulation to perceive. They walked on in silence for a short time.

“Your daughter does not understand the meaning of these attentions yet,” remarked Bernal, presently.

The father shrugged his shoulders.

“She has been well brought up,” was the response.

“By you?” asked the other, dryly.

Franz nodded, with perfect unconsciousness.

“And by her mother,” he added. “She died three years ago next midsummer.”

“Poor child!” murmured Bernal.

By this time they had completed a circuit, and were again drawing near to the arbour, from which they were in time to see the young man rush out, looking deeply disturbed. Auguste quickened his steps to come up to his friend, whom he took affectionately by the arm.

“Has anything happened?” he inquired in low tones.

“No, nothing. Do not ask me about it. It was only an accidental remark which jarred on me. But it is time for us to be going.”

Dorothea came out to them with wonder and concern written on her face.

“Good-bye, little one,” said Maurice, tenderly; and once more he embraced her.

She looked up at him humbly.

“I have not offended you, sir? You will come again?” she pleaded.

“My dear little creature, you offend me! Of course I shall come again. You do look forward to my visits, then?” he said, with a brighter face.

“Very much, sir; and so does father.”

“Ah! Well, good-bye.”

He took a step from her.

“Thank the Herr Maurice for his handsome present before he goes,” came in the tones of a drill-sergeant from the forester.

Before Dorothea could obey, Maurice had seized his friend’s arm, and was walking rapidly towards the gate, with Franz hurrying after them to open it.

Dorothea followed more slowly, and stood there beside her father to watch the two visitors disappearing among the trees.

While they were still absorbed in gazing at the opening down which the others had vanished, Dorothea gradually became aware of some subtle change in the landscape. At first she thought it must be a chillness in the air; then she fancied a cloud must have passed across the drooping sun. But no, the bright sunshine still lay on the forest, and bathed the sward before the garden gate. What was it, then? As she withdrew her eyes from the spot on which they had been fixed, she perceived with a start what had been knocking, as it were, at the door of her consciousness.

A long dark shadow, the shadow of a man coming with noiseless steps, had stolen across the grass in front of where she stood, and lay like a black pointing finger on the ground.

CHAPTER II
THE SPY

Dorothea and her father both looked round and caught sight of the new-comer at the same moment. They saw a tall, handsome fellow of about thirty, dressed like an artisan of good standing. The dust on his boots showed that he had walked a long way. His dark, firmly stamped features bore the marks of thought and endurance, and his whole bearing was bold, resolute—almost defiant.

Old Franz drew back with a scowl as this stranger presented himself before the gate. But Dorothea, after one look at his face, gave a glad cry, and, darting through the gateway, clasped her arms round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.

The young man received her embrace with an indulgent smile, while he turned a stern glance on the forester.

“Father,” exclaimed Dorothea, releasing her hold, “don’t you see? It is Johann!”

“Yes, I see it’s Johann,” muttered the old man, in a tone half surly and half timorous, as he slowly extended his hand. “And what wind blows you here?” he demanded.

“I had business in the neighbourhood, and I thought Dorothea would be glad to see me,” was the curt response. “But you must say nothing about my visit,” he added, turning to the girl. “No one must know that I have been here.”

Dorothea looked bewildered. Her father gave a dissatisfied grunt.

“More mysteries,” he remarked. “You will get into trouble again one of these days, mark my words. I shouldn’t wonder if you were in some conspiracy at this very moment.”

“Well, uncle, I have not asked you to join in it, anyway,” retorted Johann. “Who are those two men who have just gone into the forest?”

Before answering Franz snatched time to throw a warning look at his daughter, as a hint to keep silence.

“Only two gentlemen from the Castle, who came here to drink a cup of our cider. I don’t want to be brought into disgrace by you and your doings,” he went on hastily, not relishing the new turn to the conversation. “It is bad enough to hear about your goings-on in Mannhausen. I can’t think why they don’t clap the whole lot of you into prison.”

“For what? For demanding that the people may have freedom to better their lot?”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about the people! Old King Leopold knew how to deal with fellows like you. You were afraid of him, but now you have the insolence to attack King Maximilian, who is too good for you. Don’t let me catch you in any of your seditious practices here, that’s all, or the King shall hear of it, as sure as my name’s Franz Gitten.”

The forester spoke bitterly. There is no hatred like the hatred of the favoured servant for those who would enfranchise him against his will. Johann frowned as though he were about to make some angry reply, when Dorothea laid a gentle hand upon his arm, and looked up beseechingly in his face.

“Don’t, Johann! Don’t talk about it any more. Come in and rest after your journey, and have something to eat. We have got a hare pie and a custard.”

The young man’s features relaxed their sternness. He turned and followed her into the house, while Franz resumed his post of sentinel at the gate. But this time the puffs of smoke from the china bowl came in fierce, uneven jerks, and an uneasy frown crossed and recrossed his face.

His daughter led Johann inside the house, into the kitchen, where he seated himself on the old-fashioned settle, while she busied herself in getting ready a meal.

“So gentlemen come here from the Castle, do they?” murmured the young man half to himself. “I wonder what is the attraction that brings them here?”

He glanced at his cousin as she moved lightly to and fro in the sunshine. The yellow beams splashed on her rippling hair like rain falling upon running water.

“How old are you by this time, Dorothea?”

“Seventeen next birthday, Johann. I am making myself a dress with long skirts to go to church in.”

“And where did you get that pretty brooch?”

Dorothea smiled with innocent gratification, as she answered—

“Herr Maurice gave it me—one of those gentlemen you saw going away.”

“Ha!” Johann sat up, alert. “Then this is not the first time they have come here?”

“It is the first time his friend has been here, but Herr Maurice comes nearly every day.”

“Does he? And pray who is this Herr Maurice? What is his surname, and what is he at the Court?”

“We do not know—at least, I don’t, though I sometimes think my father has some idea. But when I ask him he always says that if Herr Maurice wished us to know who he was he would tell us of his own accord.”

“I see. My uncle is prudent. What kind of man is he? Young? Handsome?”

“Oh, no—not young. At least, I should think he was quite thirty.” Johann smiled. “And not so very handsome. There is something in his eyes that almost frightens me sometimes. I fancy he is shy. He often sits thinking by himself, and never says a word.”

Johann looked less and less pleased as he listened, and almost forgot to eat his food.

“Well, do not have too much to say to him, Dorothea. I don’t like gentlemen who do not give their names, and make presents of brooches, and sit thinking by themselves. Do you like him? Should you miss him if he left off coming here?”

Dorothea began to grow uneasy under this fire of questions.

“Miss him? Yes, of course; this place is so lonely that I should miss any one. Do you like the hare?”

“Ay. Is it one of the King’s?”

“You must ask father that. He shot it. But where have you been all this while? and why have you never come here?”

“I have been in the capital working at my trade, of course. They don’t print newspapers in the forest; so, you see, I should starve if I spent much time here.”

Dorothea stole up to him, and whispered a timid question.

“I hope it isn’t true what father said about conspiracies? You don’t really hate the good young King, do you, Johann?”

“I don’t hate any one who is good. But never mind the King. I haven’t come here to talk about him. Give me some cider, if you can spare any from your friend who gives the brooches.”

The young girl gave a swift look at him, then, turning away, with a gesture equally swift she snapped the brooch from her neck, and slipped it into her pocket. Then she went to fetch the cider.

A soon as Johann had refreshed himself sufficiently, he got up, and announced that he must take his departure. Dorothea followed him out to the gate, where her father was still lounging, with a sullen but determined look on his face.

“Where are you going?” was the only remark he vouchsafed by way of farewell to his nephew.

Johann pointed to the path through the woodland, by which the two friends had disappeared. His uncle instantly gripped him by the arm.

“No,” he cried hoarsely; “not that way! Not to the Castle!”

“Why not?” demanded Johann, fiercely. “Are you afraid of my discovering who is the gentleman who has fallen in love with your—cider?”

He pronounced the last word with a sarcastic emphasis which made the old man recoil, and turn a startled glance at Dorothea. The girl was gazing from one to the other with quickly dawning consciousness.

“I had one errand to the Castle already; now I have two,” pursued the young man, pitilessly. “Be assured I will find out this Herr Maurice, and demand an explanation from him.”

“No, no!” exclaimed the alarmed forester, carried away by his fears. “You must not meddle with Herr Maurice. I know who he is.”

Johann’s eyes flashed.

“What? Out with it, man, or it will be the worse for him and you!”

The old man gave an anxious glance at his daughter, and then bent forward and whispered two words in his nephew’s ear. His caution was thrown away.

“The King! I might have known it was that cursed race!”

And without even looking at Dorothea, Johann threw wide the gate, and strode on into the depth of the forest.

His first rush of anger worn off, Johann went forward steadily, shaping his course straight towards the royal palace, and walking with the step of one who has an errand of weight.

The forester and his daughter stood helplessly gazing in the direction in which he had vanished from their sight. Dorothea’s mind was overwhelmed beneath a sensation of amazement. The revelation made by Johann’s parting words was enough to keep her thoughts busy, without giving them time to dwell upon the significance of his sudden departure. But old Franz was seriously alarmed as he stood there turning over the threatening language which he had just heard his nephew use.

For these were restless times, and even the old forester in his snug retreat had heard something of the discontents which were agitating the distant capital, and in stirring up which he suspected that his nephew had borne an active part. He had heard of Johann’s connection with revolutionary societies during the reign of the old King, Leopold IX., and now that these fanatics were raising their heads again in enmity to the mild government of Maximilian, he felt pretty sure that Johann was having a finger in the pie.

“What do they want?” he grumbled, rather to himself than to his daughter. “They have changed King Stork for King Log, and still they are not satisfied. And now this reckless fellow is going to do something that will bring disgrace upon his family, and perhaps lose me my post!”

Too much agitated to say anything, Dorothea turned from him and went indoors, her mind in a state of pitiable confusion. The startling information which she had just received, coupled with the bitter language used by her cousin, produced on her the effect of a stunning blow. In every life there come moments which change the whole current of existence, and which set up barriers between the past and the future that can never be repassed. To Dorothea it seemed as though she had suddenly awaked from childhood, as from a pleasant dream, to find herself confronted with a new life which she did not understand. During the next few hours she went about her little household employments with a forlorn sense of discomfort, the meaning of which she struggled to realise in vain.

In the mean time, if it were Johann’s object to overtake Maximilian and his companion on their way to the Castle, he was destined to fail. The two friends had, quite unconsciously, baffled any pursuit by striking into a by-path, along which they made their way back undisturbed.

Coming along they discussed the situation at the forester’s lodge. The King was anxious to know what impression Dorothea had produced on his friend.

“You promised to speak plainly, Auguste,” he reminded him. “Tell me exactly what you think of her.”

“You need hardly ask,” was the answer. “I have never seen a more charming little creature. It is not merely her face which is so captivating, but her exquisite gentleness and innocence. Why, she does not even suspect that you love her. And her manners are as graceful as if she had spent all her days in a palace.”

“So she has,” responded Maximilian warmly. “She has lived in the palace of Nature, in this noble forest, far removed from the vulgar surroundings that transform the poor of cities into little better than brutes.”

“I am afraid I cannot agree with you there,” said Bernal. “So far as I can see, her surroundings have very little to do with it. I have known many cases of refinement among the denizens of slums, and I have never come across a more depraved brute than that old man we have just left.”

“What makes you say that?” asked the King, uneasily.

“His own confession. The fellow boasted openly to me of the price for which he had agreed to sell his daughter. You ought to be ashamed of stooping to such a bargain.”

Maximilian blushed and bit his lip.

“I am ashamed of it,” he said. “I loathe that man as much as you do. He is so odious to me that the thought of having to encounter him almost deters me from going there, sometimes. But what else could I do? I could not expect him to understand the nature of my feelings towards his daughter. As soon as he showed me what kind of man he was, I thought the best plan was to take him at his own value, and bribe him to stand aside and hold his tongue.”

“Nevertheless it was a miserable thing to do. How should you feel if the girl were to learn the understanding you had come to with her father?”

“Ah, that is what I dread most. At all costs I must keep her innocent. You little know—and yet perhaps you do know—how deeply I feel about that girl. Surely you have been in love at some time, Auguste. You must see how difficult it is for me. I am not like the man whose love is hopeless because it is fixed on one too far above him. What I have to fear is that my love will prevail too easily, not for my own sake, but because I have the misfortune to be a king. That is why I have been coming here secretly. I want to win Dorothea’s heart, Auguste. I do not want her to become my slave. I want her to love me.”

“I am afraid she does not love you yet, my friend. Perhaps she is too young. Perhaps even in your assumed character she looks upon you as one too far above her to be thought of as a lover.”

“I am afraid of that, too. I ought to have gone there as a peasant, or as one of the foresters. But my first visit was quite accidental, and I have gone on ever since on the same footing.”

Auguste considered a moment as he walked along. Then he made a suggestion.

“Why not take her away from her father, and place her in some better position?”

“I have thought of that,” answered Maximilian. “But I hardly dare do that yet. You see, she is little more than a child, and as shy and timid as a fawn. I fear to break the spell by taking any step that might open her eyes. It is not only because I do not want to influence her consent that I have kept my rank concealed. I am almost equally afraid of frightening her, and causing her to become uneasy and constrained with me. I have watched her carefully; and from something which she let drop only to-day, I foresee what might happen if she got an inkling of whom I really was.”

“But this state of things cannot last forever. Sooner or later she must find it all out.”

“I know; and that is what torments me. The very shyness and simplicity which make me love her must perish as soon as I once declare my love. That is my curse. What can I do? I can only go on and enjoy this Arcadian life as long as fate allows it to last. When it is over—”

He did not finish the sentence, and for a little while the pair strode on side by side in silence, the elder man picking his way carefully over the dead branches and little spots of moisture which broke the path, while the younger one crunched blindly over everything in his way, his eyes half-closed in dreamy abstraction.

“Yes? When it is over?”

It was Auguste who spoke, with a meditative glance at his friend’s countenance.

“I cannot make up my mind. I do not know yet what I shall do.”

“You forget that you are in love,” observed the other cynically. “Perhaps there is not so much room for doubt as to what you will do as you suppose.”

The King smiled at him with a slight tinge of scorn.

“Perhaps you do not understand me, Auguste. The doubt in my mind is whether I shall make Dorothea—”

He hesitated. His friend stopped dead, and gazed at him in unconcealed dismay.

“What?”

Maximilian stopped too, and looked steadily back at him.

“My wife.”

This time Auguste was fairly astounded. For some moments he could do nothing but stand and stare at the speaker. At length his lips parted, and the exclamation escaped him—

“Good heavens! Are you mad?”

It was the second time that afternoon that the word had been pronounced in the young man’s hearing. He turned pale, and, casting himself on the ground at the foot of a tree, burst into tears.

Overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, his friend knelt down beside him, and tenderly sought to soothe him into a calmer frame of mind. For some time he could effect nothing, but at last the King conquered his weakness. He arose, and, thrusting his arm through his companion’s in token of forgiveness, they proceeded in silence to the palace.

In the glorious woodland lurk deadly enemies to man—the fierce wild boar and the treacherous gliding adder. Maximilian went through the forest with his friend, in ignorance that its green shades concealed the presence of two men who represented two threatening dangers in his path. He recked not of the stern, resolved messenger who was tramping steadily behind, with a grim purpose written on his face. As little did he dream that he was being preceded on his way back by another messenger, whose watchful eye had seen him enter and leave the forester’s lodge, who had started up from his hiding-place in the brushwood when the two friends emerged from the lodge gate, and, plunging into the thickness of the trees, hurried on before them to the Castle.

The spy was a young man of nearly the same age as Maximilian himself; he was dressed in a livery or uniform of green cloth, bound at the edges with red braid, of the colour of holly-berries, and ornamented with buttons of the same warm tint. He was not ill favoured—at first sight his face looked handsome—but there was a weakness in the lines of the chin, the hair and eyebrows were too light, and the eyes were of that sort that blink and turn away when closely gazed into.

Dodging skilfully in and out among the trees like a practised woodman, and breaking into a run whenever the nature of the ground allowed of it, he was not long in covering the distance to the further edge of the woodland. He took a round-about course, and emerged at a point which would not suggest to any chance onlooker the direction from which he had really come. Once out in the open grounds before the Castle, he walked swiftly up to a side entrance and made his way quietly into the building.

The Castle of Neustadt was an imposing pile dating from that period of the last century when the German kinglets were engaged in imitating the age of Louis XIV., and smaller copies of the Versailles arose in every quarter of the Empire.

Safe within this huge but ugly palace, the spy lost no time in threading his way through the corridors, with the assured air of one who felt himself at home, till he came to a suite of apartments situated on the first floor of the left wing. There he stopped, and rapped confidently at a door.

His knock was answered by a page wearing the royal livery, who appeared instantly to recognize him.

“Tell the Princess Hermengarde that Karl Fink is in attendance.”

The page nodded at these words, and withdrew from the door. The next minute he returned.

“Her Royal Highness will see you now,” he said.

And, beckoning Karl to follow, he led the way into the presence of the King’s aunt.

CHAPTER III
THE PRINCESS HERMENGARDE’S DISCLOSURE

The Princess Hermengarde was one of those characters of whom much is said but little is known.

It was said that she was proud. It was believed that she was ambitious. It was admitted that she had once been beautiful. In the days before her marriage, when she was still the heiress to the Duchy of Schwerin-Strelitz, she had been flattered with the title of the belle of Europe. In her thirty-sixth year she was still handsome and commanding, but the youthful loveliness had disappeared. What years had failed to do had been wrought more surely by disappointed hope and wounded pride. In the words of Count von Stahlen, the Court wit, the Princess Hermengarde was an old woman of middle age.

Her mortifications had begun, when she was still under twenty, with the birth of a male heir to her father’s Grand Duchy. Before that event she had been looked upon as one of the most brilliant matches in Europe, and Austrian archdukes and British princes of the blood were said to have made overtures for her hand. When the blow fell which reduced her at one stroke to a position of insignificance, two royal wooers, who had been contending for her smiles immediately before, withdrew from their courtship with a precipitation which, in a lower class of life, might have exposed them to the suspicion of being fortune hunters. One of them went off in hot haste to St. Petersburg, where he was just in time to secure a Grand Duchess of the house of Romanoff. The other, not quite so fortunate, fell back upon a Scandinavian princess.

It was while still smarting from these insulting desertions, that Hermengarde had consented to accept the hand of Otto, the younger brother of Leopold IX. The match was a brilliant enough one in the fallen state of her fortunes, though far different to such an alliance as had seemed at one time within her reach. At this time Maximilian, Leopold’s only child, was a delicate boy of twelve, and there being no other life between Prince Otto and the throne, his wife might still cherish the possibility of one day reigning over a kingdom.

But the unfortunate young Princess had not yet exhausted the enmity of fortune. Within a few months of their marriage, Otto began to show traces of that savage cruelty which seemed to be part of the hereditary taint in the Franconian line. For a long time his proud young wife submitted in silence, and allowed no hint of her sufferings to reach the outside world. But when her son was born, and her husband’s senseless brutality went so far as to threaten the infant, her maternal instinct and her ambition together took arms, and she faced her tyrant with unexpected courage. Strange things were related in the gossip of the Court concerning the scenes which took place between the Franconian Prince and the mother of his child. The miserable state of affairs culminated, it was said, in the haughty Princess fleeing at midnight from her apartments, clad in little beside a cloak, and bearing her child in her arms, to take refuge in the quarters of the Baron von Sigismark, Comptroller of the Household, and his wife, from the murderous violence of her husband.

Immediately afterwards Prince Otto went mad, or rather his madness was officially announced. Hermengarde went into retirement, devoting herself to the training of her son; but after the deaths of her husband and of King Leopold, she had returned to the Court, where she lived on good terms with her nephew, and discharged some of the functions which would have fallen to a queen-consort, had Maximilian been married.

Her apartments in the left wing of the Castle of Neustadt corresponded in situation with those occupied by the King himself in the right wing, and looked out over the decorated gardens to the belt of forest beyond. On this particular afternoon the Princess had been sitting in the window of her boudoir, gazing abstractedly out upon the park, while a look of deep thought rested on her proud features. It was her habit to sit thus, with her chin resting upon her hand. In the days of her youthful triumphs, a portrait of her, in this attitude, had been circulated all over Europe, and perhaps it was this recollection which had caused her to adopt the posture as a favourite one ever since. By-and-by she had tired of waiting alone, and struck a small silver gong by her side.

The summons was obeyed by the page in attendance.

“Karl Fink has not been here?” inquired the Princess.

“No, Madam, not yet.”

“Go and see who is in the ante-room, and bring me word.”

The page darted off, and immediately returned. “The Count von Sigismark has just come, your Royal Highness. He is talking with the Lady Gertrude.”

“Ah! Is there no one else outside?”

“No, Madam. Count von Stahlen and Baron von Hardenburg have just gone away.”

“Good,” Hermengarde dismissed the lad with a nod, and then stood considering for a few seconds. Presently she lifted her head, and moved quietly towards the outer room.

The Count von Sigismark was the same personage whose protection she had sought fifteen years before. He was of a type which is fast disappearing in constitutionally-governed countries—a courtier statesman. Under King Leopold he had held the post of Comptroller of the Household, and in that capacity had neglected no opportunity of quietly serving the heir to the throne. Maximilian stood in need of kindness, and was not ungrateful for it. His first act of authority on ascending the throne had been to raise Von Sigismark from the rank of baron to that of count, and by a rapid course of promotion, the fortunate Comptroller soon found himself exalted to the highest position in the State as Chancellor of Franconia, and head of the Government. His powers had long been practically unchecked by interference from his royal master, and the epigrammatist Von Stahlen had gone so far as to give him the nickname of “the Regent”—a dangerous compliment, with which the cautious old Count was by no means pleased.

The favour which he enjoyed under Maximilian did not lead the wary courtier to neglect those in whose hands the power of the future might lie. While the present King remained without a direct heir, Hermengarde’s young son stood next in the succession to the throne. The Chancellor had carefully kept up his friendship with the Princess, and had induced her to receive his daughter Gertrude into her household. The Count was now a widower, and Gertrude was his only child.

The two young gentlemen with whom he had found his daughter engaged on this occasion were well-known characters in the Court. One has already been mentioned as its recognised wit; the other was his inseparable companion and admirer, whose business in life was to publish to the world the masterpieces of epigram which fell from his friend’s lips. These epigrams were thought by some to have more personality than point. It was Von Stahlen who had invented for Maximilian the sobriquet of “King of the Fairies.” This was complimentary, but most of his shafts were barbed with satire. Thus he had described Franconia in her relations with Prussia as “the kettle tied to the dog’s tail,” and had characterised the diplomacy of the Chancellor as “irritating efforts to soothe Bismarck.” Most people failed to see anything clever in these sayings, but everybody felt that it would be unpleasant to have the indefatigable Von Hardenburg spreading similar remarks about themselves. The Count von Stahlen was therefore universally dreaded and disliked, and was the most sought-after man in the whole Court.

Even Gertrude had not escaped his railing tongue. Having neglected him recently under the influence of some flattering attentions from King Maximilian himself, he had taken his revenge by referring to her as “the royal milkmaid”—a galling allusion to the fact that the fortunes of the Sigismarks had been founded less than three hundred years before by a dairyman in Mannhausen.

It was only natural that the beauty should now show herself extraordinarily gracious to her returning admirer. Seated on a low chair beside the couch on which she was leaning, the Count was just finishing an anecdote deeply to the discredit of a noblewoman who happened to be Gertrude’s bosom friend, when they were interrupted by the entrance of Von Sigismark.

“For shame!” laughed Gertrude, rising to greet her father. “How dare you tell me such things! You know the Viscountess is my friend.”

“The very reason why I repeated it to you,” retorted the wit. “I know that with you it will go no further. Good morning, Chancellor.”

The Minister included both young men in a sombre recognition. Then he turned to his daughter.

“Is the Princess well to-day?”

“Yes. Shall I let her know you are here?”

“Presently. I want a word with you first.”

Von Stahlen and his companion took the hint.

“Will you excuse us, Lady Gertrude?” said the Count, with laboured courtesy. “Von Hardenburg and I have an important appointment—political business. I hope, Chancellor, you will not think that you have driven us away.”

And, preserving a smile of bland innocence, he retired, his henchman walking after him with ill-suppressed delight.

The old Chancellor followed them to the door with a scowl.

“These young fools are growing unbearable,” he remarked severely. “You should not encourage them so much. They can do you no good. Von Stahlen has nearly run through his inheritance, and the other never had any inheritance to run through.”

“They are nothing to me,” was the reply. “I find the Count amusing sometimes, that is all.”

“Well, do not be seen with them too much. The King might hear of it.”

“The King?” Gertrude turned a startled look on her father.

“I said the King. I think you know what I mean.”

“Father! Do you really think he cares—that he notices—what I do?”

The Chancellor nodded.

“I am sure of it. I have watched him for some time, and, unless I am deceived, he thinks more of you than he has yet thought of any other woman.”

A bright blush came on the girl’s face.

“Do you really think so? I have sometimes thought—and yet, lately, I have doubted again. But, after all, even if the King did care for me, what could come of it?”

Her father indulged in a deep smile.

“What should you say if a crown came of it?” He rather whispered than spoke the words.

“Oh, no! You cannot be in earnest? Surely the King would not marry any one not of royal blood?”

“Perhaps so. And yet perhaps not so.” The old Count cast a cautious look around him before going on. “You know the cloud that rests upon the race of Astolf: their alliance is not very eagerly sought. The other reigning houses remember the fate of Maximilian’s father, and of his grandfather, and of his uncle Otto.”

“Father!”—there was a note of real fear in the girl’s voice—“you do not mean that you think the King is affected by such a taint?”

“Heaven forbid! I have never thought anything of the kind. Maximilian is not like his House. But nevertheless the possibility is there, and he may find it easier to choose a queen among his own subjects than abroad.”

Before the subdued girl could make any further answer, a door opened at the end of the apartment.

“Hush!” whispered the Chancellor, hastily. “Not a hint of this before the Princess. Remember that the King’s marriage means to her an obstacle between her son and the throne.”

And assuming an air in which cheerful friendliness was only tempered by the proper admixture of deference, he turned to greet Hermengarde.

On her part, the Princess approached him rather with the air of an old friend than a superior in rank.

“I am so glad to find you here, my dear Chancellor,” she said graciously. “It must be so pleasant for you to snatch a few minutes from the dry affairs of State for the society of our dear Gertrude. I only hope that you will not mind my joining in your talk?”

“You do us too much honour, Madam,” was the courtier’s answer. “But I feel sure that you will approve of the advice I have been giving my daughter—not to listen too much to the empty talk of the young fops who haunt the Court.”

“You are quite right, Count,” said Hermengarde, with an approving nod. “You have a right to look higher for your daughter. Your rank and services to the State entitle you to expect no ordinary son-in-law. And you, too, Gertrude,” she continued, fixing her keen gaze on the girl’s telltale face, “perhaps you have already fixed your thoughts on some suitor of pretensions lofty enough to satisfy even your father’s just ambition for you.”

“Madam,” Gertrude stammered out, “I have no thoughts in the matter, except to obey my father.”

“An admirable answer!” exclaimed the Princess, lightly. “Count, I congratulate you on your child. I only hope mine will prove as obedient. But I am forgetting what I was about to say to you. Have you been much in the company of the King lately?”

The Chancellor lifted his head and darted a swift glance at her, and then drew back a couple of inches, with the instinctive movement of one who feels himself on dangerous ground.

“Not more than usual, Madam. There has been nothing to take me specially into his Majesty’s company.”

“Quite so. And you have not noticed anything unusual in his demeanour—anything that has led you to suspect that something important was going on?”

This time the Minister failed to conceal his nervous apprehension.

“I confess I fail to understand you, Madam. So far as I know, the King has been engaged in his ordinary pursuits. Of course, he is a good deal taken up with the preparations for taking possession of this new palace of his at Seidlingen.”

The Princess watched Von Sigismark keenly as he spoke, and a slight look of scorn passed across her countenance, to be instantly replaced by an indulgent smile.

“I see that I am about to astonish you. What should you say if I were to tell you that I have discovered that my nephew is in love?”

In spite of his habitual caution, the old Count could not resist the impulse to turn and look at his daughter, who, on her part, utterly failed to conceal her embarrassment from the keen eyes of the Princess. Before either of them could speak, Hermengarde followed up her thrust.

“Come, I see that I have surprised you both. Yet I should have thought that you, at least, Gertrude, would have noticed something.”

“I, Madam?” The unfortunate girl could say no more, so completely did she feel herself at the mercy of her royal tormentor.

“Yes, come; you are not going to pretend that you know nothing about my nephew’s feelings. Why, it is not two months since the whole Court believed that he had lost his heart to you.”

The Chancellor felt it was time for him to come to his daughter’s rescue.

“Surely your Royal Highness is jesting? My daughter would never dare to entertain such an idea. Every one knows that a king of Franconia must marry in his own rank.”

Hermengarde shrugged her shoulders.

“Kings of Franconia do strange things sometimes,” she retorted with significance. “But I see that you are both in the dark. Yet this affair has been going on now for several weeks, though it has only come to my knowledge within the last few days.”

Gertrude made an effort to rally her courage and take part in the conversation.

“Perhaps it is the Baroness von Steinketel that you refer to, Madam?” she timidly suggested.

Hermengarde smiled. The Baroness, a fat, overdressed woman of about forty, whose chief attraction consisted in a never-failing flow of animal spirits, had made herself the laughing-stock of the Court by her undisguised attempts to attract the notice of Maximilian. It was easy to see what a consolation it would have been to Gertrude to have no worse rival than this.

“I had better enlighten you at once,” said the Princess. “My eccentric nephew has not looked so high as the Baroness von Steinketel. He has bestowed his affections on a young peasant girl, the daughter of one of the royal foresters.”

The countenance of her two listeners underwent a change. On the Chancellor’s face the expression of anxiety was succeeded by one of relief.

“I understand you, Madam. Thank Heaven it is no worse! I confess that you seriously alarmed me. But, of course, a mere intrigue of that kind need not be taken very seriously. Gertrude, perhaps it would be better if you were to ask the Princess’s leave to retire.”

“Stay, do not be too confident,” interposed the Princess, warningly; “I am afraid this affair may turn out to be more serious than you think. You have heard the tale of King Cophetua. For my part I should not be surprised at anything on the part of Maximilian.”

The Minister started, and gazed at Hermengarde in alarm, as if to ascertain whether any graver meaning lurked beneath her words. She returned a look as serious as his own, and proceeded to enlighten him.

“The name of this young girl is Dorothea Gitten, and her father’s lodge is on the other side of the forest, scarcely two miles away. Every day for the past month and more, my nephew has been going there. If he takes a servant as escort, he leaves him at the edge of the wood, and enters the forester’s garden alone. There he sits by the hour in an arbour, pretending to drink cider, while the charming Dorothea keeps him company. All the time he treats her with as much respect as if she were a princess. In short the whole proceeding appears like a regular courtship, which may have the most surprising consequences.”

If Hermengarde had hoped to surprise the Chancellor into any hasty expression of opinion, however, she was disappointed. The old courtier listened to her in silence, striving to regain his composure in order to think the matter over at his leisure. At the close of her narrative, he remarked in his most diplomatic tone—

“I am greatly obliged by your confidence, Madam. I recognise the importance of what you have told me, which will of course remain a strict secret for the present. It is too soon to come to any decision on it as yet. Our best course, no doubt, will be to watch quietly, and wait.”

The Princess smiled rather scornfully.

“I dare say you are right, my dear Chancellor. However, I am glad to think that the responsibility no longer rests on my shoulders. Think the matter over, and come to me again.”

Von Sigismark took the implied dismissal, and bowed himself out with every demonstration of respect.

“So much for the father,” murmured the Princess to herself. “Now for the daughter.”

She was about to address Gertrude aloud, when the page rapped at the door and announced that Karl Fink was in attendance.

Hermengarde’s eyes lit up with satisfaction.

“Let him come in at once,” she commanded. “Gertrude, I should like you to hear what this young man has to say.”

And the next minute the young forester in the green livery stood before them.

CHAPTER IV
A DOUBLE TRAITOR

Karl Fink was a familiar figure at the Castle. He was a favourite with the young King, who had chosen him from among the other foresters to be his regular attendant, and had lodged him in the royal quarter of the Castle. This Gertrude knew, but neither she nor Hermengarde was aware of a certain episode in the young forester’s early life which might not be without its effect on the future.

Karl entered the room with the confident air of one assured of his reception. But on seeing Gertrude he stopped short and cast a look of inquiry at the Princess.

“Come here, Karl,” she said graciously, in answer to the look. “You may speak freely before the Lady von Sigismark, who knows what you have come to tell me. Has the King been to see the pretty peasant again to-day?”

“Yes, your Royal Highness. And, what is more, to-day, for the first time, he did not go alone. He took Herr Bernal with him.”

The Princess listened to Karl, but addressed her answering remarks to Gertrude.

“Ah, that looks serious. As long as men keep an idea to themselves it may come to nothing, but when they begin to ask the advice of their friends, depend on it they have made up their minds.”

The Princess paused a moment to let her words sink into the girl’s mind, and then asked her:—

“Is there anything you would like to ask about, that Karl may be able to tell us?”

Gertrude looked up, struggling hard to preserve an air of indifference.

“This girl, I suppose you have seen her?” she said to the young forester. “Is she so very beautiful?”

“She is, my lady, most beautiful. They call her the Fawn of the Forest. Her hair shines like a sunbeam, and her skin is as soft and pink as the leaf of a wild rose. Every one admires her.”

Hermengarde turned towards the jealous belle with a cruel smile—

“You see, Gertrude, if even this man is so carried away, what the King must think of her. And she is young, too. Why, you are scarcely twenty, but this girl is some years under you. How old is she, Karl?”

“Scarcely seventeen, Madam.”

“You hear. No wonder my nephew is so fascinated.”

Gertrude was unable to make any reply to these stabs. Karl seized the opportunity of adding a fresh item to his report.

“His Majesty took her a present to-day,” he observed; “a brooch set with jewels, which came from Paris this morning.”

“Did he?” The Princess turned again to her victim. “I think the King once gave you a brooch?”

“No, Madam, it was a bracelet,” answered the girl sullenly, half stifled with mingled shame and anger.

Hermengarde saw that she had gone far enough, and dismissed her emissary.

“Thank you, Karl, that will do. Come to me again if you have anything fresh to tell.”

The fellow took himself away, and Hermengarde proceeded to talk seriously to the girl whose mind she had been working upon.

“Listen to me, my dear Gertrude; I brought that man in because I wanted you to understand for yourself how serious this matter may become. If any one else were concerned I should look upon it as a mere intrigue, but I have the very gravest fears as to what Maximilian may do. He is strange in many ways; you must have noticed it. Speak freely, have you not sometimes feared of late that he was becoming worse than formerly?”

This was a bolder hint than she had ventured on with the cautious Chancellor. But Gertrude had not yet been wrought up to the pitch at which she could receive such a suggestion complacently.

“No, surely not, Madam!” she exclaimed, in real dismay. “Surely there is no fear of that kind for the King.”

Hermengarde sighed, and assumed a resigned expression.

“We must always be prepared for the worst,” she replied. “I confess I have been a little alarmed for some time. I only hope nothing will happen till my son is older and better fitted to take a public part. By-the-by”—she spoke as if desirous to turn the conversation—“have you noticed the Prince lately? He is growing fast, and will soon begin to make a stir among you young ladies. I cannot help thinking he is handsome.”

“I have not noticed,” answered Gertrude, absently. “At least, yes—I beg your pardon, Madam—yes, his Highness is certainly much improved.”

“I should like you to be friends,” said the Princess, sweetly. “Be so good as to ring the bell for me, and if Ernest is in the Castle, I will send for him.”

Gertrude obeyed wonderingly, and the page was dismissed in search of the young Prince.

“There is no more refining education for a young man than the society of polished women,” observed the Princess, with the air of a philosopher. “I wish I could persuade you to give some of your time occasionally to my bantling, and teach him a little of your own grace.”

Gertrude blushed and bowed low, overwhelmed by such unexpected familiarity on the part of the proud Hermengarde.

“Your condescension overpowers me, Madam,” she said. “There is nothing I should think more delightful than to enjoy the society of his Royal Highness.”

“I know the risk I run,” returned the Princess, smiling, and shaking her head in an almost playful manner. “I know how difficult it is for a young man to pass much time in your society and come off heart-whole.” She watched the flush of vanity animate the girl before her, and added thoughtfully, as if speaking to herself: “After all, the age when royal alliances were of importance to the welfare of kingdoms has passed. Why should we attach so much importance to marriages with foreign royalty? Too often such affairs turn out disastrously for those concerned, while a marriage within the circle of the national nobility would have brought happiness and content.”

Gertrude listened greedily, hardly venturing to believe her ears. Was it possible that the royal Hermengarde, the haughtiest princess in all Germany, in whose eyes the Hohenzollerns were parvenus, and who was accustomed to speak of the Guelphs as bourgeois, was now actually contemplating with indifference the possibility of her son marrying a mere private noblewoman, and was even hinting that she should feel no great displeasure if she, Gertrude von Sigismark, turned out to be the lucky bride!

Before she could reduce her thoughts to clearness, the door was opened by a tall, slim lad of fifteen or sixteen, who stood awkwardly on the threshold, looking into the room, his figure slightly stooped, and his dark eyes fixed with an inscrutable expression, from which dread was not entirely absent, upon the Princess Hermengarde.

The Princess caught sight of him, and a smile of fondness softened the asperity of her features.

“Well, Ernest, come in and pay your respects to this young lady,” she exclaimed encouragingly. “You surely know the Lady Gertrude von Sigismark well enough?”

The lad moved forward, shuffling his feet rather nervously as he walked. Gertrude went half-way to meet him, and made as if she would have carried the young Prince’s extended hand to her lips. But this Hermengarde would not permit.

“For shame, Ernest! Where is your gallantry? If any hand is to be kissed, it should be the Lady Gertrude’s. Come, my boy, look into her face. You are old enough to say whether it is worth looking at.”

The Prince lifted his eyes reluctantly as high as the girl’s chin, and responded ungraciously—

“I don’t know—yes, I suppose so.”

“Fie!” exclaimed Hermengarde, laughing at the boy’s seriousness. “Is that the way you pay compliments to ladies? It is time we took him in hand, Gertrude, and trained him to be more polite.”

But if Gertrude had experienced any momentary chagrin, she was quick to cover it.

“I think you are unjust to the Prince, Madam,” she responded. “A compliment paid after some consideration is all the more valuable.”

“Mother,” broke in the boy, “can I go for my ride in the park now?”

“I dare say you can; but why are you in such a hurry to leave us? Perhaps Lady Gertrude is interested in horses. Ask her.”

Ernest turned to the girl as if his own interest in her had been quickened by the suggestion, and put the question in his own words—

“Are you? Do you ever ride?”

“I am very fond of horses,” answered Gertrude, with her most ingratiating smile; “and I ride whenever I can get a cavalier to escort me.”

“There is a chance for you!” cried Hermengarde to her son, pleased to see how quickly Gertrude had fallen into her new part. “You are in luck this afternoon. Quick, ask her if she will share your ride.”

Thus prompted, the Prince had no option but to comply, though he did not throw much heartiness into his invitation. But Gertrude showed enough alacrity for both.

“I shall be delighted with the honour, Prince, if you do not mind waiting while I put on my habit.”

“Don’t be long, then,” was the boy’s response.

Gertrude, with a swift reverence to the Princess, darted away to get ready, and surprised and annoyed Von Stahlen, who had returned to the ante-room to wait for her, by sweeping past him with the bare announcement that she was going to ride with Prince Ernest.

The Count sat silent and motionless in his chair for fully twenty minutes after this snub, and then turned to the patiently expectant Von Hardenburg and launched this withering remark—

“I thought it was time for the Princess Hermengarde to engage a nurse for her baby.”

In the mean time, as soon as the door closed upon Gertrude, the Princess Hermengarde had called Ernest to her side, and lovingly laid her hand upon his forehead.

“When shall I live to see that curly head wearing a crown?” she murmured fondly.

The boy drew back and frowned.

“I do not want to be king,” he said in a decided voice. “Besides, I love Cousin Maximilian, and I do not want him to die. Don’t you love him?”

“Of course I do,” responded Hermengarde, soothingly, regarding her son nevertheless with an anxious look. “But you should not say that you do not want to be king, my boy. Above all, be careful not to talk like that with any one but me; you cannot tell what harm it might do. Your cousin Maximilian is not strong, and a thousand things might happen to bring you to the throne.”

The boy pouted sullenly.

“Why doesn’t Maximilian marry?” he grumbled. “Am I the only heir?”

“You are the only near one. You have a distant cousin, Count von Eisenheim, but he is hardly to be reckoned among the Franconian royal family. Do not speak as if you shrank from your destiny, Ernest. Maximilian will never marry—I tell you as a secret—never. It is for you to marry, and one of these days, when you are a little older, I will talk to you about your beautiful cousin, Louisa of Schwerin-Strelitz. In the mean time, the less you speak about these things the better. Only be careful to show yourself gracious to Lady Gertrude, and also to her father, the Chancellor.”

“But I do not like him,” remonstrated Prince Ernest. “He is disagreeable; he stares at me when he meets me, in a way I do not like.”

“Nonsense, child, that is your fancy. Besides, if it were true, that would be all the more reason you should be civil and pleasant to him. Mark my words, before long you will find him very friendly. Now run away, and see that the horses are ready for your ride.”

The boy needed no second bidding. He sprang to the door, and Hermengarde, left to her own thoughts, settled down into her favourite attitude beside the window, with a pondering look upon her brow.

While these shadowy intrigues were taking shape in one corner of the palace, in another quarter of the same building a very different plot was making headway.

The connecting link between the two was Karl. When the young forester returned to his room in the royal corridor, to his astonishment, he found a visitor awaiting him. A tall, dark man, a few years older than himself, was seated on a chair, with his arms folded, in an attitude of quiet resolution.

He looked up at Karl’s entrance, but made no other movement.

“Who are you?” demanded the favourite. “How did you come here?”

“I came here easily enough,” replied the stranger, coolly. “I told the people below that I was your brother. Perhaps you have forgotten the brotherhood between us.”

Karl’s face fell, and he gazed uneasily at the bronzed features of his visitor, who returned his stare with calm unconcern.

“I do not recognise you,” he faltered. “What is your name, and what do you want here?”

“My name is Johann Mark!” Karl uttered a sharp cry. “And I want your aid to gain me a private interview with King Maximilian.”

The young courtier began to change colour, and his limbs trembled. Dropping all further question as to his visitor’s right to be there, he asked anxiously—

“What is it you want with the King?”

Johann gave him a warning look.

“Everything. Be wise, ask no more questions.”

“I dare not do what you ask. You have no right to expect it of me. I am a loyal servant of the King.”

“Loyal?” He pronounced the word with an intense scorn. “Karl Fink loyal! Come, speak out; how much must I give you to conceal me in some place where Maximilian will be likely to pass alone?”

“Nothing. It is no use to tempt me. I will not. I dare not,” he protested, with a tremor in his voice.

Johann’s look became threatening.

“Sit down,” he said. “I see that I must talk to you. I must remind you of some things that you have forgotten—things that happened before you turned a courtier. You lie under the misfortune of having had a moment of courage in your past, Karl—a fit of manly independence. You were whipped into it, I think, by old King Leopold; and in that fit you fled to Stuttgart.”

Karl interrupted. He had grown very pale, and his teeth were almost chattering.

“Don’t speak of that,” he implored. “Don’t remind me of that.”

“I must remind you,” was the deliberate answer. “I must remind you of a certain meeting-place behind the Arsenal.”

“Hush! Not so loud, for God’s sake!”

Johann returned a contemptuous smile, and continued in the same tone—

“I must remind you of a certain brotherhood composed of other Franconians who had felt the weight of Leopold’s hand, and of a night when a certain youth was initiated and swore—do you recollect the oath?”

“I recollect too much. In mercy do not keep dwelling on that.”

“Well, since you recollect it, I will pass on. Your comrades have been dispersed since then, Karl, but they have not forgotten you. We have watched your career with interest. We have seen you return to your old pursuits, and escape this time without a whipping. We have even watched you entering the palace, and becoming the favourite—valet, is it, or groom?—of the young King. We gave you credit for good motives. We said to ourselves—‘He has gone in there to be in a position to serve us when the time comes.’ For that reason we spared you, Karl. We have left you alone all this time because we had no need of your services. Now we have need of them. What do you say? Are you prepared to serve us?”

The unfortunate forester had listened to this biting speech in stony silence. But at its close he roused himself for a last effort, and angrily replied—

“By what right do you make these demands on me? Oh, I know; I have felt this coming all along. All these years the remembrance of that wretched act of folly has overhung me like a storm-cloud, and I have never risen in the morning without wondering whether it would burst before night. You call yourselves the friends of freedom, you extol the name of liberty, and all the time you are coercing others, using the hasty words extorted from a boy to bind the grown man and compel him to commit crimes at your dictation. I tell you that you are worse tyrants yourselves than any of those you conspire against. Look at me. I am happy here; King Maximilian has done me no harm, he has shown me every favour; I have lost all the inclinations that made me join you ten years ago, I have forgotten you, and only desire to be left in peace. And yet you track me down like bloodhounds, and order me to risk my neck at your bidding. What could be worse tyranny than that?”

Johann had listened perfectly unmoved to the other’s passionate protests. He hardly deigned to answer them.

“It is a case of tyranny against tyranny. There is no such thing as free will in this world, Karl. Kings use their weapons, and we use ours. They have their troops, their judges, their spies. We have our oaths and our daggers. If we are dealing with men of ignoble minds that can only be swayed by selfish considerations we have to employ the arguments that appeal to them. If kings use bribes, we must use threats.”

He paused, and for some moments nothing more was said. Then Johann spoke again—

“After all, we do not really ask very much of you. In enterprises of this kind a faint-hearted ally is more dangerous than an enemy. All I want of you is to place me somewhere where I may meet the King. You can go where you like, and no one need know that you were concerned in the affair.”

“What is it that you mean to do?” demanded Karl sullenly.

For answer Johann thrust his hand into an inner pocket of his coat, and produced a pistol, at the sight of which the other man recoiled, with a fresh cry.

“I think you know this pistol. I think the last time it was loaded you held it in your hand. You had been chosen by the lot to fire it then: I have been chosen now.”

“But then it was loaded for Leopold, and he is dead,” urged the trembling Karl.

“True, and therefore this time it has been loaded for Maximilian. What is there in that to surprise you?”

“But what has he done? His fancies are harmless; he is not bad and cruel; if he does no good he does no evil; he goes on his own way and leaves the people alone.”

“The fancies of kings are never harmless,” replied Johann sternly. And rising to his feet, to give more emphasis to his language, he went on in the tone of a man who feels deeply every word he says: “Not to do good is in itself a crime on the part of the ruler. How many men in Maximilian’s position, with his power to bless mankind, would make a paradise of Franconia! It is not only the active ill-doer that we have to war against; we must cut down the barren fig-tree as well. No; let a king be kingly, let him be a father to his people, let him comfort them in their sorrows, teach them in their ignorance; let him protect the poor from the spoliations of the rich, provide openings for labour in public works for the benefit of the whole nation, feed the hungry, build hospitals for the infirm, give homes to the aged; let him come down into the arena and fight his people’s battle; let him be our example, and our guide to lead us on, or let him cease to reign!”

Another silence followed, broken only by the uneasy fidgeting of Karl upon his seat, as he tried to think of some way of escape from his position. At last Johann put a stop to his hesitation.

“Come,” he said sternly, “no more delay. It is your life or his. Take me to the place where I can carry out my errand or—”

The wretched minion rose up shuddering, and led the way out of the room.

CHAPTER V
JOHANN’S MISSION

Treading cautiously for fear of being overheard by any chance passer-by, Karl led his master’s enemy down the corridor giving on to the royal apartments, and out into a spacious gallery which ran across the whole southern side of the Castle, and connected its two wings. This gallery was almost turned into a conservatory, by the whole of one side being given up to a row of windows so large and near together as to make the wall appear one expanse of glass. Along the floor, in front of these windows, ran a series of blossoming shrubs, bright-hued azaleas, or sweetly scented lemon and myrtle, giving the whole place a fresh and romantic air. As soon as they had reached this gallery Karl turned to his companion:—

“This is where the King generally walks about this hour. He may be alone, or he may be with his friend.”

Johann glanced round. The place seemed suited for his purpose. The foliage of the plants would afford him a hiding-place, where he could lurk until the opportunity came for him to carry out his purpose.

“That will do,” he said briefly.

Karl glanced at his face as if meditating another appeal for mercy, but found no encouragement to speak. He turned and hurried away, sick at heart, while Johann selected a nook in which to conceal himself.

It is hardly necessary to add much to the reasons given by Johann for his presence in the Castle. He had come there as the emissary of the society to which he referred in his conversation with Karl, a society founded ten years before, in the reign of Leopold IX.

Originally the society had consisted of five persons. Of these one was dead. Another had long since made a home in the United States of America. The third was he who had taken advantage of the old King’s death to abandon the paths of conspiracy, and who had become the servant and confidant of Leopold’s successor. Two of the original members still remained: one, a man remarkable for his size and for his thick red beard, had succeeded to the post of president; the other was Johann himself.

For some years after Maximilian’s accession the work of the society had seemed at a standstill. But it is a truth often illustrated in history that the spirit of revolt engendered by the oppressions of a strong bad king breaks out under the rule of a mild but weak successor. Maximilian’s offence towards his subjects had been simple indifference. A dreamer and a poet, he had shown himself utterly averse to the practical business of kingship, and, absorbed in his æsthetic pursuits, he had left the cares of government to his Chancellor. While the Minister was engaged in levying taxes, and keeping a tight rein on public opinion, the young King was withdrawing himself from the sight of his subjects, and spending his time in some distant hunting-lodge with a few favourite companions, or perhaps assisting at the production, on a lavish scale, of one of those operas which were beginning to make his intimate friend Bernal celebrated throughout Europe.

It was not long before these caprices began to take an extravagant turn, which gave an opening for the public discontent. Once a fancy seized Maximilian, he never stopped to count the cost, and his Ministers found that the best way to preserve their power was to furnish him ungrudgingly with the funds required to satisfy his whims. It was natural that the revolutionary party should seize on this ground of attack, and hold up the thoughtless young King as a vampire, draining the life-blood of the people to supply his selfish luxuries.

Matters had just been brought to a head by Maximilian’s last crowning extravagance, the celebrated palace of Seidlingen.

Seidlingen had been over three years in preparation. Riding one day in the mountains which border the northwest of Franconia, the King had come upon a beautiful little valley shut in on all sides by lofty hills. In the middle of the valley lay a deep blue lake, several miles in extent, overshadowed by the mountains, and bordered by dark pine forests. Charmed with the romantic situation, Maximilian had conceived the idea of erecting a palace on the very edge of the lake, and transforming the valley into a veritable fairy kingdom, in which he might roam undisturbed. How many millions had actually been spent in realising this splendid dream were not accurately known. It was supposed that the Ministers, afraid to disclose the truth, had distributed a large part of the cost among various heads of civil and military expenditure. All that public opinion could do was to take note of the colossal works involved, and from them to arrive at some estimate of the appalling cost.

It was known that thousands of men had been at work in the lovely valley. Part of the mountain had been levelled to obtain a site for the palace and the extensive gardens which spread away from the border of the lake. Another part had been cut away to make room for a magnificent road, broad and smooth as the boulevards of a capital, and bordered with trees and waterfalls and vistas of artificially embellished landscape. In one place an immense stretch of forest had to be cleared; in another, huge trees, selected for their size and beauty, had to be transplanted from distant regions. The whole of the lake, some ten or twelve square miles of water, had first to be drained away that its bed might be deepened and cleansed from weeds, and then to be refilled, and kept at a constant high level by means of immense dams of masonry, and by the construction of artificial water-courses, and the laying of miles of underground pipes. Its waters had to be stocked with rare fish from all the rivers of Europe and America, and its banks to be lined here and there with costly marble quays, to facilitate landing from the sumptuous pleasure craft, built of priceless woods, which were transported thither across the mountains. A net-work of canals lined with marble, ran through the gardens, and on their smooth waters exquisite boats inlaid with ivory, and shaped like swans and dolphins, glided past Chinese towers, and kiosks, and crystal caves from which concealed musicians were to pour out melodies upon the voyager’s ear. At one time it had actually been in contemplation to connect these canals with a larger one extending the whole way to the river Rhine, but another kingdom had to be crossed, and the compensation demanded by its government was so enormous that even Maximilian stopped short, and the dream of making a seaport in the heart of the German highlands was abandoned.

All that art could desire or science execute had been done to render the palace itself one of the wonders of the world. In mere size it was inferior to the state palace in Mannhausen, far inferior to such huge piles as Versailles and the Roman Vatican. A poet does not build like a conqueror. Maximilian’s object had not been to stupefy mankind, but to delight himself. Almost more wealth had been lavished on the wonderful accessories than on the main edifice—that is to say, on the aviaries, the hothouses, and above all on the unique and gorgeous theatre destined for the production of the grandest works of Mozart and Beethoven and Bernal. But it was in the beauty of its design, and the perfection of its finish, that Seidlingen rose superior to every other palace on the globe. The barrack-like stateliness of Potsdam, the homely majesty of Windsor, were alike put out of the comparison. It was the complete and final fusion of the mediæval and the classic, a Gothic castle breathed upon by the spirit of the Renaissance, and transformed into a dazzling temple of art. Beneath stretched broad terraces and solemn colonnades, above soared fairy-like turrets and thin spires of delicate tracery. It was the beauty and glory of the South, brooded over by the deep immortal spirit of the North.

And now the rumour ran that Seidlingen was finished, and that the King was about to go and take possession. This was the signal for the discontent, which had long been gathering head, to break into a ferment. The revolutionary societies redoubled their activity, recruits came flocking to them in shoals, and already the more daring minds spoke of open insurrection against the royal Government. It only remained for some one man, more daring than the rest, to give the signal of revolt.

This was the crisis for which Johann had long been waiting. He called together the members of his own brotherhood, which had renewed its numbers, and producing the very weapon which had been provided ten years before for the assassination of Leopold, boldly demanded that it should be loaded once more. His comrades consented, and by his own desire he was entrusted with the carrying out of the society’s sentence. The dawn of the following day saw him set forth from Mannhausen, carrying in his breast the sealed pistol, and bound for the place where the Court was then in residence.

Stopping on his way at Franz Gitten’s cottage, what he had learned there confirmed his resolution, and he had come away armed, as he believed, with a fresh justification for the deed he was going to commit.

He had hardly settled himself in what seemed to be a secure hiding-place, when a door opened at the far end of the gallery, and Maximilian and Bernal entered arm-in-arm.

The King had discarded the dress he had worn for his walk through the forest, and was now clad in a plain suit of black velvet, trimmed with deep lace ruffles at the throat and wrists. The only mark of his rank was a small cap of the same stuff which he wore, while his companion was bare-headed.

As if he had changed his mood with his clothes, the young man came in laughing and rallying his friend.

“Why, Auguste, what nonsense you talk! Did you hear Von Stahlen’s latest? He declares that the Steinketel has jilted me! He thinks I have been cut out by Von Hardenburg. It is lucky that Seidlingen will be ready for me to retire to, to hide my despair.”

Auguste did not seem quite to share his friend’s cheerfulness. His face wore a troubled expression.

“I suppose you have no idea what your fairyland has actually cost,” he observed. “I cannot help fearing it will make you unpopular with the nation.”

Maximilian laughed.

“I see what it is,” he retorted lightly; “you have been reading the newspapers. I never do, not even the Cologne Gazette. My dear Auguste, if you are going to take life seriously, all confidence between us must be at an end. Remember that I am the King of the Fairies, and my politics are those of A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

Auguste smiled rather half-heartedly.

“That is all very well, Max, but you know the inhabitants of Franconia are not fairies, and the taxes they have to pay are not fairy gold.”

“My dear friend, I really believe that you have turned Republican. I shall hear next that you are a candidate for the Chamber on the Opposition side. What are the Franconians to you, or to me either? Philistines all, my friend, Philistines all. I look upon myself as a divinely appointed instrument of retribution. I am the avenger of the poets they have imprisoned, and the musicians they have insulted, and the painters they have starved. Let them pay their taxes. It is the only homage to genius they have ever rendered. I am the only prophet who has ever been honoured in his own country, and they honour me because they have to. Make your mind easy; and when we get to the Happy Valley we will lock the gates and give orders that no newspapers are to be admitted except that one at Athens which is published in verse!”

Auguste shook his head.

“It is lucky for you that the Chancellor takes the business of government a little more seriously. What would you do if a revolutionary mob invaded your Happy Valley?”

“Offer them refreshments, of course, and then make them listen to one of your operas. If that did not subdue their fierceness, nothing would,” added Maximilian, unable to resist the temptation to banter his friend. “But tell me, Auguste, do you seriously suppose that any one wants to deprive me of the throne in favour of poor Ernest?”

Bernal did not at once reply to this question. While the two had been talking they had continued to stroll up and down the gallery, and in letting his eyes wander from side to side, the musician had caught sight through the gathering dusk of something which he fancied to be unusual in the appearance of one of the shrubs before the windows.

Restraining his curiosity for the moment, he walked on, and as Maximilian was waiting, he forced himself to return some answer.

“I am afraid that is not the question. You may have enemies whose designs go farther than a mere change of masters. Be serious for one moment, Max. Other kings have to take precautions to guard themselves, and why should not you do the same?”

“Oh, that will be all right You will find that Seidlingen is well guarded, though it has been more with the idea of keeping out impertinent admirers than the mysterious enemies you talk about. I have had a palisade put up all round the mountains, and at every mile or so I shall have small pickets of troops, whose duty it will be to patrol the boundary, and see that no one attempts to cross. There is only one road leading into the valley, the one I have had made, and that will be guarded at the entrance by a small fort pierced by an iron gate, which will be kept locked, and only opened by a written order from me or the Chancellor. So you see the Anarchists won’t have much chance to disturb us.”

While he was speaking, they had strolled back till they again came opposite the spot which had attracted the musician’s attention. He contrived to gradually bring himself to a halt, Maximilian following his example without perceiving that his companion’s movements were governed by any special purpose. Bernal fixed his gaze upon a dark shadow under the foliage, while Maximilian continued to speak.

“The real difficulty I shall have,” he said, “is to avoid the visits of persons who cannot very well be turned back by a sentry. I am afraid from what I hear that my preparations have roused the curiosity of the Kaiser, and that his Imperial Majesty is likely to inflict his formidable presence on me, unless I can think of some pretext for keeping him away.”

Bernal still listened, but the King’s words fell dully on his ear. His whole attention was absorbed by a frightful discovery. Gazing steadfastly into the shadow, he had all at once become aware that his look was returned. There, at a distance of a few feet from him, was a pair of dark eyes fixed deliberately upon his own. By a tremendous effort of will he suppressed all outward signs of agitation, lest he should alarm the man before him, and continued to gaze calmly back, as if unconscious of what he saw. His thoughts, travelling with terrific rapidity, went over the dangers of the situation. The King and himself were totally unarmed, they were alone in the gallery, and, thanks to Maximilian’s morbid love of privacy, there were no attendants likely to be within hail. Who could the concealed watcher be? Only a desperate man would have dared to risk the danger of thus invading the royal apartments in a way which sufficiently proclaimed the threatening character of his errand. If this man were armed, the King’s life, both their lives, were at his mercy.

The only chance of escape that presented itself to Bernal’s mind, was to feign unconsciousness, and draw the King gradually away to the end of the gallery. Then, by a sudden movement, he could urge him through the doorway, and fasten it against the enemy. With a strange feeling of dizziness creeping over him, he contrived to say a few words in answer to his companion.

“That is what I was afraid you would say. If the Kaiser is really anxious to come, in your own interest you ought to make him welcome, and show him every attention. He may be a useful friend or a dangerous foe.”

He was quite unconscious whether he was talking sense or nonsense; as long as he could maintain the appearance of composure it was all he cared for. Maximilian, wholly unsuspicious, launched out into a reply.

“My dear Auguste, you are talking like old Von Sigismark. Of course, all that is very true; but it is no reason why I should submit to the penalty of that barbarian’s presence, if there is any reasonable way of avoiding it. I come to you for sympathy, not for good advice.”

As the King finished speaking, Bernal felt a sudden shock. Still gazing into the depths of those flaming eyes, he had become aware by some subtle instinct that the man lurking in the shadow knew that he was detected. There was only one moment’s more breathing-time, till the assassin should learn that this knowledge in turn had been discovered by his observer.

Trembling under the imminence of the peril, Bernal felt irritated at having to reply to the King, as a man racked by some torturing pain resents having to respond to the commonplace observations of those around him.

“I never talk like Von Sigismark. I simply meant that if there were no way of avoiding it, you should submit with as much grace as possible.”

Maximilian smiled at the peevishness of his friend’s tone.

“You are a Job’s comforter, Auguste. If you say much more I shall make you my Chancellor; so be careful.”

“Ah!”

The crisis had come. A flash of the eyes which he had been watching with such feverish anxiety, convinced Bernal that the last stage had been arrived at. The enemy had already learned that Bernal had detected him. He now knew that Bernal was aware of this.

The fence of eyes was over. The two were as much face to face as if both were out in the middle of the apartment. Bernal set his teeth together and drew back a step, while Johann sprang to his feet, throwing down the shrub which had protected him, and levelled his pistol, at the distance of four paces, at the King’s breast.

“If either of you moves or makes the least cry, I fire.”

CHAPTER VI
KING AND REGICIDE

None of us know beforehand how we shall act in moments of stress and fear. Bernal, when he saw embodied before him the danger to which he had looked forward, lost his self-control, and turned round to the King with a nervous movement, as if he would catch hold of him to restrain him from hasty action. But Maximilian, after the first natural start of astonishment, stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed steadily on this man who had suddenly come forward to threaten his life, gazing at him with more of curiosity than dread.

The intruder stepped a pace nearer, keeping his weapon pointed at the King, while his finger rested against the trigger. Nevertheless, he did not at once fire. To kill in cold blood is hard. And the republican, on his part, was not free from some natural feeling of curiosity as he looked for the first time on this scion of a race against which he had sworn vows of hatred.

“Have you anything to say before I fire?” he asked, unconsciously seeking to gain time to strengthen his resolve.

Maximilian drew himself up with a proud gesture. The softer side of his character seemed to have suddenly died out. In the presence of this enemy he was every inch a king.

“Why have you come here?” he demanded, as haughtily as if he had been surrounded by his guards, and the man before him had been a defenceless prisoner. “What is it that you want?”

“You see plainly enough. I am here to kill you.”

Bernal could not restrain a stifled cry. Maximilian lifted his hand rebukingly to enjoin silence, without removing his eyes from the enemy’s face.

“Why do you wish to take my life?” he asked, in a firm voice.

Johann had to pause and collect his thoughts before he could answer. He felt ever so slightly disconcerted. The situation was altogether unlike what he had anticipated. He had come there breathing wrath against one whom he pictured as a Heliogabalus, dissolved in vice and luxury, and he had steeled himself beforehand against threats or bribes or prayers for mercy; and now, here he was face to face with a pale, thoughtful-eyed young man, whose principal feeling seemed to be wonder, tempered with indignation, at his presence.

“Because you are a king,” he said at length, speaking slowly, and trying to rouse his dormant anger as he went along. “You hold the supreme power in the country. For ten years you have reigned over Franconia; and how have you used your power? For the gratification of your own selfish pleasures. While the poor starve in your capital, you waste millions in luxury. You build new palaces; you lavish favours on artists and musicians”—he glanced involuntarily at Bernal as he spoke—“your whole time is given up to enjoyment, and you have never given a moment’s thought to the welfare of the millions whom you call your subjects. You value operas more than the lives of men.”

He stopped, feeling slightly dissatisfied with the weakness of his language. He would have liked to crush this calm, self-possessed questioner with a few scathing words—but somehow the words had refused to come.

During this harangue a slightly contemptuous look came on Maximilian’s face. He answered with spirit.

“I do not believe that any one need starve in Franconia. You are speaking unfairly. If I spend money in the ways you talk of, does it not all come back into the pockets of the people? I never heard that it was considered a crime to encourage art, or that a king was forbidden to have his private friends. And when you accuse me of not valuing the lives of men, you forget that during my reign Franconia has been kept from war. None of my subjects have been made to shed one drop of blood for me. I have never even signed a death-warrant.”

“What does that matter? I am not speaking of foreign war. The deadliest war is that which goes on from day to day between rich and poor; and that war you have never lifted a finger to check. The millions you have wasted on palaces—which are of no use to any one but yourself—might have been used for great public works for the benefit of mankind—hospitals, almshouses, bridges, aqueducts to bring the pure water of the hills into the Mannhausen slums. A king has higher duties than encouraging art. It is his duty to be the shepherd of the nation he rules.”

Maximilian listened, this time with an air of interest. He replied in milder and more friendly tones than he had yet used.

“I think I understand you. I see that there is something in what you say. I have been too much in the habit of thinking that the best king was the one who interfered with his subjects least. You will admit, at all events, that I have never tried to play the tyrant. But I see that I might have done something more—such things as you point out. Yet the people have a constitution. Why have their elected representatives not undertaken some of these works?”

Johann found it more and more difficult to reply harshly to this gentle reasoning on the part of the man whom he had come to take vengeance upon. He tried to convince himself that this was mere acting—a mere ruse to gain time, and he spoke again more rudely than before.

“That is right; lay the blame on others. Where is the money for such things to come from, when every penny that can be wrung out of the people is being squandered by you? Besides, these representatives, as you call them, represent only the richer classes. They are as much out of touch with the poor, they have as little sympathy with them, as you. Their turn will come before long; in the mean time we must begin at the head. These excuses come too late. You have had ten years in which to show your good intentions, and now we can wait no longer.”

Maximilian resumed his haughty air.

“I did not mean to make excuses, sir. I thought you were speaking sincerely, and I meant to do the same. But, since you have made up your mind already, this conversation is useless. You had better fire that pistol.”

Johann felt a sensation of shame, coupled with an unsatisfactory doubt as to whether he had rightly judged the young man whose life he was about to take. Without removing his finger from the trigger, he slightly lowered the pistol, and responded.

“I can fire as soon as there is the least danger of interruption. But I have not come here to insult you. You asked me why I wished to take your life, and I have told you. I do not accuse you of wilfully injuring the people, but of neglecting your duties towards them for the sake of your own pleasures. You say that the best king is the one who leaves his people alone. In that case we do not need a king at all. Why should we spend millions of money on a useless ornament? No, we are sick of the whole system. We have made up our minds to teach rulers their duty, whether they be kings or presidents or prime ministers. So long as there is one wretched man in this country whose wretchedness you have the power to cure, and you do not use that power, you are guilty in the sight of God and man. I have lived among the people all these years, while you have been dreaming of art and palaces. I have seen their misery, I have heard their prayers, which there has been no one to answer. There must be an end to all this. If motives of compassion have no force, if appeals to justice are useless, we must appeal to fear. We must terrify governments into doing their duty; we must teach them that neglect may make the wretched dangerous, that misery breeds assassins.”

His eyes flashed, and his form grew more erect under the inspiration of his own fierce language. For the first time the young King drooped his head.

“I do not blame you,” he answered mildly; “you have made me realise your point of view better than I have ever done before. Only you talk as if the task of grappling with these evils were an easy one, while to me it seems very hard. Suppose we could change places, and you were King for the next six months, how would you set to work to remedy it?”

This unexpected suggestion fairly took the republican aback. He had to consider before he replied.

“To me the idea of kingship is repugnant. I could not rule except by the consent of the people. My first step would be to lay down the crown, and organise a Republican government.”

“And Prussia?” suggested Maximilian. “Suppose half a million troops were marched across the border to suppress your Republic and set up a new king?”

Johann bit his lip. For the moment he could think of no answer.

Maximilian pursued his advantage. The shock of peril seemed to have stimulated his mind and given him unwonted energy. He went on, speaking clearly and earnestly—

“See here, sir. If I thought you believed in my sincerity I would make a proposition to you. I would ask you to release me on parole for six months, and during that time you should take my place, and run the government on your own lines. At the end of the six months we would come back here, to this gallery, exactly as we are now. I would put that pistol into your hand, still loaded, and you should then decide whether to fire it or not, as you pleased.”

The revolutionist heard this proposal with feelings of almost ludicrous dismay. He realised that the ground was being cut from under him.

“But it would be impossible,” he objected weakly. “Such an arrangement could never be carried out. Your Court, your Ministers, would all refuse to recognise me. I could accomplish nothing.”

“Not by yourself, I admit. But I did not mean that you should take my place quite literally. What I meant was that you should in effect use my authority, such as it is. You have condemned me, no doubt justly, for not making a good use of my power. I want to see what you can do with it, and I also want you to see for yourself the nature of the obstacles that lie in the way of realising your ideals. If you accept my offer I will provide rooms in the Castle for you; you shall stay here in some nominal capacity—as my private secretary, for instance—or, if you prefer it, simply as my guest. You shall then put your ideas into shape; every suggestion which you make I will lay before my Ministers as if it came from myself; and you shall be present at our consultations, and judge for yourself what are the powers of a king, and how far they can be exercised for the good of the people. At the end of that time, as I have said, we shall return exactly to our former positions, and perhaps you will then understand me better than you do now. What do you say? Will you accept my offer?”

Bernal, who had been a silent but deeply interested listener to this debate, hardly knew whether to regard Maximilian’s scheme as a serious outcome of his idealistic nature, or as a bold and skilful manœuvre to outwit the revolutionist. He looked anxiously at Johann to see what impression had been produced on him by the King’s proposal.

But Johann was himself too much of a Quixote to suspect that he stood in the presence of a Machiavelli. Completely vanquished by the King’s magnanimity, he was about to throw down his weapon, when all at once a fresh thought struck him. He had just remembered the forester’s daughter.

“Wait,” he said sternly, bending an angry look upon Maximilian. “I have another account to settle with you. This time it is not a question of neglecting your subjects, but of taking too much interest in them. We have met once to-day already. I saw you leave Franz Gitten’s lodge.”

Maximilian drew back, mortified at his rebuff. At Johann’s last words an exclamation of annoyance burst from him. So his secret had been discovered, and by this violent man.

Misinterpreting the exclamation as a sign of guilt, the other proceeded to a denunciation.

“Yes; not satisfied with all that your boasted art can do for you, you must stoop to prey on the virtue of an innocent young girl, whose only crime is the poverty which leaves her defenceless to your guilty passions.”

He stopped, astonished at the effect produced by his words. Maximilian, his whole face flushed with righteous anger, silenced him with an imperious gesture, and replied warmly—

“Not another word! You insult that noble young girl as much as me by your suspicions. I swear to you that I have never said one evil word, nor harboured one impure thought towards her. I love her as sincerely as you have ever loved—if you ever did love any one. Ask the Herr Bernal there, and he will tell you that this very evening on our way home, I informed him that I contemplated making Dorothea my wife.”

Johann stared at him like one transfixed.

“Dorothea! My cousin!” was all he could utter.

“Your cousin!” came as a simultaneous exclamation from the lips of both the others.

A profound silence succeeded. Maximilian was the first to speak. Turning to his friend, he said mournfully—

“You see, Auguste, my foreboding was true. Now she will know I am the King, and perhaps she will never learn to love me after all.”

Johann hung his head, and let the pistol drop from his passive fingers on to the floor.

Then all at once there was a loud noise, the door of the gallery was thrown open, and a great throng of guards and attendants and members of the Court flocked in, with the Chancellor and Princess Hermengarde among them, and rushed towards the group.

“That must be the man! Seize him!” cried the Chancellor, pointing to Johann.

Johann made a quick movement as if to pick up his fallen weapon, when Maximilian bent forward and whispered to him—

“I give you my parole.”

The next instant a dozen eager hands were clutching at the conspirator on all sides, and Von Sigismark’s voice rang out—

“Take him away, and chain him in the strongest room in the Castle.”

Before the soldiers had time to do anything, a counter-order came sternly and proudly from the lips of the King.

“Stop! Release your prisoner. He has our pardon.”

The Chancellor made a step forward, dismay and incredulity written on his face.

“Pardon me, Sire,” he ventured to remonstrate, “but this man came here with the intention of assassinating you. See, there is his pistol on the floor.”

Hearing the Chancellor’s words, one or two of the soldiers thought fit to retain their hold of the prisoner, till they saw what would come of it. The young King noticed this partial disobedience, and turned upon them pale with anger.

“Fellows, did you hear me?” he demanded, in such threatening tones, that they fairly cowered. “Release this man, I say!”

The men saw their mistake; they forthwith let go their hold, and Johann stood erect.

Then Maximilian condescended to reply to his Minister.

“Whatever purpose this man came here with, he has abandoned it of his own accord. He had dropped his weapon before you entered. I have had an opportunity of talking with him, and I do not regret his having come here. For the present he will remain in the Castle, and I desire that he may be well treated. Karl!”

The favourite stepped forward, trembling with the expectation that his treachery had been discovered and that he was about to receive its reward.

“Take this gentleman to the Chamberlain’s office,” said the King. “See that an apartment is provided for him in my own quarter of the palace, and that he has all he wants.” And turning to Johann, who had remained silent and unmoved through this scene, he added, “I shall send for you later on.”

And after a few words of thanks to the throng who had accompanied Von Sigismark, for their coming to his assistance, the King linked his arm in Bernal’s, and withdrew from the gallery.

CHAPTER VII
HERMENGARDE’S NEXT MOVE

The unexpected interruption to the scene between Maximilian and the intended assassin was due to the tardy repentance of Karl Fink.

On leaving Johann in the gallery he had retired at first to his own room, where he flung himself on the bed, and lay writhing in misery, straining his ears for the sound of the pistol’s fire. At one moment he pictured to himself the arrest of the murderer, followed perhaps by a denunciation of himself as the accomplice; at another his thoughts reverted to the many acts of kindness shown him by his young master, and he groaned aloud in remorse for his betrayal.

As the minutes slipped by and he heard nothing, a gleam of fresh hope stole into his mind. It might not be too late even now to interfere and save the King’s life. In that case he thought he knew Maximilian well enough to be secure of forgiveness for his previous treachery. Inspired with sudden courage, he sprang to his feet and rushed out of the room.

As he approached the entrance to the gallery a fresh idea struck him. His solitary interference might not be sufficient to avert the danger which threatened the King, while it would certainly expose him to the vengeance of Johann and his fellow-conspirators. He made up his mind as he ran along to go round to the apartments of the King’s aunt, and inform her of the situation, leaving it to her to summon assistance for her nephew.

It did not take long for him to burst, all pale and trembling, into the presence of the Princess.

She was not alone. With her was the Count von Sigismark, who had come to tender her his thanks for her graciousness in inviting his daughter to ride with Prince Ernest—perhaps also to try and ascertain what meaning lay under this proceeding on the part of a woman who seldom acted without a motive.

As soon as Karl could command his breath he panted out—

“Quick! There is a man concealed in the south gallery, who has come here to murder the King. His name is Johann Mark, and he is a member of a secret society.”

For an instant Hermengarde gave way to sheer affright. Then, in a flash, she recovered herself, and darted a strange and awful look towards the Chancellor. But he either did not see or did not comprehend the look. As soon as the sense of Karl’s announcement had reached his brain, he sprang up and rushed out through the open door, uttering loud cries for help. In a few seconds the whole Castle was roused, and an effective force was coming to the King’s rescue in the manner already described.

When Hermengarde left the gallery after witnessing the strange termination of the events which had taken place there, she made an almost imperceptible signal to the Chancellor to follow her to her own apartments.

The old courtier felt uneasy at the idea of having to discuss what had just transpired with his formidable patroness. He would have preferred to have had time for consideration. But he did not dare to neglect her commands, and they were speedily closeted together.

“Well, what do you think of this?” demanded the Princess as soon as they were alone.

“I can hardly answer you, Madam. I confess that at present I do not understand what has occurred. I am in the dark.”

Hermengarde smiled at this excessive caution.

“As I have had the honour to remark to you once before to-day,” she said, “kings of Franconia sometimes do strange things. But I do not think I have ever heard of their doing a more extraordinary one than publicly pardoning an assassin, and at the same time inviting him to become their guest.”

The Chancellor fidgeted nervously.

“It certainly appeared as if he had come here with the intention of committing some crime. But perhaps his Majesty had succeeded in convincing him of his wickedness before we arrived on the scene.”

“Or perhaps he had succeeded in convincing his Majesty,” sneered the Princess. “It appears to me that our arrival was most inopportune. We were clearly not wanted, my dear Chancellor. By what right do we take it on ourselves to interrupt the King when he is conversing with his friends?”

The old Count knitted his brows, but preserved a discreet silence. He pricked up his ears at Hermengarde’s next question.

“Can you tell me whether the revolutionary societies are very active in Mannhausen just now?”

“I believe they are, Madam. I have received information lately that a great many secret meetings are being held, and the police anticipate some formidable outbreak, unless we are beforehand with them by arresting the ringleaders.”

“Exactly. And do you think the effect will be discouraging, or the reverse, when they learn that one of their ringleaders has been publicly received in the palace, and enjoys the favour of the King? Why, the whole country will ring with it. People will say that his Majesty is in sympathy with these wretches.”

“I hope it is not so bad as that. Surely the King’s action was simply a piece of generosity—rather high-flown, perhaps, but without the least political significance. At least, as long as his Majesty entrusts me with the burden of government, you may rest assured that I shall not be a party to any yielding to sedition.”

“Yes, as long as you are entrusted with it, Count. But, unless you look out, you may find that the King is listening to other advisers behind your back. The scene which has just taken place was hardly calculated to raise your authority in the eyes of the Court.”

And leaving this poisoned shaft to do its work in the slow mind of the Chancellor, Hermengarde dismissed him graciously, and summoned her favourite page.

“Go and find Karl Fink,” she commanded. “Say that you have a private message for him, and when you are sure that you cannot be overheard, tell him from me to be at the west corner of the Castle terrace in ten minutes’ time. Tell him to wrap himself up.”

The message from the Princess found Karl in his own room, whither he had just retired after Johann was comfortably lodged in accordance with the King’s directions. To his relief his former comrade had said but little when they were again together.

“You see, Karl,” he observed sarcastically, “your fears were groundless. Everything has passed off well, and you will not lose your head, after all.”

“Swear that you will never let the King know who it was that brought you into the gallery,” urged the other, still filled with apprehension.

Johann regarded him pityingly.

“Poor fool! If you have forgotten the oaths by which we bound ourselves at Stuttgart, I have not. Fear nothing; you are safe this time. But beware how you hatch any further treachery. Next time you may not escape so lightly.”

Karl would have been only too glad to follow this advice, by abstaining from all further part in the intrigues which were going forward around him. Nevertheless, when the page came to summon him to attend on his mistress, he did not dare to send back a refusal.

Hermengarde meanwhile had proceeded to divest herself of her jewels and of her outer skirt, and to put on a homely walking dress such as might have been worn by a woman of the middle class. This done she emerged cautiously from her apartment, and stole down by a back staircase to the rendezvous.

It was getting dark, and the night threatened to be a stormy one. She noted the signs of rough weather, and was about to re-enter the Castle to obtain a cloak, when she saw the figure of a man coming towards her.

It was Karl. With the warning of his former comrade still ringing in his ears, he came along reluctantly, feeling only too sure that his assistance was required for some purpose which would not bear the light.

As soon as he was near enough to recognise the Princess’s countenance, he said, with a sort of timid insolence—

“I hope your Royal Highness does not want me for long, as I may be summoned at any moment by his Majesty.”

Hermengarde frowned impatiently. She readily divined the weak and timorous character of her instrument.

“It is on his Majesty’s service that I require you,” she answered firmly. “You are to accompany me to the lodge where this Dorothea Gitten dwells.”

Karl’s lingering dread of Johann was still greater than his awe of the Princess.

“Does his Majesty know that we are going there?” he ventured to ask.

Then Hermengarde began to see that something was the matter. By an effort she suppressed her pride for the moment, and condescended to make a half-confidant of the servant.

“I thought you understood by this time, Karl,” she said, “the cause of the interest I take in this matter. Do you suppose that if I regarded it as a mere common love adventure I should take the trouble to go and see this girl? It is because I have fears as to what it may lead to, owing to my knowledge of your master’s character. You are familiar with the fate of King Leopold, and you must see how necessary it is that his friends should watch carefully over King Maximilian, whose eccentricities have already created a wide feeling of apprehension.”

As her meaning slowly penetrated the man’s mind, he fairly staggered.

“God in Heaven!” he exclaimed. “Surely your Royal Highness does not believe that the King is going mad!”

“I have said nothing of the kind,” returned the Princess quickly, seeing that she had gone too far. “You have better opportunities of seeing than most of his attendants. Have you noticed anything strange in his Majesty’s conduct of late?”

“Heaven forbid, your Royal Highness!”

Hermengarde shrugged her shoulders. Karl drew back a step.

“Forgive me, Madam, but I dare not come with you,” he said in a low voice.

“Silence, fellow!” answered the Princess, speaking in low but menacing tones. “Do you wish the King to know that you have been playing the spy all these months, and carrying reports of all his movements to me? Do you suppose that I could not crush you like an eggshell if it were worth my while? You have gone too far to disobey me now. Lead on to the cottage.”

The unfortunate wretch submitted without another word, and they started off through the forest, Karl going in front and the Princess keeping up close behind.

For the next half-hour not a word was spoken. Then they gradually emerged from the thick growth of wood and found themselves on the edge of the little clearing.

“Stay here,” commanded the Princess, “and wait for my return.”

Only too glad to escape further risk, Karl bowed, and slunk back behind the shadow of a large ash, while the Princess advanced alone to the door of the forester’s hut.

It was by this time dark, and the glow of a lamp shone out through the window of a room to the right of the Gothic porch. As Hermengarde knocked at the door this light was seen to move and pass out into the hall. Then came the noise of turning the lock, and the door opened, and Dorothea stood before her, holding the lamp high above her head.

In spite of her habitual self-possession, the Princess could not restrain a start of admiration which testified that she now understood the King’s infatuation. She quickly recovered herself, and addressed the young girl.

“I come from the Castle yonder,” she said, “and have missed my path in the wood. I thought you would let me rest here for a little before I returned.”

“Oh, yes; come in, if you please,” was Dorothea’s answer, in soft, musical tones, that yet had a faint undertone of pathos in them which had been missing earlier in the day.

The Princess followed her into the low, oak-roofed parlour where she had been sitting, and accepted the wooden armchair, with a loose red cushion on the seat, which she pushed forward. Franz was not there. Dorothea explained that her father had gone out to make his round of the forest, and look out for poachers.

“And does he leave you here all alone?” queried Hermengarde, assuming an air of sympathy in order to set the girl at her ease.

“Oh, yes, Madam. I am not afraid. I have been accustomed to stay here alone since my mother died. But won’t you have some refreshment while you are resting? We have a hare in the larder, and some white bread, which I make myself.”

“Not anything to eat, thank you, my dear,” responded Hermengarde, graciously. “But I have heard that you make some most delicious cider; can you spare me a glass of that?”

Dorothea flushed at the compliment.

“I shall be very pleased if you will taste it,” she said; “but I am afraid you will be disappointed.”

She stepped to a cupboard in the wall beside the fireplace, and drew forth the silver flagon. She had taken in her hand the famous glass out of which Maximilian was accustomed to drink; but after a moment’s hesitation she put it back again, and chose the one with the slight flaw in its rim.

“This is a very old glass; I hope you will not mind its being chipped,” she said, as she filled it with the bright liquid, and offered it to the Princess.

“You need not make any excuses,” the Princess answered. “A glass which is good enough for a king to drink out of is surely good enough for me.”

Dorothea gave a great start, and turned a pained, questioning look on the speaker, who only smiled in return.

“Why do you say that, Madam? Who has told you about the King?” asked the agitated girl.

The Princess put on a look of amused surprise.

“My dear child, surely you did not suppose it was such a secret? The King of Franconia cannot come day after day to the same place without people hearing of it. I ought to congratulate you. His Majesty is said to be very much charmed with—your cider.”

The meaning smile which accompanied these last words went like a stab through the shrinking girl, coming as it did in the wake of the explosion which had taken place that afternoon.

“Please do not talk like that,” she implored. “I assure you, Madam, that up to an hour ago I never even dreamt that he was the King. His Majesty called himself simply Herr Maurice when he was here, and I looked upon him as merely a young gentleman of the Court. And indeed he never did or said anything to make me think of him as anything more than a friend. And it was all so innocent and pleasant up till to-day. And then Johann saw him, and told me who he was, and hinted at such terrible things that he made me weep.”

At this name of Johann a look of vivid intelligence flashed from Hermengarde’s eyes. It was scarcely an hour since she had heard that name under circumstances which made it difficult for her to have forgotten it.

“Johann!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean a tall man, with dark hair and a pointed beard?”

“Yes. Do you know him?” cried Dorothea in natural surprise.

Hermengarde, taken aback for the moment, hardly knew what answer to make.

“He is now in the Castle,” she said at length. “He has had an interview of some kind with the King, who has taken him into favour, and invited him to remain.”

Dorothea was utterly bewildered. Only two hours ago her cousin had left her, breathing hatred against the false Maurice. Now she learned that all his wrath had apparently been appeased, and replaced by quite opposite feelings. It was more than she could understand.

Meanwhile Hermengarde sat busily revolving in her mind the new light thrown upon the King’s extraordinary action in pardoning his would-be assassin.

“Is Johann a friend of yours?” she demanded presently, looking up.

“He is my cousin,” answered Dorothea, with simplicity; “he is my greatest friend in the world.”

The Princess sat silent for a time, sipping her cider and watching Dorothea. At length she seemed to have made up her mind what course to pursue, and putting down her glass, asked quietly—

“How should you like to come and stay at the Castle for a time, and see your cousin?”

A troubled look came over the girl’s face.

“I should not like it at all. I do not think I could bear it, to be there with all those lords and ladies. They would despise me, and I should be afraid of them.”

“I do not think you would find that they despised you if you came there as my guest,” answered the Princess, gravely.

Dorothea’s eyes rounded once more. There seemed to be nothing but surprises in store for her to-day.

“Pardon me, Madam, but you have not—you did not tell me—”

“My name is Hermengarde. I am the King’s aunt.” And she lay back in her chair to see how the young girl would take the announcement.

Dorothea’s first feeling was one of dismay. All these startling events coming one upon another had completely unsettled her mind. She felt herself being gradually swept out of her depth. The old peaceful life of childhood was over, and she was being called upon to go forth into the world under circumstances of trial and danger of which she had never had any conception.

She directed an earnest, imploring gaze at the Princess, as if asking whether she could throw herself upon her for sincere and friendly counsel. Then she said—

“I hardly know how to speak to your Royal Highness. I am afraid that you must think me very presumptuous. I hope you believe that I never knew it was his Majesty.”

Hermengarde looked at her graciously, not ill pleased at the evident awe she had excited.

“I do not think you are presumptuous in the least, my dear. On the contrary, if I found any fault with you, it would be that you are too shy, and have not enough confidence in yourself. For instance, when you are speaking to me on a friendly footing like this, it is quite unnecessary to call me ‘your Royal Highness.’ Address me simply as ‘Madam,’ or ‘Princess.’ And in the same way, you need only say ‘Sire’ to the King. It is only by servants, or on occasions of ceremony, that the formal titles are used. You see, I am giving you your first lesson in Court manners already, because I mean you to accept my invitation; and I wish you to be at home in the Castle.”

“Thank you—Madam.”

“That is right.”

“And you are not offended with me for having let the King come here, and give me presents?”

“Certainly not. I blame my nephew for deceiving you, because, though I am sure he had no ill intentions, he ought to have foreseen that the matter would be regarded in an unfavourable light by people generally, and that he was exposing you to unjust remarks.”

Poor Dorothea! The recollection of Johann’s words gave point to the observations of the Princess. She turned to her with looks of misery.

“Oh, Madam! And do people think—are they saying—such horrible things? What shall I do?”

“It is precisely on this account that I have come here,” answered Hermengarde, assuming a comforting tone. “I desire to protect you from evil tongues, by taking you into my own household. No man, whoever he may be, is a fitting adviser for a girl, like one of her own sex. So long as you stay in this cottage you are at the mercy of Maximilian’s good feelings, in which you ought not to blindly trust. Come and make your home with me, and the King will be compelled to adopt an honourable course towards you. What that will be, it is not for me to say. And the mere fact that I have given you my friendship will instantly silence any malicious slanders that may be abroad.”

Dorothea attempted to express her gratitude, but the stress of her emotions overcame her all at once, and before Hermengarde knew what she was doing, the forester’s child had flung herself down at the feet of the Princess, and bowed her golden head in the proud, stern-minded woman’s lap.

For a moment a soft look came into Hermengarde’s eyes, such as they had not known for many a year, and she murmured gently—

“Poor girl, poor girl!”

In another instant her face had resumed its usual cold expression. She stooped and raised Dorothea from the ground, getting up herself at the same time.

“There, my child, be still. You have a friend in me, whatever happens. And my friendship is not given to everybody. Now I will leave you to think over my offer; only let me give you one caution, do not discuss the matter with anybody else. It is a thing which you must decide for yourself, without help. If you make up your mind to come to me, do not wait, but present yourself at the Castle at any time, and I shall be ready and pleased to welcome you. Till then, good-bye.”

The agitated young girl could only stammer fresh words of thanks as she took up the lamp and ushered her visitor to the door. She was going to walk further with her, to point out the way, but the Princess stopped her.

“Do not come out, child. I can find my way back from here. Good night.”

And without waiting for the farewells of the grateful Dorothea, she hastened forward to the spot where she had left her guide.

As soon as the Castle was in sight Hermengarde turned to the favourite and handed him a generous bribe.

“I shall not forget you, Karl,” she said. “And remember that silence and discretion will double the value of your services.”

Karl accepted the money greedily enough, and stole away to his own quarters, while the Princess returned to her apartments absorbed in thought.

And this time she made no attempt to enter into communication with the Chancellor on the subject of the step she had seen fit to take.

CHAPTER VIII
AN ANARCHIST KING

The next morning, after breakfast, Maximilian and Auguste Bernal were alone together in the small room which constituted the royal cabinet. It was furnished plainly, with little of that æsthetic display which showed itself in the King’s other apartments, and the walls were lined with volumes of a heavy and forbidding appearance; the presence of which, Maximilian was accustomed to say, exercised a sobering influence upon his mind, and disposed him to deal with serious business.

On this occasion he seemed to be suffering under the reaction from last night’s exciting ordeal, and talked in a wild strain to which even Auguste, used as he was to all his companion’s varied moods, hardly knew how to reply.

“Let us look the situation in the face,” Maximilian was saying, with perfect outward seriousness. “How am I to carry out my promise? Shall I send for Von Sigismark, and order him to proclaim the Millennium?”

“If you do that I am afraid the Chancellor will hand in his resignation,” was the answer.

“Really? I never thought of that. Then I could appoint Herr Mark at once, and leave him to his own devices.”

“And all the other ministers and officials would resign too, and there would be no one to carry on the government. No, seriously, my dear Max, whatever you do you must go to work gradually, and, above all, you must not give the Kaiser an excuse to interfere. I should strongly advise you to try and win over the Chancellor. He may be an old fool, but he is faithful, and his name commands confidence. It will be much better to work through him for a time.”

Maximilian shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“I dare say you are right. I suppose I must feel my way at first. But I very much doubt whether we shall get Von Sigismark at his age to take kindly to any new departure.”

“Well, you can but try. We do not yet know what this Mark, or whatever his name is, proposes to do. Why not have him in here first, and talk things over with him?”

“A good idea. Yes, that is the first step.”

The King got up, and walked past his friend to the bell-knob, which he pushed.

“Ask Herr Mark if he will kindly step this way,” he said to the page in attendance. “Mind,” he added sharply, as the lad was turning to go, “convey my message in those exact words.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” And the page withdrew, looking rather surprised.

“I don’t want him to go and say, ‘The King commands your attendance,’” explained Maximilian, “or very likely a man like that would refuse to come.”

“It is lucky I am not so thin-skinned,” said Bernal, laughing. “They always say that to me.”

“Do they? I will put a stop to it,” flashed Maximilian.

“No, no. The less such people understand our friendship, the sweeter it is to me.” And the musician patted the King affectionately on the arm as he returned past him to his seat.

Maximilian gave his friend a look soft as a woman’s.

Before they had time to say anything more Johann was announced.

The republican had passed an anxious time since the memorable scene in the gallery. The circumstances in which he found himself were enough to bewilder his judgment. A life-long plotter against kings, he was now installed in a royal palace, under the protection of a king. What would his comrades in the capital think of this strange ending to his mission? Would they not condemn him as one who had broken his sacred oaths, under the influence of royal blandishments? The thought was a disquieting one, but, on the other hand, he could console himself by the thought of the triumph which would be his if he succeeded in really accomplishing some of the great ideals of the Socialists by means of his royal disciple. To have enlisted a king on the side of the revolution—was not this a unique achievement; one which might lead to consequences of untold magnitude? It might be possible in the course of a comparatively short time, and by perfectly peaceful stages, to transform Franconia into that model land which has been the dream of each generation of enthusiasts, though each generation may cherish different ideas of what the model land should be like. And if Franconia led the way successfully, who could doubt that the rest of Europe would quickly follow? Johann was like most of his fellows in assuming that men were reasoning beings. Once prove to them clearly what their true interests were, and he believed they would surely act on the knowledge. Of the power of the passions on human conduct he made no account. That the vast bulk of mankind cared far more for gratifying the craving or antipathy of the moment than for their rational welfare, he was sublimely unconscious. Of such stuff are apostles made.

He entered the King’s presence feeling slightly uneasy as to his reception under their new relations, and troubled also by his anxiety to avoid playing the courtier, while yet showing enough civility to secure the goodwill of his convert.

Maximilian greeted him cordially, but without rising, and invited him to a seat between the musician and himself.

“This is my friend, Herr Bernal,” he said, as Johann stiffly took the seat offered to him. “He is not a politician, as I dare say you know, but we can reckon on his goodwill.”

Johann bowed constrainedly.

“I have often heard your name, sir, and I have heard one or two of your operas, though music is not much in my line.”

Bernal could not resist a satirical smile at his friend.

“That is your misfortune, Herr Mark. Have you ever read the English poet Shakespeare?”

“I have read him in the translation.”

“Ah, but the poetry is much better in the original.” And glancing at Maximilian, he quoted in English—

“The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

Let no such man be trusted.”

The King could not restrain a smile; but he saw that the republican was annoyed, and hastened to change the subject.

“I want to lose no time, as you see, in acting on my promise,” he said, addressing Johann. “You convinced me yesterday that I was a bad king; now I want you to tell me how to become a better one.”

Johann had been rubbed the wrong way by Bernal’s ill-disguised sarcasm. He replied ungraciously—

“If you are in earnest, sir, and really wish me to explain my ideas, I shall be very glad to do so. But you must allow me to speak to you quite plainly.”

“That is exactly what I wish. I intend to send for the Count von Sigismark presently, to take him into consultation; but, before he comes, I thought it would be better for us to have a little discussion, so that we may see our way more clearly.”

“Certainly,” said Johann, brightening up.

“No doubt you have some proposals which could be taken in hand at once, if we can get the Chancellor to agree with them.”

“Yes. There are many things which could be done. The only difficulty is to decide where to begin. The ideal at which we aim, as I dare say you know, is the abolition of all government, except for purposes of organisation, and the transformation of society into a vast co-operative machine for the production and equal distribution of wealth amongst all its members. We aim at doing away with artificial mediums of exchange, such as money, and thus preventing the accumulation of wealth in the hands of a few individuals; we mean to replace the present costly system of litigation by a simple and speedy method of arbitration; and to render military armaments unnecessary, by establishing a court for the settlement of international disputes, pending the consolidation of all nations into one united family. Those are a few of our main principles.”

“You will have to leave the armament question alone for the present, or there will be the Kaiser to be reckoned with,” remarked Bernal, dryly.

“I expect the Kaiser himself will be coming here before long,” observed Maximilian, “and then I will get him to give you an interview, and you can try and convert him.”

“Only take my advice,” added the musician, “and don’t try to convert him with a pistol, because he is a rather good missionary in that line himself.”

Johann frowned, and the King cast a reproving look at his friend.

“Now, Auguste, we shall have enough opposition as it is, without your discouragement.” And he turned once more to Johann.

“Of course, to me, all these things you describe seem a long way off. Whether we shall ever get to them I cannot pretend to say. But, in the mean time, it must be possible to take some steps in the right direction. You spoke yesterday of various things, some of which seemed to be feasible enough. Hospitals, for instance, and public works.”

The Socialist’s face fell. It was a great descent to these petty reforms from the high ideals which he had just been sketching out.

“True, your Majesty.” The title fell from him unconsciously, and only Bernal noticed that it had been used. “Of course, a great deal of good might be done in that way at once. But surely it is hardly worth while to waste time over that, when you might be beginning the greater work. Why not commence with some told step which would rally round you all the friends of progress, and convince the world that you were in earnest?”

“What kind of step do you mean?”

Johann hesitated. Those among whom he moved were more accustomed to dealing in general programmes than to considering the practical method of carrying them out.

“Suppose you commenced by nationalising the land and the means of production,” he suggested, after a minute’s consideration. “That would be a great step gained. Then we could proceed to re-arrange the conditions of labour, by shortening the hours of toil, and equalising the wages for mental and manual work.”

Maximilian was a little puzzled.

“I am afraid I hardly know enough about these things to discuss them with you. I think perhaps we had better send for the Chancellor at once, and you can explain your proposals to him.”

Bernal got up and rang the bell without waiting for more. Inwardly he was impatient to see the Socialist and the Prime Minister confronting each other.

“Tell the Count von Sigismark that I desire his attendance,” said the King, as soon as his page appeared.

While they were waiting for the Count, he returned to what he had been saying.

“You have no doubt thought out these vast changes until they appear easy and natural to you; but I have given such little attention to political affairs, that I feel quite in the dark as to how we ought to proceed. The Chancellor understands the practical side of government, and you and he may be able to work out some definite scheme.”

“Of course you may find the Count a little prejudiced at first,” threw in Bernal “You must remember that he is elderly, and his training may have narrowed his mind.”

Johann looked at him, uncertain whether to reply angrily, or to pass over his words as unworthy of notice. Before he could come to a decision Von Sigismark entered the cabinet.

“Good morning, Count,” said the King, in his most friendly manner. “Be good enough to sit down. I want your assistance.”

The Chancellor greeted the King respectfully, and obeyed, casting a severe look at the republican, and a not very friendly one at Bernal.

Maximilian at once broached the subject.

“They tell me I govern my kingdom badly,” he said; “I have made up my mind to reform. The Herr Mark, whom you see here, has devoted himself to these subjects, and he has been good enough to promise me his assistance. I want you to hear some of his ideas, in order that you may consider the best way of carrying them out.”

The Chancellor frowned sullenly as he answered—

“I am ready to hear anything which your Majesty orders me to listen to.”

This did not sound promising, and the King bit his lip as he turned to Johann.

“Tell the Count von Sigismark what you propose,” he said briefly.

The republican fidgeted uneasily before he began, and made fruitless attempts to catch the eye of the Minister, which travelled alternately between his master’s countenance and the ceiling of the room.

“I have been explaining to the King some of the ideas which are held by men of enlightened views—that is to say, by friends of progress—with regard to the reformation of society.” Thus far he had tried to address the Chancellor direct, but he now gave it up as a bad job, and turned towards Maximilian, who encouraged him by a nod to go on. “His Majesty wished me to begin by suggesting a simple practical step which would be easy to carry out, before realising what may be called our main object, namely, the collective production and distribution of wealth.”

He paused. The Chancellor’s features were set in stony impassiveness. To all appearance he was unconscious that anything was being said.

“That is right. Go on, Herr Mark,” threw in the King, coming to the rescue.

“The reform that occurred to me was the nationalisation of the land and its adjuncts. That would mean taking all the soil of the country, together with the buildings, railways, mines, machinery, and other means of wealth-production into the hands of the government. We should then be able to alter the conditions of labour, and after securing to all the workers a fair remuneration according to the value of their work, and equalising and reducing the hours of toil, the surplus would pass into the coffers of the State, and we could use it in public works, and in bestowing pensions on the aged and infirm. Of course, this would only be the preliminary stage. We hope ultimately to dispense entirely with money as an exchange medium, and replace it by State coupons representing so much labour. But before doing that we shall have to absorb the whole machinery of distribution, so that the State will be the sole possessor of wealth.”

Carried away by his theme, the Socialist had gone on further than he intended. Pulling himself up with difficulty, he glanced once more at the forbidding face of the Count von Sigismark, only to see its former impassiveness replaced by an expression of mingled horror and contempt.

“Well,” said Maximilian to the Minister, “you have heard Herr Mark’s programme. What do you say to it?”

Von Sigismark withdrew his eyes from the ceiling.

“Do I understand that your Majesty really entertains these monstrous proposals seriously?”

“Certainly I do. And I shall be obliged if you will express your opinion of them in milder language.”

“I beg your Majesty’s pardon. I am an old servant of the Crown—I have served your Majesty faithfully for ten years, and his Majesty the late king for twenty-five years before that—and I have never before been asked to listen to such suggestions as I have just heard. I implore your Majesty to dismiss these pernicious ideas at once. I can remember the time when the papers which published such things would have been suppressed, and the men who preached them imprisoned. I am getting an old man, and I take the liberty of speaking plainly. This gentleman is proposing a revolution, nothing more nor less.”

Maximilian grew a little pale, and sat more upright in his chair.

“I regret, Count, that you should think it your duty to address such remonstrances to me, though I give you credit for your loyal intentions. But you have heard what I said. Herr Mark has made a definite suggestion, what he calls nationalising the land. I do not at present understand the best means to put that suggestion into effect. I have sent for you to ask you if you do. Be good enough to answer me.”

The Count’s expression changed from anger to alarm, and from alarm back to indignation, as he listened to the King’s words. He replied in subdued tones—

“It is difficult for me to answer your Majesty in any different way. This is a proposal, as I understand it, to confiscate the greater part of the wealth of the country. In the first place, the legislature would never even look at such a measure. In the second, its passing, its mere introduction even, would be the signal for a revolution. The whole of the propertied classes, the nobility, the army, the townspeople, all but the lowest of the populace, would be up in arms. Your Majesty’s government could not last another day. Your throne would not be safe. I tremble to think what might happen. I dare not even hint at the possible consequences to your Majesty.”

The King grew paler yet.

“In other words, you refuse to assist me?”

“Your Majesty, as I have already said, I am getting an old man, and I have served the Crown of Franconia for thirty-five years. I begin to fear that I can do so no longer. I must humbly beg your Majesty to permit me to send in my resignation.”

So saying, he rose to his feet. The King seemed about to burst out in violence; but, catching a warning glance from Bernal, he restrained himself by an effort, and answered in mild tones—

“No, Von Sigismark, we must not part like this. No doubt you have been taken by surprise, possibly I ought to have prepared you more gradually. At present you have not had time to consider things calmly. Do not speak any more of resignation, but retire now, and let us renew our conversation on these proposals at some future time.”

“As your Majesty pleases,” murmured the old man. And he walked out of the room with a troubled look.

The troubled look did not leave his face as he hastened with uneven steps down the royal corridor, and out into the gallery where the strange scene of the day before had taken place. In the gallery he encountered the Count von Stahlen with his inseparable companion. The Chancellor gave them a sharp nod and was going past, but the wit stopped in front of him.

“Ha! Good morning, Chancellor!” he exclaimed. “I hope nothing has occurred to put you out. They say the King has turned Anarchist.”

Von Sigismark darted an angry frown at the jester, and hurried away, his ears tingling with the mocking laughter of the faithful Von Hardenburg.

Maximilian sat in silence after the Chancellor’s departure, staring moodily before him, while Johann anxiously watched his face.

Bernal was the first to speak.

“You will have to get the old Count alone and talk with him, if you want to get him to assist you.”

Maximilian rose from his seat and approached Johann.

“You see, Herr Mark, the position I am in. After what has passed this morning you will be able to understand how little power is really enjoyed by the most absolute monarchs. In my whole kingdom I do not know of one man whom I can rely on to carry out my wishes. Realise the truth: society, as we see it, is merely an equilibrium of forces; it can only be disturbed by force, and it is as difficult and as dangerous for a king to commence a revolution as for any private man.”

He moved to the window of the room, overlooking a corner of the royal park, and stood gazing out.

Johann rose to his feet, looking much disturbed.

“I can appreciate the difficulties of your position, sir,” he observed respectfully, “and I quite see that it is hopeless to attempt to do anything with the Count von Sigismark. But why should we be in his hands? Surely it is possible to find some other Minister more in sympathy with progressive ideas? You are the King of Franconia, and if these people find out that you mean to go forward there will soon be plenty of them to rally round you. Do not be discouraged because one old man is jealous at seeing his authority weakened.”

The King listened, but shook his head, and replied without turning round—

“It is because I feel that Von Sigismark is a type of all the others that I am discouraged. Depend upon it they will all have the same tale. And how can I fight against them? As you heard me say just now, I am ignorant of these things; I have never paid any attention to State affairs. My people do not know me, they never see or hear of me; I am a stranger in my own capital. What chance have I against my Ministers, who have the whole affairs of the kingdom in their hands? The only men who wield power in Europe to-day are the specialists, and I am not a specialist in government.”

“Then become one, sir. Assert your rightful place in the government, compel these men to lay the business of their departments before you; begin gradually by making little changes here and there, and when you have an opportunity, dismiss one of them as a warning to the rest. Start a few of those minor reforms of which we were speaking before, and become popular with the nation. Take up your residence in Mannhausen, and go about among the people and acquire their confidence. In a short time you will be stronger than any of your Ministers, and you will be in a position to dispense with their services altogether if they refuse to carry out your policy. Oh, sir, think what a sublime part you might play. Think of the grand task of inaugurating the greatest revolution, and the last, in the history of mankind! What are all the achievements of all the monarchs who ever lived compared with this? The names of Napoleon and Charlemagne and Cæsar would sink into insignificance beside yours. Even Mahomet, even Buddha, even Christ, did not achieve the emancipation of their species.”

He stopped abruptly, overcome by his emotion, and the King, bowing his head till his forehead rested on the window-pane, made no reply.

Presently the musician said quietly—

“It seems to me that I ought to leave off writing operas. This is a bolder conception than any I have ever dared to use.”

Johann gave him an irritated look. There was something in the other’s easy nature which jarred upon his own rigid disposition.

“Well, my friend,” said the King at length, looking round, “I am not going to give up. I will try and keep my promises to you yet. But I wish, for your sake, that you had got a better ally. I am afraid I am the wrong man for work like this. You are trying to pierce an armour plate with an ivory needle.”

He remained silent for a short time, and then added, in a more cheerful tone of voice—

“There is another subject about which I wish to speak to you—your cousin Dorothea. You said you were at the cottage yesterday. Did you say anything to her about me?”

Johann hung his head.

“I saw you leaving,” he answered, “and, finding that she did not know who you were, I told her. I am afraid I expressed myself rather harshly about you. I judged of course merely by appearances.”

Maximilian sighed.

“I do not in the least blame you. No doubt you took the natural view. What I am sorry for is that the old pleasant state of things has been destroyed, and I shall never be able to go there again on the former footing. But perhaps it is as well, it was bound to have come before long.”

“The moment I see Dorothea, I shall take care to tell her that I misjudged your Majesty.”

“Thank you, that is kind of you. Now that she knows who I am, I hardly know how she will feel to me. You will respect my confidence when I tell you that, if I were satisfied that Dorothea loved me as I love her, I believe I should have sufficient courage to make her Queen of Franconia in spite of a thousand Von Sigismarks. But I dread inexpressibly the idea of forcing her inclinations in any way. Will you act as my ambassador? Will you use your freedom as a relation to ascertain as well as you can what her feelings really are? And try, if you can, to inspire her with confidence in me. Tell her that a king is not such a very dreadful personage after all.”

“I will, sir; I will go and see her at once, and I hope I shall bring you good news.”

He left the cabinet; and as he did so Bernal got up and came across to the window where the King was standing.

“Well, Max, after this you will believe me when I say that I do not envy you the position of King of Franconia.”

Maximilian sighed, and turned his eyes once more out on to the park.

“What can I do? Men are not like the characters in your operas. I cannot control their actions, and mould their characters to suit the parts I want them to play.”

“And why should you? Do not take this man Mark too seriously. You and I have the character of idealists and dreamers, but we are sober matter-of-fact persons compared with him. I grant you his ideas are noble, but they are impossible. Trust me, after a few more interviews such as we have had to-day, he will begin to see the hopelessness of his wild schemes. I heard him call you ‘your Majesty’ twice. Build him a hospital in Mannhausen, and set him up as director; that will give him something to occupy his mind.”

“Ah, but that would not relieve me. How can I help feeling the truth there is in his words, in what he said to me yesterday? After all, he is right; I am the King, and I cannot get rid of my responsibility. I wish I could. If I could help matters by abdicating, I think I should do it. But I am afraid poor Ernest would not be much of an improvement.”

“Don’t think of that. After all, they cannot say that you are a bad king. Let these revolutionists fight their own battle, if they have the courage of their convictions. You can always look on and see fair play, and if they get put into prison you can let them out again. Why should you be expected to take all the risk, and carry out the work single-handed? Come, you must not let your mind dwell so much on this business. We have managed to get along together pretty well before this cropped up, and why should you let your whole life be upset by this fellow’s exhortations?”

Maximilian laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Do not think that I mean to let anything of this sort interfere with our friendship, Auguste. Nothing can come between you and me—you know me too well to think that. But I passed through an experience yesterday, and it has left its mark. When that man stood there, with his pistol covering me, and spoke to me as he did, I felt that I was listening to a voice which I had been trying to shut out all my life, and which at last had pierced its way into my selfish isolation. It was the voice of humanity, the voice of duty. Auguste, he was right. My people have a right to demand that I shall govern them like a king, or give up my crown. What have I ever done for Franconia? What return have I ever made to the millions who work and toil and serve me, and supply me with the sums I have lavished on my own pleasures? This talk of revolution may be idle; I fear it is. I may not be able to reorganise society, to divide the wealth of the few among the many, to change the conditions of labour, to alter the great channels in which human life has run for thousands upon thousands of years. But surely I could do something, Auguste; something not quite unworthy of my trust; something that would better the lot of these millions; something to lighten their burdens and to make their lives less like the brutes’; something that would make them look up to me and bless me, and would make me feel that my life had not been a mere waste of existence, like a river running through the desert and losing itself miserably in the barren sands.”

Auguste was deeply moved.

“My friend, you are a better man than I am. You are worthier of your crown than you think.”

The words had hardly left his lips when he saw a sharp took of mingled pain and dread start on the King’s face. He drew back hastily from the window-pane, and turned his eyes into the room.

“What is it?” questioned Auguste, peering out in the direction in which his friend had been looking.

He saw nothing, except the figure of a tall, spare man, clad in the grave costume of the nineteenth century. His long frock coat was buttoned closely round his figure, and he held his hands behind his back, and stooped slightly as he walked towards the palace with slow, deliberate steps.

“Who is that man? Do you know him?”

And the King answered beneath his breath—

“Yes; it is the Court physician, Doctor Krauss.”

CHAPTER IX
DOROTHEA’S CHOICE

Franz Gitten sat on a wooden seat at the side of his cottage porch, and puffed discontentedly at the long pipe with the china bowl. Through the open door of the lodge came an occasional sound of the rattling of crockery, and the clashing of knives and forks. It was the hour after the midday meal, and his daughter was busy in the kitchen.

Franz smoked and listened, and over his face there deepened a look of resentment. It was the look of a man who feels that he has been hardly used. He had worn the same look all day, and whenever his eye had caught Dorothea’s, he had thrown a reproachful expression into it, as of a father who had striven hard for his child’s welfare, and had been rewarded by that child with ingratitude.

Nothing had passed between the two on the subject which was uppermost in both their minds. Since Johann’s stunning revelation of the day before, a barrier had for the first time sprung up between them. Dorothea’s trustful confidence in her father had apparently gone forever, but whether out of a lingering respect for him, or from a forlorn wish not to have her suspicions of him turned into certainties, she had refrained from seeking any explanation of his conduct with regard to the King’s visits.

Franz, on his side, did not venture to broach the topic first. He perceived the shock which had been given to Dorothea’s mind, and he dared not risk making the breach wider. But his watchful eyes noted that the King’s gift had disappeared from its place, and he drew the augury that things were not going altogether favourably, and that his promotion to the post of ranger of the forest was further out of reach than it had seemed the day before.

Not daring to quarrel openly with his daughter, he was endeavouring to wear down her obstinacy by an attitude of sulky aloofness. In the mean time his bitterest wrath was reserved for the person whom he looked upon as the author of all the trouble, his nephew Johann.

It was while he was thus brooding sullenly over his grievances that he heard the click of the gate-latch, and looked round to see the enemy coming boldly towards him.

Instantly he rose from his seat, and pulled-to the door of the cottage.

“Now, sir, what have you come here again for?” he demanded, as soon as his nephew came up.

The other gave him a look, half contemptuous, half angry.

“I wonder you dare to look me in the face,” he said. “You, with your miserable cunning; what have you been expecting as the result of these secret visits of the King?”

“That is not your business. What right had you to thrust your oar in, and terrify that silly girl with your blustering talk?”

“It is my business, as long as Dorothea is my cousin. You had better speak plainly; did you wish to see your daughter ruined?”

“Don’t talk like that to me. Do you suppose I don’t know what I am about? If you had only left things alone a little longer, his Majesty might have made her a countess—think of that! The Countess von Gitten!”

Johann replied with a look of loathing, beneath which the old man fairly shrank.

“You wretched, shameless—bah! I am ashamed to bandy words with you. You may thank your stars that Dorothea’s simple innocence has done more for her than all your hateful scheming. If you will only leave well alone, if you would only go and bury yourself for the next six months, there would be a chance of her becoming something higher than a countess.”

The old forester drew back astonished. He hardly grasped the full import of his nephew’s words, but he gathered enough to feel his hopes rapidly reviving within him.

“How? What do you mean? Why do you say that?” he asked eagerly.

“I say it because I have had the honour of talking on the subject with King Maximilian himself.”

“You! With King Maximilian!” The forester’s manner suddenly became deferential.

“Yes. Since yesterday I have been staying in the Castle as the King’s guest. He has taken me into his confidence, and as it will be impossible to keep you in ignorance, I may as well tell you—but beware how you repeat it—that it is possible that he may make Dorothea his Queen.”

Franz lifted his hands in utter bewilderment.

“God in heaven! I always thought he was queer in the head; but I never thought he was so mad as that!”

Johann started. He heard the voice of public opinion, coming from the mouth of a knave.

“Remember,” he said sternly, “on your life you are not to say a word about this.”

“My dear nephew,” exclaimed the delighted Franz, “you may trust me absolutely. But I suppose I may tell Dorothea. Let us go inside.”

And he laid his hand on the knob of the door, inwardly resolving to persuade Dorothea that this was what he had foreseen all along.

“Stop!” cried Johann. “That is the very thing you are not to do. The King wishes her to be absolutely free, and he has sent me here to sound her feelings without letting her know of his intentions.”

The forester’s face fell. Forbidden to bring his parental authority to bear, he felt less confident of the issue.

“The King will be here later on,” added Johann, “and, if you take my advice, you will let him see as little of yourself as possible. You are not exactly a father-in-law for King Maximilian to be proud of.”

“For all that he shall make me a count when he marries Dorothea,” muttered Franz, as his nephew brushed past him into the cottage.

On consideration, however, he thought there was wisdom in Johann’s remark; and instead of lying in wait as usual to welcome the King, when he arrived, he threw a gun over his shoulder, and made off into another quarter of the forest.

Johann walked straight into the kitchen, where he found his little cousin in the act of polishing a large metal dish-cover. Something seemed to have changed in her since yesterday, for, instead of running to embrace him, she stood still and received his kiss with a slight air of constraint.

“I have come to have a quiet talk with you,” remarked Johann, dropping on to an old-fashioned settee which ran along one of the walls of the kitchen. “You can leave that cover alone.”

But Dorothea seemed to have developed a vein of obstinacy since yesterday.

“I can do this, and listen to you at the same time,” she retorted, rubbing away vigorously.

“Ah, you will soon leave off that when you hear my news,” remarked Johann, complacently. “Where do you think I spent last night?”

“At the Castle.”

“What! Who told you? Have you been listening?”

“I was told so by the Princess Hermengarde. She said the King and you were great friends.”

Johann sprang half out of his seat with surprise.

“The Princess Hermengarde! Where did you see her?”

“She came here last night. She was exceedingly kind. After all, there is no reason why you should be the only one to have friends at the Castle.”

The young man scarcely heeded this gentle sarcasm. He was greatly perplexed by the news of Hermengarde’s intervention. It was true he knew very little about the Princess; but he felt sure that she was not the kind of woman to act from mere benevolence. He could only suppose that she had fathomed the King’s ulterior design, and was proceeding to ingratiate herself with the future Queen of Franconia. Where the King goes, the courtiers will soon follow.

“Well, do not trust her too far,” he said at length. “Be civil to her, but do not have too much to say to her.”

“Why do you say that?” demanded Dorothea.

“Because I know more about her than you. You do not understand these people as I do.”

“Oh!”

Dorothea turned away to the dish-cover with renewed energy. The young man tried to attract her attention.

“Dorothea! Listen. Yesterday I spoke to you rather harshly about King Maximilian. You told me he had been coming here day after day to see you, and I naturally put a bad construction on his conduct. Now I find I was unjust. I have found out more than I can say at present, but enough to convince me that he is one of the noblest and sincerest of men.”

“I am glad to hear that, because I always liked him.” She said this quite calmly, and without ceasing from her occupation. “Perhaps you will find out you have been unjust to the Princess as well.”

“My dear girl! What has come over you? Do you doubt my word when I tell you that I distrust the Princess? I only warn you for your good.”

“Thank you, Johann.” And she gave him a bow over the dish-cover.

“Now, there is a thing I want to ask you. The King has been coming here a good deal, and you have had plenty of opportunities to understand him. Have you guessed how he feels towards you?”

Silence for a time. The polishing continued more earnestly than ever. Then, in a low voice—

“I think I guessed yesterday.”

“That he loved you?” Johann spoke triumphantly. “Well, then, what do you think of it? Supposing he were not the King, should you be willing to accept him?”

Silence. That cover seemed to require a great deal of brightening. There must even have been spots on it, for Dorothea’s face was bent so closely down to it that Johann could not see how she received his question.

The clumsy ambassador thought he could take silence for consent. Stepping a little outside the bounds of his instructions in his confidence, he said—

“Well, perhaps before very long you may find that he will ask you to be his wife!”

He spoke in the tone of one who expects to produce a sensation. But he was destined to be disappointed. Dorothea received his intimation with strange calmness, and did not even interrupt her labours for more than an instant.

He felt driven to remonstrate with her.

“Come, you take it very coolly. Do you mean to say that you anticipated this?”

“I hardly know. But it makes no difference. I shall not marry the King.”

“What! What do you say?” His astonishment passed into rebuke. “Be serious. Put down that miserable thing, and consider what you are saying. You do not seem to understand. He will make you Queen of Franconia.”

She left off her work for a moment, and looked him full in the face.

“I do not want to be Queen of Franconia. I am not fit for it. I am only a peasant girl, and I should be miserable if I had to spend my life in a Court.”

“Nonsense! This is absurd. If I am not miserable there, why should you be? Is it because you are too young to understand what you are refusing, or because you do not love the King after all?”

The polishing still went on, but more fitfully, as if the arm of the polisher were getting tired.

“I did not think that you attached so much importance to rank, Johann. You used to be a republican.”

He flushed angrily.

“So I am still. It is not the rank I think of, but the influence it will give you for good. Do you know that the King is already half-converted to my ideas? He has asked me to stay with him and assist in reforming his government. And think what it would be to have you, a daughter of the people, on the throne, always by the King’s side to persuade him to the right course! No woman ever had a more glorious opportunity. We should work together like one family. Do not let any girlish folly hold you back, when your marriage with the King is the one thing I rely on, the foundation stone on which everything rests. What is there to prevent you, really? You do not dislike the King?”

“No, I do not dislike the King.”

“Then why should you hesitate? Come, Dorothea, you and I have always been good friends ever since we were children, but I do not think I could forgive you, if you refused to help me in this. Think it over before the King comes, and at all events do not break off with him altogether. Promise me that?”

The polishing had grown feebler. It ceased.

“Very well. I will promise not to break off with him yet.”

And then Johann thought it prudent to get up and go out of reach; and no sooner was he gone than Dorothea laid down the gleaming cover right in a pool of water, so that all the polishing would have to be done over again.

After which she went quietly out of the kitchen and upstairs to her own room, to prepare for the visit of the King.

On this afternoon Maximilian came by himself, only attended as far as the forest by his favourite Karl.

He came along with beating heart, murmuring to himself the fragment of an old German song:—

“Ill for the man who loves a child;

Better to woo the wood-bird wild,

Flying free in the middle air.”

Over and over again he reckoned up all the smiles he had ever received from Dorothea, and every look and word which could betoken the secret growth of love. And as he thought, and as he counted, his heart grew great within him, and his step grew buoyant, and the old earth seemed to bend and swing beneath him, and all the branches of the trees to wave salutes, and every leaf and blade to toss for joy, as he strode onward to meet his bride.

And ever and anon, from the very bottom of his heart there crept up a cold doubt like a mist, and blotted out all his tender pictures one by one; and his spirit wavered and went down like the flame of a fire when the rain falls on it; and bitterly he reproached his fortune that had done so much for him, but yet could not do this one last thing—like the mighty roaring Nasmyth hammer, that can crush a cannon-ball and stroke an eggshell, but yet cannot give a new curve to the stalk of the tiniest flower.