“There’s one with a white cap—­ah, it is Count von Walden!  There are two soldiers in the Hohenphalian uniform; cavalry.  I do not know who the fourth fellow is.”

“Describe him to me,” said Hillars, trying to roll a cigarette with his trembling fingers.  “Curse it!” throwing away the rice paper, “I’ve got so bad that I can’t roll a cigarette.  Well, what’s he look like?”

“He’s in civilian dress; little black mustache and an imperial.”

“Look anything like Napoleon III?”

“You’ve hit it.  Who is he?”

“They say he’s Prince Ernst of Wortumborg,” said Hillars; “but it is my opinion that he’s the devil on a furlough.”

“Then he is the man—­” I began.

“He is.  Your love affair is all over once he gets here; unless—­” Dan looked at the sky as though he was undecided about the weather.

“Unless what?” I asked.

“O, just unless,” said he.  “I’d give 5 pounds for a glass of home-made whiskey.”

“You’ve got a plan of some sort,” said I.  “Speak it out.”

“It wasn’t a plan; it was just an idea.  It’s gone now.  Maybe it will come back later.  Are you going to stay here, or come with me and tackle a bottle of the innkeeper’s Rhine wine?  The German vinegar used to make you hilarious.”

“What’s the coach for?” I asked.  “Are they going to carry us off like a couple of chickens?”

“I presume it is for her Serene Highness.  I wonder how they found out she was here?  Probably the lieutenant you were going to fight, but didn’t, informed them.  At any rate, the coach will not be for us.  The Prince will not bother with you and me while the Princess is here.  I don’t know what they will do with us; possibly nothing, possibly put us in jail.  Come along; I’m thirsty.”

It was late in the afternoon of the day following.  I had not seen her Serene Highness, the Princess Hildegarde—­Gretchen.  She had remained in her room, and all efforts of mine to hold communication with her had proved futile.  I had stood at her door and supplicated; she had told me to go away.  The innkeeper had scowled when I suggested that he carry a note to his mistress.  He had refused.

“The Princess receives no notes,” he had said.  “Gretchen—­it was a different matter.”

And Hillars had slept till after noon.  It had been a bad morning for me.  The wounded lieutenant had been carried away the night before, and there had not been anything for me to do but wander about—­waiting.

“Will you help me with the Rhine wine?” asked Hillars.

“No.  My head is fuddled enough as it is.”

“Then you must let me do all the talking.”

“And why you?”

“I shall know better how to irritate them,” with a laugh.  “They will not take any particular interest in you when they set eyes on me.  Homo sum!  I am the man they are looking for.  They will find plenty of me.  I shall be a syndicate in myself; where they expect to find one man, they will find a dozen, all alive and kicking.  It will be good sport.”