Say (for Diana’s mists are impenetrable and freeze curiosity) that Clotilde was walking with Count Constantine, the brilliant Tartar trained in Paris, when first she met Prince Marko Romaris, at the Hungarian Baths on the borders of the Styrian highlands.  The scene at all events is pretty, and weaves a fable out of a variety of floating threads.  A stranger to the Baths, dressed in white and scarlet, sprang from his carriage into a group of musical gypsies round an inn at the arch of the chestnut avenue, after pulling up to listen to them for a while.  The music had seized him.  He snatched bow and fiddle from one of the ring, and with a few strokes kindled their faces.  Then seating himself, on a bench he laid the fiddle on his knee, and pinched the strings and flung up his voice, not ceasing to roll out the spontaneous notes when Clotilde and her cavalier, and other couples of the party, came nigh; for he was on the tide of the song, warm in it, and loved it too well to suffer intruders to break the flow, or to think of them.  They were close by when the last of it rattled (it was a popular song of a fiery tribe) to its finish:  He rose and saluted Clotilde, smiled and jumped back to his carriage, sending a cry of adieu to the swarthy, lank-locked, leather-hued circle, of which his dark oriental eyes and skin of burnished walnut made him look an offshoot, but one of the celestial branch.

He was in her father’s reception-room when she reached home:  he was paying a visit of ceremony on behalf of his family to General von Rudiger; which helped her to remember that he had been expected, and also that his favourite colours were known to be white and scarlet.  In those very colours, strange to tell, Clotilde was dressed; Prince Marko had recognized her by miraculous divination, he assured her he could have staked his life on the guess as he bowed to her.  Adieu to Count Constantine.  Fate had interposed the prince opportunely, we have to suppose, for she received a strong impression of his coming straight from her invisible guardian; and the stroke was consequently trenchant which sent the conquering Tartar raving of her fickleness.  She struck, like fate, one blow.  She discovered that the prince, in addition to his beauty and sweet manners and gift of song, was good; she fell in love with goodness, whereof Count Constantine was not an example:  so she set her face another way, soon discovering that there may be fragility in goodness.  And now first her imagination conceived the hero who was to subdue her.  Could Prince Marko be he, soft as he was, pliable, a docile infant, burning to please her, enraptured in obeying?—­the hero who would wrestle with her, overcome and hold her bound?  Siegfried could not be dreamed in him, or a Siegfried’s baby son-in-arms.  She caught a glorious image of the woman rejecting him and his rival, and it informed her that she, dissatisfied with an Adonis, and more than a match for a famous conqueror, was a woman of