To-night there was love in the duke’s eyes as he looked down the table’s length; there was love in the old chancellor’s eyes, too; and in Carmichael’s.  And there was love in her eyes as she gazed back at the two old men.  But who could read her eyes whenever they roved in Carmichael’s direction?  Not even Gretchen’s grandmother, who lived in the Krumerweg.

“Gentlemen,” said the duke, rising and holding up his glass, “this night I give you a toast which I believe will be agreeable to all of you, especially to his excellency, Baron von Steinbock of Jugendheit.  What is past is past; a new regime begins this night.”  He paused.  All eyes were focused upon him in wonder.  Only Baron von Steinbock displayed no more than ordinary interest.  “I give you,” resumed the duke, “her serene highness and his majesty, Frederick of Jugendheit!”

The princess grew delicately pale as the men and women sprang to their feet.  Every hand swept toward her, holding a glass.  She had surrendered that morning.  Not because she wished to be a queen, not because she cared to bring about an alliance between the two countries; no, it was because she was afraid and had burned the bridge behind her.

The tan thinned on Carmichael’s face, but his hand was steady.  Never would he forget the tableau.  She sat still in her chair, her lids drooped, but a proud lift to her chin.  The collar of pearls round her neck had scarce more luster than her shoulders.  How red her lips seemed against the whiteness of her skin!  Beautiful to him beyond all dreams of beauty.  God send another war and let him die in the heart of it, fighting!  To dream lies as he had done this twelvemonth, to break his heart over the moon!  He sat his glass down untouched, happily unobserved.  He was in misery; he wanted to be alone.

“Long live her majesty!” thundered the chancellor.  He, too, was pale, but the fire of great things burned in his eyes and his lank form took upon itself a transient majesty.

In the ball-room the princess was surrounded; everybody flattered her; congratulated her, and complimented her.  All agreed that it was a great political stroke.  And indeed it was, but none of them knew how great.

Carmichael was among the last to approach her.  By this time he had his voice and nerves under control.  Without apparent volition they walked down the stairs which led to the conservatory.

“I thought perhaps you had forgotten me,” she said.

[Illustration:  “I thought you had forgotten me,” she said.]

“Forget your highness?  Do not give me credit for such an impossibility.”  He bowed over her hand and brushed it with his lips, for she was almost royal now.  “Your highness will be happy.  It is written.”  He stepped back slowly.

“Have you the gift of prescience?”

“In this instance.  You will be a great queen.”

“Who knows?” dreamily.  “When I recall what I have gone through, all this seems like an enchantment out of a fairy-book, and that I must soon wake up in my garret in Dresden.”