“How the deuce will it end?”—­musing half aloud.  “I’ll forget myself some day and trip so hard that they’ll be asking Washington for my recall.  I’ll go over to the gardens and listen to the band.  They are playing dirges to-night, and anything funereal will be a light and happy tonic to my present state of mind.”

He was standing on the curb in front of the hotel, his decision still unrounded, when he noticed a closed carriage hard by the fountain in the Platz.  The driver dozed on his box.

“Humph!  There’s a man who is never troubled with counting the fool’s beads.  Silver and copper are his gods and goddesses.  Ha! a fare!”

A woman in black, thoroughly veiled and cloaked, came round from the opposite side of the fountain.  She spoke to the driver, and he tumbled off the box, alive and hearty.  There seemed to be a short interchange of words of mutual satisfaction.  The lady stepped into the carriage, the driver woke up his ancient Bucephalus, and went clickety-clack down the Koenig Strasse toward the town.

To Carmichael it was less than an incident.  He twirled his cane and walked toward the public gardens.  Here he strolled about, watching the people, numerous but orderly, with a bright military patch here and there.  The band struck up again, and he drifted with the crowd toward the pavilion.  The penny-chairs were occupied, so he selected a spot off-side, near enough for all auditual purposes.  One after another he carelessly scanned the faces of those nearest.  He was something of an amateur physiognomist, but he seldom made the mistakes of the tyro.

Within a dozen feet of him, her arms folded across her breast, her eyes half shut in the luxury of the senses, stood the goose-girl.  He smiled as he recalled the encounter of that afternoon.  It was his habit to ride to the maneuvers every day, and several times he had noticed her, as well as any rider is able to notice a pedestrian.  But that afternoon her beauty came home to him suddenly and unexpectedly.  Had she been other than what she was, a woman well-gowned, for instance, riding in her carriage, his interest would have waned in the passing.  But it had come with the same definite surprise as when one finds a rare and charming story in a dilapidated book.

“Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with some one like this?” he cogitated.

With a friendly smile on his lips, he took a step toward her, but instantly paused.  Colonel von Wallenstein of the general staff approached her from the other side, and Carmichael was curious to find out what that officer’s object was.  Wallenstein was a capital soldier, and a jolly fellow round a board, but beyond that Carmichael had no real liking for him.  There were too many scented notes stuck in his pockets.

The colonel dropped his cigarette, leaned over Gretchen’s shoulder and spoke a few words.  At first she gave no heed.  The colonel persisted.  Without a word in reply, she resolutely sought the nearest policeman.  Wallenstein, remaining where he was, laughed.  Meantime the policeman frowned.  It was incredible; his excellency could not possibly have intended any wrong, it was only a harmless pleasantry.  Gretchen’s lips quivered; the law of redress in Ehrenstein had no niche for the goose-girl.