Herbeck laid his cold hand upon the duke’s.  Then he went over to her highness and kissed her hand gratefully, for it was truly at her feet the wreath of victory lay.

“Highness,” he said softly, “you are the fairest, finest princess in the world, and you shall marry when you will.”

“And where?”

“I would that I could make it so.  But there is a penalty for being placed so high.  We can not change this unwritten law.”

“Heaven did not write it,” she replied.

“No, my daughter,” said the duke.  “Man is at the bottom of all the kinks and twists in this short life; not Heaven.  But Herbeck is right; you shall marry when you will.”

She sprang into his arms and kissed him.  It was, however, a traitorous kiss; for she was saying in her heart that now she would never marry.  Herbeck’s eyes wandered to the portrait over the fireplace.  It was the girl’s mother.

The knock of the valet was again heard.

“Your Highness, there is a young woman, a peasant, who desires to speak to her serene highness.”

“Where is she?” asked the duke.

“She is outside, your Highness.”

“What!  She enters the palace without any more trouble than this?”

“By my orders, father,” said Hildegarde, who gathered that this privileged visitor must be Gretchen of the Krumerweg.  “Admit her.”

“Truly we are becoming socialists,” said the duke, appealing to Herbeck, who replied with his usual grim smile.

Gretchen was ushered in.  Her throat was a little full as she recognized the three most important persons in the grand duchy.  Outwardly she was composed.  She made a curtsy to which the duke replied with his most formal bow of state.  The sparkle of amusement was in his eyes.

“The little goose-girl!” he said half-audibly.

“Yes, Highness.”  Gretchen’s face was serious and her eyes were mournful.  She carried an envelope in her hand tightly.

“Come to me, Gretchen,” said the princess.

“What is it?”

Gretchen’s eyes roamed undecidedly from the duke to Herbeck.

“She is dead, Highness, and I found this letter under her pillow.”

It was Herbeck’s hand that took the envelope.  But he did not open it at once.

“Dead?” Hildegarde’s eyes filled.

“Who is dead?” demanded the duke.

“Emma Schultz, father.  Oh, I know you will forgive me for this deception.  She has been in Dreiberg for a month, dying, and I have often stolen out to see her.”  She let her tears fall unrestrained.

The duke stared at the rug.  Presently he said:  “Let her be buried in consecrated ground.  Wrong or right, that chapter is closed, my child, and I am glad you made her last moments happy.  It was like you.  It was like your mother.  What is in the letter, Herbeck?”

Herbeck was a strong man; he was always far removed from tears; but there was a mist over the usual clarity of his vision.  He ripped down the flap.  It was only a simple note to her serene highness, begging her to give the enclosed banknotes to one Gretchen who lived in the Krumerweg.  The notes represented a thousand crowns.