Walther stared at him, comprehending but little of what he had said, and shook his head slowly.

“Your French blood is surely on top now, Castel,” he said.  “I should call you a little mad if you didn’t work so hard and with such a good heart.”

“Ah, well, if we enjoy our madness, pray let us remain so.”

Walther shook his head again, and walked away some distance where he stopped, and looked long at his new helper who toiled with uncommon diligence but who whistled and sang in a low but happy manner as he toiled.  A new thought was slowly making its way into his stolid brain.  A man might have a madness, and be none the worse for it.  Well, every one to his own madness.

John had heard from Ilse that Julie walked on the terrace twice every day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, and he strove so to arrange his work that he might see her again that afternoon.  Knowing that he was already a favorite with Walther he made many suggestions.  This horse or that needed exercise, and one that had been a favorite with the prince before he had taken to the automobile, and that even now was often ridden by him, would be all the better for sun and air.  Walther agreed with him and John deftly postponed the time until about four o’clock, the warmest and brightest part of the afternoon, when he thought it most likely that Julie would come again.

He led the horse back and forth along a road that led from the stables to a forest hanging on the slope, being in sight of the terrace about half the way.  But the terrace was bare and it was not until he had made three or four turns that Julie with her following shadow, Suzanne, appeared.  Again John’s heart beat heavily, and the hand that held the bridle trembled.  He could not help it.  His mind, highly sensitive and imaginative, was nevertheless powerful and tenacious to the last degree.  And he was there in the heart of old romance.  The vast castle, gray and sinister, loomed above him, but beyond was the golden light on the mountains.

He did not try to attract her attention, but, walking calmly on with the horse, poured all his soul into the wish that she would look his way.  He had not the remotest belief in the supernatural as he told himself again, but he continued to wish it with all his power and strength, and presently her gaze turned toward the young peasant and the horse who were walking slowly up and down the road.  He was too far away to read her face, but his fond fancy told him that she rejoiced again to see him there.

She looked at him a little while, but she made no sign or signal.  He expected none.  She would know too well that it might create suspicion and from some one of the many windows of the castle jealous eyes might be watching.

She advanced to the edge of the terrace with her faithful shadow still close behind her, and then the prince came.  He was in a white and silver uniform of Austria, a magnificent figure of a man, despite his middle years, and his great brown beard gave him a majestic aspect.  But John knew that his eyes were set close together and that the soul behind them was unscrupulous and cruel.