The unsteady eyes wandered until they fell upon the face near his pillow.  A brighter gleam came into them, and there was a ray of returning intelligence.  He tried to speak, but could only move his lips.  As he remembered her, she was in white, and he was puzzled now to see her in a garment of some dark material, suggestive of the night or the green of a shady hillside.  There was the odor of roses and violets and carnations.  Then he looked for the fatal, fearful, glaring chandelier.  It was gone.  The room was becoming lighter and lighter as his eyes grew stronger, but it was through a window near where he lay.  So it was daylight!  Where was he?

“How do you feel, old man?” asked a familiar voice.  A man sat down beside him on the couch or bed, and a big hand grasped his own.  Still he could not answer.

“Doctor,” cried the voice near his head, “you really think it is not serious?”

“I am quite sure,” answered a man’s voice from somewhere out in the light.  “It is a bad cut, and he is just recovering from the effect of the ether.  Had the blow not been a glancing one his skull would have been crushed.  He will be perfectly conscious in a short time.  There is no concussion, your Highness.”

“I am so happy to hear you say that,” said the soft voice.  Lorry’s eyes sought hers and thanked her.  A lump came into his throat as he looked up into the tender, anxious blue eyes.  A thrill came over him.  Princess or not, he loved her—­he loved her!  “You were very brave—­oh, so brave!” she whispered in his ear, her hand touching his hair caressingly.  “My American!”

He tried to reach the hand before it faded, but he was too weak.  She glided away, and he closed his eyes again as if in pain.

“Look up, old man; you’re all right,” said Anguish.  “Smell this handkerchief.  It will make you feel better.”  A moist cloth was held beneath his nose, and a strong, pungent odor darted through his nostrils.  In a moment he tried to raise himself to his elbow.  The world was clearing up.

“Lie still a bit, Lorry.  Don’t be too hasty.  The doctor says you must not.”

“Where am I, Harry?” asked the wounded man, weakly.

“In the castle.  I’ll tell you all about it presently.”

“Am I in her room?”

“No, but she is in yours.  You are across the hall in”—­here he whispered—­“Uncle Caspar’s room.  Caspar is a Count.”

“And she is the Princess—­truly?”

“What luck!”

“What misery—­what misery!” half moaned the other.

“Bosh!  Be a man!  Don’t talk so loud, either!  There are a half-dozen in the room.”

Lorry remained perfectly quiet for ten minutes, his staring eyes fixed on the ceiling.  He was thinking of the abyss he had reached and could not cross.

“What time is it?” he asked at last, turning his eyes toward his friend.

“It’s just seven o’clock.  You have been unconscious or under the influence of ether for over four hours.  That guard hit you a fearful crack.”