The second day out Carmichael’s first opportunity came.  He discovered Herbeck and his daughter leaning against the rail.  He watched them uneasily, wondering how he might approach without startling her.  At last he keyed up his courage.

“Good morning, your Highness,” he stammered, and inwardly cursed his stupidity.

At the sound of his voice she turned, and there was no mistaking the gladness in her eyes.

“Mr. Carmichael?”

“Yes.  I was surprised to learn that you were taking the same boat as myself.”

How clumsy he was! she thought.  For she had known his every move since the train drew out of Dreiberg.

“Father, here is our friend, Herr Carmichael.”

“Carmichael?” said Herbeck slowly..  “Ah, yes.  Good morning.”

And Carmichael instantly comprehended that his name recalled nothing to the other man’s remembrance.

“You are returning to America?” she asked.

“For good, perhaps.  To tell the truth, I ran away, deserted my post, though technically I have already resigned.  But America has been calling me for some days.  You have never been to sea before?”

“No; it is all marvelous and strange to me.”

“Let us walk, my child,” said Herbeck.

“You will excuse me, Mr. Carmichael?” she said.  Never more the rides in the fair mornings.  Never more the beautiful gardens, the music, the galloping of soldiers who drew their sabers whenever they passed her.  Never more any of these things.

“Can I be of any assistance?” he said, in an undertone.

“No,” sadly.

The days, more or less monotonous, went past.  Sometimes he saw her alone on deck, but only for a little while.  Her father was slowly improving, but with this improvement came the natural desire for seclusion; so he came on deck only at night.

The night on which the vessel bore into the moist, warm air of the Gulf Stream was full of moonshine, of smooth, phosphorescent billows.  Herbeck had gone below.  The girl leaned over the rail, alone and lonely.  And Carmichael, seeing her, could no longer still the desire in his heart.  He came up to her.

“See!” she exclaimed, pointing to the little eddies of foam speeding along the hull.  “Do you know what they remind me of?  Mermaids’ fingers, grasping and clutching at the boat as if to drag it down below.”

How beautiful she was with the frost of moonlight on her hair!

“You must not talk like that,” he admonished.

“I am very unhappy.”

“And when you say that you make me so, too.”

“Why?” She had spoken the word at last.

“Do you remember the night you dropped your fan?” leaning so closely toward her that his arm pressed against hers.

“I remember.”