“I shall teach you.”

Gretchen laid her head on his breast.  She was very tired and much bewildered.

The duke paced the length of the cabinet several times.  No one interrupted his meditation.

Back and forth, one hand hanging to the opposite shoulder, the other folding over his chin.  Then he paused with abruptness.

“Your Majesty, I regret that your father is not alive to accept my apologies for so baselessly misjudging him.  Arnsberg, nothing that I can do will restore these wasted years.  But I offer you the portfolio.”

“I am only a broken man, your Highness; too old.”

“It is my will.”

Arnsberg bent his head in submission.

“As for you,” said the duke to the Gipsy, “go, and if you ever step this side the frontier again you will be shot out of hand.”  He stopped again in front of Grumbach.  “I promised to have you shot in the morning.  That promise holds.  But a train leaves for Paris a little after midnight.  My advice is for you not to miss it.”

“And my father, your Highness?” said Hildegarde bravely.

“Herbeck, your estates are confiscated, your name is struck from the civic and military lists.  Have you any ready funds?”

“A little, your Highness.”

“Enough to take you for ever out of this part of the world?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“You do not ask to be forgiven, and I like that.  I have judges in Dreiberg.  I could have you tried and condemned for high treason, shot or imprisoned for life.  But to-night I shall not use this prerogative.  You have, perhaps, three hours to get your things in order.  To-morrow you will be judged and condemned.  But you, Hildegarde—­”

“No, your Highness; we shall both take the train for Paris.  Gretchen, you will be happy.”

Gretchen ran and flung herself into Hildegarde’s arms; and the two of them wept.  Hildegarde pushed Gretchen away gently.

“Come, father, we have so little time.”

And this was the sum of the duke’s revenge.

* * * * *

It never took Carmichael long to make up his mind definitely.  He found his old friend the cabman in the Platz, and they drove like mad to the consulate.  An hour here sufficed to close his diplomatic career and seal it hermetically.  The clerk, however, would go on like Tennyson’s brook, for ever and for ever.  Next he went to the residence of his banker in the Koenig Strasse and got together all his available funds.  Eleven o’clock found him in his rooms at the Grand Hotel, feverishly packing his trunk and bag.  Paris!  He would go, also, even if they passed on to the remote ends of the world.

The train stood waiting in the gloomy Bahnhof.  The guards patrolled the platform.  Presently three men came out of the station door.  Two were officers; the third, Colonel von Wallenstein, was in civilian dress.  He was sullen and depressed.