At the top of the hill above the Palace the way narrowed and I fell behind; and, dismounting, I affected to be fixing something about the girth.  I wanted to see the Princess go down that tree-lined way as once before I had seen her.  Then they came to the bend; and, leaning against my horse’s shoulder, I waited.  Would she remember?

Suddenly, she turned and waved her hand, exactly as she had done that other time; only, this time, it was a beckon to follow, not a farewell.  I sprang to saddle and dashed ahead, almost fearing to find her vanished and it only a dream.  When I rounded the corner, the Princess and Lady Helen were turning into the drive that led from the road to the Palace; and, once again, Dehra waved me onward.

They awaited me at the gate; and, with the guard standing at attention, we rode into the grounds.  I noticed that the Princess acknowledged the salute with her crop as though it were a sword.  I had returned it with my hand.

“Your way is the correct one,” she said.

“But yours is much the prettier,” I answered.

“Maybe that’s why I used it,” she laughed.

“It is sufficient justification,” I assured her.

“His Majesty does not think so—­he insists that the Colonel of the Blue Guards should conform to the regulations.”

“I salute my superior officer,” I said, and used my crop as she had done.

“How delightful to be a Colonel,” said Lady Helen.  “I would wear the uniform all the time—­if it were becoming.”

“How could it be otherwise?” I exclaimed.

“No sarcasm, sir,” she said sharply.

“No, Major Dalberg, no sarcasm,” Dehra cautioned, “or you will be asking, presently, if I won my commission on the field of battle.”

“I would rather not imagine you on the field of battle,” I answered.

“Well, you needn’t,” she laughed.  “It’s an infliction of birth.  It belongs to the eldest child of the King without regard to sex.”

“It’s a pity, in your case, the crown does not follow the Colonelcy,” I thought—­but I did not say it.

At one of the private entrances we drew up.  The Princess was out of saddle as quickly as myself; but the Lady Helen waited.

“If you don’t want to stay I can contrive some excuse,” she whispered, as I lifted her down.

“I’m quite willing to risk a royal breakfast if you are,” I answered.

“Brave man,” she mocked, gathering up her skirt; “you wouldn’t flinch at leading a forlorn hope.”

“Watch me follow one,” I retorted, as I brought up the rear.

“Which one?” she asked over her shoulder; but I did not answer.

The breakfast was served in a charming little room—­which I assumed to be a portion of the Princess’ private suite—­and was of the sort to provoke more early morning rides along the Old Forge Road.

“This may be a bit unconventional,” said Dehra, addressing Lady Helen, rather than me, “but, if the English Ambassador can stand it, I will answer for the King of Valeria.”