‘It is life-like! it is really noble! it is a true Prince!’ exclaimed Miss Sibley.  She translated several exclamations of the ladies and gentlemen in German:  they were entirely to the same effect.  The horse gave us a gleam of his neck as he pawed a forefoot, just reined in.  We knew him; he was a gallant horse; but it was the figure of the Prince Albrecht that was so fine.  I had always laughed at sculptured figures on horseback.  This one overawed me.  The Marshal was acknowledging the salute of his army after a famous victory over the infidel Turks.  He sat upright, almost imperceptibly but effectively bending his head in harmony with the curve of his horse’s neck, and his baton swept the air low in proud submission to the honours cast on him by his acclaiming soldiery.  His three-cornered lace hat, curled wig, heavy-trimmed surcoat, and high boots, reminded me of Prince Eugene.  No Prince Eugene—­nay, nor Marlborough, had such a martial figure, such an animated high old warrior’s visage.  The bronze features reeked of battle.

Temple and I felt humiliated (without cause, I granted) at the success of a work of Art that struck us as a new military triumph of these Germans, and it was impossible not to admire it.  The little Princess Ottilia clapped hands by fits.  What words she addressed to me I know not.  I dealt out my stock of German—­’Ja, ja—­to her English.  We were drawn by her to congratulate the margravine, whose hand was then being kissed by the prince:  he did it most courteously and affectionately.  Other gentlemen, counts and barons, bowed over her hand.  Ladies, according to their rank and privileges, saluted her on the cheek or in some graceful fashion.  When our turn arrived, Miss Sibley translated for us, and as we were at concert pitch we did not acquit ourselves badly.  Temple’s remark was, that he wished she and all her family had been English.  Nothing was left for me to say but that the margravine almost made us wish we had been German.

Smiling cordially, the margravine spoke, Miss Sibley translated: 

‘Her Royal Highness asks you if you have seen your father?’

I shook my head.

The Princess Ottilia translated, ’Her Highness, my good aunt, would know, would you know him, did you see him?’

‘Yes, anywhere,’ I cried.

The margravine pushed me back with a gesture.

‘Yes, your Highness, on my honour; anywhere on earth!’

She declined to hear the translation.

Her insulting disbelief in my ability to recognize the father I had come so far to embrace would have vexed me but for the wretched thought that I was losing him again.  We threaded the carriages; gazed at the horsemen in a way to pierce the hair on their faces.  The little princess came on us hurriedly.

’Here, see, are the horses.  I will you to mount.  Are they not pretty animals?’ She whispered, ’I believe your fater have been hurt in his mind by something.  It is only perhaps.  Now mount, for de Markgrafin says you are our good guests.’