Nina watched the party with increasing interest.  “Look how funny that little woman is.  When the guide tells her anything, she follows his directions as though he had a string tied to her nose.”  Nina began to laugh, and the princess turned to see two of the tourists, who, like rodents, seemed to be judging a statue of Hermes entirely by the sense of smell.  The party came nearer, and the princess turned away.  But Nina, alert, exclaimed, “The guide is pointing you out to them.”

“Very likely; one gets used to that.  Come, let us go on; they will be all over here in a few minutes.”  The crowd craned after her as she went down the terrace, followed by Nina.

“Do you mean to say you give up your own home like this to strangers?” the girl asked.  “It must be a perfect nuisance!”

“It is all a matter of custom,” the princess answered.  “Besides, the people don’t annoy us.  They go usually on the lower terraces; at most they come up to the old courtyard galleries, perhaps mount the tower to see the view, or go into the catacombs.”

At the bare mention of catacombs Nina was greatly excited, and looked eagerly toward the tourists who were going under the archway where the drawbridge once had been, but the Princess showed very little interest.  They were merely underground passageways that were probably used by slaves, although there was one that undoubtedly was built as a means of escape.  It ran many kilometers and ended in a cave in the forest.  “Oh, come!  Please come!” Nina fairly dragged her aunt after the party to the steep dark entrance leading from an old stone dungeon that was falling in ruins.  The tourists were descending in an awed silence in which nothing could be heard but the groping shuffle of cautious feet, broken by the hollow echo of the guide’s voice reciting his sing-song jargon of what he supposed to be English.  He held a lantern that revealed a long alleyway of crumbling, mud-colored stone.  Nina tried to make out something of his glib discourse, but soon gave it up.

“What is he talking about?” she whispered.

The princess disentangled the tradition from the overburdening names and dates:  those scratches he was pointing out on the walls were supposed to be a cryptic message from some refugees in need of provisions.  It was not a very authentic story, though.

As the princess spoke in English, two tourists detached themselves from the huddled group around the guide and sidled up to her.

“Can you tell me,” asked one, a wizened small person who, in the flickering light of the lantern, was strongly suggestive of a mouse, “are there many buried here?  The guide has been explaining, and I am stupid, I know, but for the life of me I can’t understand a word he says.”  Her voice was a little dejected, and altogether apologetic.

“We do not think there are any,” the princess answered.

The little tourist blinked, hesitated, and then asked, confidentially, “Did the guide say you were the princess of this castle?  We couldn’t make out.”