Lorenz was a good-looking young fellow, little more than a boy.  His smooth face was flushed, and there was about him an air of dissipation that suggested depravity in its advanced stage.  The face that might have been handsome was the reflection of a roue, dashing, devilish.  He was fair-haired and tall, taller than his companions by half a head.  With reckless abandon he drank and sang and jested, arrogant in his flighty merriment.  His cohorts were not far behind him in riotous wit.

At length one of the revelers, speaking in German, called on Lorenz for a toast to the Princess Yetive, his promised bride.  Without a moment’s hesitation the Prince sprang to his feet, held his glass aloft, and cried: 

“Here’s to the fairest of the fair, sweet Yetive, so hard to win, too good to lose.  She loves me, God bless her heart!  And I love her, God bless my heart, too!  For each kiss from her wondrous lips I shall credit myself with one thousand gavvos.  That is the price of a kiss.”

“I’ll give two thousand!” roared one of the nobles, and there was a laugh in which the Prince joined.

“Nay!  I’ll not sell them now.  In after years, when she has grown old and her lips are parched and dry from the sippings I have had, I’ll sell them all at a bargain.  Alas, she has not yet kissed me!”

Lorry’s heart bounded with joy, though his hands were clenched in rage.

“She will kiss me to-morrow.  To-morrow I shall taste what no other man has touched, what all men have coveted.  And I’ll be generous, gentlemen.  She is so fair that your foul mouths would blight with but one caress upon her tender lips, and yet you shall not, be deprived of bliss.  I shall kiss her thrice for each of you.  Let me count:  thrice eleven is thirty-three.  Aye, thirty-three of my kisses shall be wasted for the sake of my friends, lucky dogs!  Drink to my Princess!”

“Bravo!” cried the others, and the glasses were raised to lip.

A chair was overturned.  The form of a man landed suddenly at the side of the Prince and a rough hand dashed the glass from his fingers, the contents flying over his immaculate English evening dress.

“Don’t you dare to drink that toast!” cried a voice in his astonished ear, a voice speaking in excited German.  He whirled and saw a scowling face beside his own, a pair of gray eyes that flashed fire.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, anger replacing amazement.  The other members of his party stood as if spell-bound.

“I mean that you speak of the Princess of Graustark.  Do you understand that, you miserable cur?”

“Oh!” screamed, the Prince, convulsed with rage, starting back and instinctively reaching for the sword he did not carry.  “You shall pay for this!  I will teach you to interfere—­”

“I’ll insult you more decidedly just to avoid misapprehension,” snarled Lorry, swinging his big fist squarely upon the mouth of the Prince.  His Royal Highness landed under a table ten feet away.