The Princess spoke with some distress.  'Your violence shocks me and 
pains me,' she began, 'but I cannot be angry with what at least does 
honour to the mistaken kindness of your heart: it was right for me 
to know this.  I will condescend to tell you.  It was with deep 
regret that I was driven to this step.  I admire in many ways the 
Prince - I admit his amiability.  It was our great misfortune, it 
was perhaps somewhat of my fault, that we were so unsuited to each 
other; but I have a regard, a sincere regard, for all his qualities.  
As a private person I should think as you do.  It is difficult, I 
know, to make allowances for state considerations.  I have only with 
deep reluctance obeyed the call of a superior duty; and so soon as I 
dare do it for the safety of the state, I promise you the Prince 
shall be released.  Many in my situation would have resented your 
freedoms.  I am not' - and she looked for a moment rather piteously 
upon the Countess - 'I am not altogether so inhuman as you think.'

'And you can put these troubles of the state,' the Countess cried, 
'to weigh with a man's love?'

'Madame von Rosen, these troubles are affairs of life and death to 
many; to the Prince, and perhaps even to yourself, among the 
number,' replied the Princess, with dignity.  'I have learned, 
madam, although still so young, in a hard school, that my own 
feelings must everywhere come last.'

'O callow innocence!' exclaimed the other.  'Is it possible you do 
not know, or do not suspect, the intrigue in which you move?  I find 
it in my heart to pity you!  We are both women after all - poor 
girl, poor girl! - and who is born a woman is born a fool.  And 
though I hate all women - come, for the common folly, I forgive you.  
Your Highness' - she dropped a deep stage curtsey and resumed her 
fan -  'I am going to insult you, to betray one who is called my 
lover, and if it pleases you to use the power I now put unreservedly 
into your hands, to ruin my dear self.  O what a French comedy!  You 
betray, I betray, they betray.  It is now my cue.  The letter, yes.  
Behold the letter, madam, its seal unbroken as I found it by my bed 
this morning; for I was out of humour, and I get many, too many, of 
these favours.  For your own sake, for the sake of my Prince 
Charming, for the sake of this great principality that sits so heavy 
on your conscience, open it and read!'

'Am I to understand,' inquired the Princess, 'that this letter in 
any way regards me?'

'You see I have not opened it,' replied von Rosen; 'but 'tis mine, 
and I beg you to experiment.'

'I cannot look at it till you have,' returned Seraphina, very 
seriously.  'There may be matter there not meant for me to see; it 
is a private letter.'

The Countess tore it open, glanced it through, and tossed it back; 
and the Princess, taking up the sheet, recognised the hand of 
Gondremark, and read with a sickening shock the following lines:-


'Dearest Anna, come at once.  Ratafia has done the deed, her husband 
is to be packed to prison.  This puts the minx entirely in my power; 
LE TOUR EST JOUE; she will now go steady in harness, or I will know 
the reason why.  Come.

HEINRICH.'


'Command yourself, madam,' said the Countess, watching with some 
alarm the white face of Seraphina.  'It is in vain for you to fight 
with Gondremark; he has more strings than mere court favour, and 
could bring you down to-morrow with a word.  I would not have 
betrayed him otherwise; but Heinrich is a man, and plays with all of 
you like marionnettes.  And now at least you see for what you 
sacrificed my Prince.  Madam, will you take some wine?  I have been 
cruel.'

'Not cruel, madam - salutary,' said Seraphina, with a phantom smile.  
'No, I thank you, I require no attentions.  The first surprise 
affected me: will you give me time a little?  I must think.'

She took her head between her hands, and contemplated for a while 
the hurricane confusion of her thoughts.

'This information reaches me,' she said, 'when I have need of it.  I 
would not do as you have done, but yet I thank you.  I have been 
much deceived in Baron Gondremark.'

'O, madam, leave Gondremark, and think upon the Prince!' cried von 
Rosen.

'You speak once more as a private person,' said the Princess; 'nor 
do I blame you.  But my own thoughts are more distracted.  However, 
as I believe you are truly a friend to my - to the - as I believe,' 
she said, 'you are a friend to Otto, I shall put the order for his 
release into your hands this moment.  Give me the ink-dish.  There!'  
And she wrote hastily, steadying her arm upon the table, for she 
trembled like a reed.  'Remember; madam,' she resumed, handing her 
the order, 'this must not be used nor spoken of at present; till I 
have seen the Baron, any hurried step - I lose myself in thinking.  
The suddenness has shaken me.'

'I promise you I will not use it,' said the Countess, 'till you give 
me leave, although I wish the Prince could be informed of it, to 
comfort his poor heart.  And O, I had forgotten, he has left a 
letter.  Suffer me, madam, I will bring it you.  This is the door, I 
think?'  And she sought to open it.

'The bolt is pushed,' said Seraphina, flushing.

'O!  O!' cried the Countess.

A silence fell between them.

'I will get it for myself,' said Seraphina; 'and in the meanwhile I 
beg you to leave me.  I thank you, I am sure, but I shall be obliged 
if you will leave me.'

The Countess deeply curtseyed, and withdrew.




CHAPTER XIV - RELATES THE CAUSE AND OUTBREAK OF THE REVOLUTION


BRAVE as she was, and brave by intellect, the Princess, when first 
she was alone, clung to the table for support.  The four corners of 
her universe had fallen.  She had never liked nor trusted Gondremark 
completely; she had still held it possible to find him false to 
friendship; but from that to finding him devoid of all those public 
virtues for which she had honoured him, a mere commonplace 
intriguer, using her for his own ends, the step was wide and the 
descent giddy.  Light and darkness succeeded each other in her 
brain; now she believed, and now she could not.  She turned, blindly 
groping for the note.  But von Rosen, who had not forgotten to take 
the warrant from the Prince, had remembered to recover her note from 
the Princess: von Rosen was an old campaigner, whose most violent 
emotion aroused rather than clouded the vigour of her reason.

The thought recalled to Seraphina the remembrance of the other 
letter - Otto's.  She rose and went speedily, her brain still 
wheeling, and burst into the Prince's armoury.  The old chamberlain 
was there in waiting; and the sight of another face, prying (or so 
she felt) on her distress, struck Seraphina into childish anger.

'Go!' she cried; and then, when the old man was already half-way to 
the door, 'Stay!' she added.  'As soon as Baron Gondremark arrives, 
let him attend me here.'

'It shall be so directed,' said the chamberlain.

'There was a letter . . .' she began, and paused.

'Her Highness,' said the chamberlain, 'will, find a letter on the 
table.  I had received no orders, or her Highness had been spared 
this trouble.'

'No, no, no,' she cried.  'I thank you.  I desire to be alone.'

And then, when he was gone, she leaped upon the letter.  Her mind 
was still obscured; like the moon upon a night of clouds and wind, 
her reason shone and was darkened, and she read the words by 
flashes.

'Seraphina,' the Prince wrote, 'I will write no syllable of 
reproach.  I have seen your order, and I go.  What else is left me?  
I have wasted my love, and have no more.  To say that I forgive you 
is not needful; at least, we are now separate for ever; by your own 
act, you free me from my willing bondage: I go free to prison.  This 
is the last that you will hear of me in love or anger.  I have gone 
out of your life; you may breathe easy; you have now rid yourself of 
the husband who allowed you to desert him, of the Prince who gave 
you his rights, and of the married lover who made it his pride to 
defend you in your absence.  How you have requited him, your own 
heart more loudly tells you than my words.  There is a day coming 
when your vain dreams will roll away like clouds, and you will find 
yourself alone.  Then you will remember

OTTO.'


She read with a great horror on her mind; that day, of which he 
wrote, was come.  She was alone; she had been false, she had been 
cruel; remorse rolled in upon her; and then with a more piercing 
note, vanity bounded on the stage of consciousness.  She a dupe! she 
helpless! she to have betrayed herself in seeking to betray her 
husband! she to have lived these years upon flattery, grossly 
swallowing the bolus, like a clown with sharpers! she - Seraphina!  
Her swift mind drank the consequences; she foresaw the coming fall, 
her public shame; she saw the odium, disgrace, and folly of her 
story flaunt through Europe.  She recalled the scandal she had so 
royally braved; and alas! she had now no courage to confront it 
with.  To be thought the mistress of that man: perhaps for that. . . 
. She closed her eyes on agonising vistas.  Swift as thought she had 
snatched a bright dagger from the weapons that shone along the wall.  
Ay, she would escape.  From that world-wide theatre of nodding heads 
and buzzing whisperers, in which she now beheld herself unpitiably 
martyred, one door stood open.  At any cost, through any stress of 
suffering, that greasy laughter should be stifled.  She closed her 
eyes, breathed a wordless prayer, and pressed the weapon to her 
bosom.

At the astonishing sharpness of the prick, she gave a cry and awoke 
to a sense of undeserved escape.  A little ruby spot of blood was 
the reward of that great act of desperation; but the pain had braced 
her like a tonic, and her whole design of suicide had passed away.

At the same instant regular feet drew near along the gallery, and 
she knew the tread of the big Baron, so often gladly welcome, and 
even now rallying her spirits like a call to battle.  She concealed 
the dagger in the folds of her skirt; and drawing her stature up, 
she stood firm-footed, radiant with anger, waiting for the foe.

The Baron was announced, and entered.  To him, Seraphina was a hated 
task: like the schoolboy with his Virgil, he had neither will nor 
leisure to remark her beauties; but when he now beheld her standing 
illuminated by her passion, new feelings flashed upon him, a frank 
admiration, a brief sparkle of desire.  He noted both with joy; they 
were means.  'If I have to play the lover,' thought he, for that was 
his constant preoccupation, 'I believe I can put soul into it.'  
Meanwhile, with his usual ponderous grace, he bent before the lady.

'I propose,' she said in a strange voice, not known to her till 
then, 'that we release the Prince and do not prosecute the war.'

'Ah, madam,' he replied, ' 'tis as I knew it would be!  Your heart, 
I knew, would wound you when we came to this distasteful but most 
necessary step.  Ah, madam, believe me, I am not unworthy to be your 
ally; I know you have qualities to which I am a stranger, and count 
them the best weapons in the armoury of our alliance:- the girl in 
the queen - pity, love, tenderness, laughter; the smile that can 
reward.  I can only command; I am the frowner.  But you!  And you 
have the fortitude to command these comely weaknesses, to tread them 
down at the call of reason.  How often have I not admired it even to 
yourself!  Ay, even to yourself,' he added tenderly, dwelling, it 
seemed, in memory on hours of more private admiration.  'But now, 
madam - '

'But now, Herr von Gondremark, the time for these declarations has 
gone by,' she cried.  'Are you true to me? are you false?  Look in 
your heart and answer: it is your heart I want to know.'

'It has come,' thought Gondremark.  'You, madam!' he cried, starting 
back - with fear, you would have said, and yet a timid joy.  'You! 
yourself, you bid me look into my heart?'

'Do you suppose I fear?' she cried, and looked at him with such a 
heightened colour, such bright eyes, and a smile of so abstruse a 
meaning, that the Baron discarded his last doubt.

'Ah, madam!' he cried, plumping on his knees.  'Seraphina!  Do you 
permit me? have you divined my secret?  It is true - I put my life 
with joy into your power - I love you, love with ardour, as an 
equal, as a mistress, as a brother-in-arms, as an adored, desired, 
sweet-hearted woman.  O Bride!' he cried, waxing dithyrambic, 'bride 
of my reason and my senses, have pity, have pity on my love!'

She heard him with wonder, rage, and then contempt.  His words 
offended her to sickness; his appearance, as he grovelled bulkily 
upon the floor, moved her to such laughter as we laugh in 
nightmares.

'O shame!' she cried.  'Absurd and odious!  What would the Countess 
say?'

That great Baron Gondremark, the excellent politician, remained for 
some little time upon his knees in a frame of mind which perhaps we 
are allowed to pity.  His vanity, within his iron bosom, bled and 
raved.  If he could have blotted all, if he could have withdrawn 
part, if he had not called her bride - with a roaring in his ears, 
he thus regretfully reviewed his declaration.  He got to his feet 
tottering; and then, in that first moment when a dumb agony finds a 
vent in words, and the tongue betrays the inmost and worst of a man, 
he permitted himself a retort which, for six weeks to follow, he was 
to repent at leisure.

'Ah,' said he, 'the Countess?  Now I perceive the reason of your 
Highness's disorder.'

The lackey-like insolence of the words was driven home by a more 
insolent manner.  There fell upon Seraphina one of those storm-
clouds which had already blackened upon her reason; she heard 
herself cry out; and when the cloud dispersed, flung the blood-
stained dagger on the floor, and saw Gondremark reeling back with 
open mouth and clapping his hand upon the wound.  The next moment, 
with oaths that she had never heard, he leaped at her in savage 
passion; clutched her as she recoiled; and in the very act, stumbled 
and drooped.  She had scarce time to fear his murderous onslaught 
ere he fell before her feet.

He rose upon one elbow; she still staring upon him, white with 
horror.

'Anna!' he cried, 'Anna!  Help!'

And then his utterance failed him, and he fell back, to all 
appearance dead.

Seraphina ran to and fro in the room; she wrung her hands and cried 
aloud; within she was all one uproar of terror, and conscious of no 
articulate wish but to awake.

There came a knocking at the door; and she sprang to it and held it, 
panting like a beast, and with the strength of madness in her arms, 
till she had pushed the bolt.  At this success a certain calm fell 
upon her reason.  She went back and looked upon her victim, the 
knocking growing louder.  O yes, he was dead.  She had killed him.  
He had called upon von Rosen with his latest breath; ah! who would 
call on Seraphina?  She had killed him.  She, whose irresolute hand 
could scarce prick blood from her own bosom, had found strength to 
cast down that great colossus at a blow.

All this while the knocking was growing more uproarious and more 
unlike the staid career of life in such a palace.  Scandal was at 
the door, with what a fatal following she dreaded to conceive; and 
at the same time among the voices that now began to summon her by 
name, she recognised the Chancellor's.  He or another, somebody must 
be the first.

'Is Herr von Greisengesang without?' she called.

'Your Highness - yes!' the old gentleman answered.  'We have heard 
cries, a fall.  Is anything amiss?'

'Nothing,' replied Seraphina 'I desire to speak with you.  Send off 
the rest.'  She panted between each phrase; but her mind was clear.  
She let the looped curtain down upon both sides before she drew the 
bolt; and, thus secure from any sudden eyeshot from without, 
admitted the obsequious Chancellor, and again made fast the door.

Greisengesang clumsily revolved among the wings of the curtain, so 
that she was clear of it as soon as he.

'My God!' he cried 'The Baron!'

'I have killed him,' she said.  'O, killed him!'

'Dear me,' said the old gentleman, 'this is most unprecedented.  
Lovers' quarrels,' he added ruefully, 'redintegratio - ' and then 
paused.  'But, my dear madam,' he broke out again, 'in the name of 
all that is practical, what are we to do?  This is exceedingly 
grave; morally, madam, it is appalling.  I take the liberty, your 
Highness, for one moment, of addressing you as a daughter, a loved 
although respected daughter; and I must say that I cannot conceal 
from you that this is morally most questionable.  And, O dear me, we 
have a dead body!'

She had watched him closely; hope fell to contempt; she drew away 
her skirts from his weakness, and, in the act, her own strength 
returned to her.

'See if he be dead,' she said; not one word of explanation or 
defence; she had scorned to justify herself before so poor a 
creature: 'See if he be dead' was all.

With the greatest compunction, the Chancellor drew near; and as he 
did so the wounded Baron rolled his eyes.

'He lives,' cried the old courtier, turning effusively to Seraphina.  
'Madam, he still lives.'

'Help him, then,' returned the Princess, standing fixed.  'Bind up 
his wound.'

'Madam, I have no means,' protested the Chancellor.

'Can you not take your handkerchief, your neck-cloth, anything?' she 
cried; and at the same moment, from her light muslin gown she rent 
off a flounce and tossed it on the floor.  'Take that,' she said, 
and for the first time directly faced Greisengesang.

But the Chancellor held up his hands and turned away his head in 
agony.  The grasp of the falling Baron had torn down the dainty 
fabric of the bodice; and - 'O Highness!' cried Greisengesang, 
appalled, 'the terrible disorder of your toilette!'

'Take up that flounce,' she said; 'the man may die.'

Greisengesang turned in a flutter to the Baron, and attempted some 
innocent and bungling measures.  'He still breathes,' he kept 
saying.  'All is not yet over; he is not yet gone.'

'And now,' said she 'if that is all you can do, begone and get some 
porters; he must instantly go home.'

'Madam,' cried the Chancellor, 'if this most melancholy sight were 
seen in town - O dear, the State would fall!' he piped.

'There is a litter in the Palace,' she replied.  'It is your part to 
see him safe.  I lay commands upon you.  On your life it stands.'

'I see it, dear Highness,' he jerked.  'Clearly I see it.  But how? 
what men?  The Prince's servants - yes.  They had a personal 
affection.  They will be true, if any.'

'O, not them!' she cried.  'Take Sabra, my own man.'

'Sabra!  The grand-mason?' returned the Chancellor, aghast.  'If he 
but saw this, he would sound the tocsin - we should all be 
butchered.'

She measured the depth of her abasement steadily.  'Take whom you 
must,' she said, 'and bring the litter here.'

Once she was alone she ran to the Baron, and with a sickening heart 
sought to allay the flux of blood.  The touch of the skin of that 
great charlatan revolted her to the toes; the wound, in her ignorant 
eyes, looked deathly; yet she contended with her shuddering, and, 
with more skill at least than the Chancellor's, staunched the 
welling injury.  An eye unprejudiced with hate would have admired 
the Baron in his swoon; he looked so great and shapely; it was so 
powerful a machine that lay arrested; and his features, cleared for 
the moment both of temper and dissimulation, were seen to be so 
purely modelled.  But it was not thus with Seraphina.  Her victim, 
as he lay outspread, twitching a little, his big chest unbared, 
fixed her with his ugliness; and her mind flitted for a glimpse to 
Otto.

Rumours began to sound about the Palace of feet running and of 
voices raised; the echoes of the great arched staircase were voluble 
of some confusion; and then the gallery jarred with a quick and 
heavy tramp.  It was the Chancellor, followed by four of Otto's 
valets and a litter.  The servants, when they were admitted, stared 
at the dishevelled Princess and the wounded man; speech was denied 
them, but their thoughts were riddled with profanity.  Gondremark 
was bundled in; the curtains of the litter were lowered; the bearers 
carried it forth, and the Chancellor followed behind with a white 
face.

Seraphina ran to the window.  Pressing her face upon the pane, she 
could see the terrace, where the lights contended; thence, the 
avenue of lamps that joined the Palace and town; and overhead the 
hollow night and the larger stars.  Presently the small procession 
issued from the Palace, crossed the parade, and began to thread the 
glittering alley: the swinging couch with its four porters, the 
much-pondering Chancellor behind.  She watched them dwindle with 
strange thoughts: her eyes fixed upon the scene, her mind still 
glancing right and left on the overthrow of her life and hopes.  
There was no one left in whom she might confide; none whose hand was 
friendly, or on whom she dared to reckon for the barest loyalty.  
With the fall of Gondremark, her party, her brief popularity, had 
fallen.  So she sat crouched upon the window-seat, her brow to the 
cool pane; her dress in tatters, barely shielding her; her mind 
revolving bitter thoughts.

Meanwhile, consequences were fast mounting; and in the deceptive 
quiet of the night, downfall and red revolt were brewing.  The 
litter had passed forth between the iron gates and entered on the 
streets of the town.  By what flying panic, by what thrill of air 
communicated, who shall say? but the passing bustle in the Palace 
had already reached and re-echoed in the region of the burghers.  
Rumour, with her loud whisper, hissed about the town; men left their 
homes without knowing why; knots formed along the boulevard; under 
the rare lamps and the great limes the crowd grew blacker.

And now through the midst of that expectant company, the unusual 
sight of a closed litter was observed approaching, and trotting hard 
behind it that great dignitary Cancellarius Greisengesang.  Silence 
looked on as it went by; and as soon as it was passed, the 
whispering seethed over like a boiling pot.  The knots were 
sundered; and gradually, one following another, the whole mob began 
to form into a procession and escort the curtained litter.  Soon 
spokesmen, a little bolder than their mates, began to ply the 
Chancellor with questions.  Never had he more need of that great art 
of falsehood, by whose exercise he had so richly lived.  And yet now 
he stumbled, the master passion, fear, betraying him.  He was 
pressed; he became incoherent; and then from the jolting litter came 
a groan.  In the instant hubbub and the gathering of the crowd as to 
a natural signal, the clear-eyed quavering Chancellor heard the 
catch of the clock before it strikes the hour of doom; and for ten 
seconds he forgot himself.  This shall atone for many sins.  He 
plucked a bearer by the sleeve.  'Bid the Princess flee.  All is 
lost,' he whispered.  And the next moment he was babbling for his 
life among the multitude.

Five minutes later the wild-eyed servant burst into the armoury.  
'All is lost!' he cried.  'The Chancellor bids you flee.'  And at 
the same time, looking through the window, Seraphina saw the black 
rush of the populace begin to invade the lamplit avenue.

'Thank you, Georg,' she said.  'I thank you.  Go.'  And as the man 
still lingered, 'I bid you go,' she added.  'Save yourself.'

Down by the private passage, and just some two hours later, Amalia 
Seraphina, the last Princess, followed Otto Johann Friedrich, the 
last Prince of Grunewald.




BOOK III - FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE




CHAPTER I - PRINCESS CINDERELLA


THE porter, drawn by the growing turmoil, had vanished from the 
postern, and the door stood open on the darkness of the night.  As 
Seraphina fled up the terraces, the cries and loud footing of the 
mob drew nearer the doomed palace; the rush was like the rush of 
cavalry; the sound of shattering lamps tingled above the rest; and, 
overtowering all, she heard her own name bandied among the shouters.  
A bugle sounded at the door of the guard-room; one gun was fired; 
and then with the yell of hundreds, Mittwalden Palace was carried at 
a rush.

Sped by these dire sounds and voices, the Princess scaled the long 
garden, skimming like a bird the starlit stairways; crossed the 
Park, which was in that place narrow; and plunged upon the farther 
side into the rude shelter of the forest.  So, at a bound, she left 
the discretion and the cheerful lamps of Palace evenings; ceased 
utterly to be a sovereign lady; and, falling from the whole height 
of civilisation, ran forth into the woods, a ragged Cinderella.

She went direct before her through an open tract of the forest, full 
of brush and birches, and where the starlight guided her; and, 
beyond that again, must thread the columned blackness of a pine 
grove joining overhead the thatch of its long branches.  At that 
hour the place was breathless; a horror of night like a presence 
occupied that dungeon of the wood; and she went groping, knocking 
against the boles - her ear, betweenwhiles, strained to aching and 
yet unrewarded.

But the slope of the ground was upward, and encouraged her; and 
presently she issued on a rocky hill that stood forth above the sea 
of forest.  All around were other hill-tops, big and little; sable 
vales of forest between; overhead the open heaven and the brilliancy 
of countless stars; and along the western sky the dim forms of 
mountains.  The glory of the great night laid hold upon her; her 
eyes shone with stars; she dipped her sight into the coolness and 
brightness of the sky, as she might have dipped her wrist into a 
spring; and her heart, at that ethereal shock, began to move more 
soberly.  The sun that sails overhead, ploughing into gold the 
fields of daylight azure and uttering the signal to man's myriads, 
has no word apart for man the individual; and the moon, like a 
violin, only praises and laments our private destiny.  The stars 
alone, cheerful whisperers, confer quietly with each of us like 
friends; they give ear to our sorrows smilingly, like wise old men, 
rich in tolerance; and by their double scale, so small to the eye, 
so vast to the imagination, they keep before the mind the double 
character of man's nature and fate.

There sat the Princess, beautifully looking upon beauty, in council 
with these glad advisers.  Bright like pictures, clear like a voice 
in the porches of her ear, memory re-enacted the tumult of the 
evening: the Countess and the dancing fan, the big Baron on his 
knees, the blood on the polished floor, the knocking, the swing of 
the litter down the avenue of lamps, the messenger, the cries of the 
charging mob; and yet all were far away and phantasmal, and she was 
still healingly conscious of the peace and glory of the night.  She 
looked towards Mittwalden; and above the hill-top, which already hid 
it from her view, a throbbing redness hinted of fire.  Better so: 
better so, that she should fall with tragic greatness, lit by a 
blazing palace!  She felt not a trace of pity for Gondremark or of 
concern for Grunewald: that period of her life was closed for ever, 
a wrench of wounded vanity alone surviving.  She had but one clear 
idea: to flee; - and another, obscure and half-rejected, although 
still obeyed: to flee in the direction of the Felsenburg.  She had a 
duty to perform, she must free Otto - so her mind said, very coldly; 
but her heart embraced the notion of that duty even with ardour, and 
her hands began to yearn for the grasp of kindness.

She rose, with a start of recollection, and plunged down the slope 
into the covert.  The woods received and closed upon her.  Once 
more, she wandered and hasted in a blot, uncheered, unpiloted.  Here 
and there, indeed, through rents in the wood-roof, a glimmer 
attracted her; here and there a tree stood out among its neighbours 
by some force of outline; here and there a brushing among the 
leaves, a notable blackness, a dim shine, relieved, only to 
exaggerate, the solid oppression of the night and silence.  And 
betweenwhiles, the unfeatured darkness would redouble and the whole 
ear of night appear to be gloating on her steps.  Now she would 
stand still, and the silence, would grow and grow, till it weighed 
upon her breathing; and then she would address herself again to run, 
stumbling, falling, and still hurrying the more.  And presently the 
whole wood rocked and began to run along with her.  The noise of her 
own mad passage through the silence spread and echoed, and filled 
the night with terror.  Panic hunted her: Panic from the trees 
reached forth with clutching branches; the darkness was lit up and 
peopled with strange forms and faces.  She strangled and fled before 
her fears.  And yet in the last fortress, reason, blown upon by 
these gusts of terror, still shone with a troubled light.  She knew, 
yet could not act upon her knowledge; she knew that she must stop, 
and yet she still ran.

She was already near madness, when she broke suddenly into a narrow 
clearing.  At the same time the din grew louder, and she became 
conscious of vague forms and fields of whiteness.  And with that the 
earth gave way; she fell and found her feet again with an incredible 
shock to her senses, and her mind was swallowed up.

When she came again to herself, she was standing to the mid-leg in 
an icy eddy of a brook, and leaning with one hand on the rock from 
which it poured.  The spray had wet her hair.  She saw the white 
cascade, the stars wavering in the shaken pool, foam flitting, and 
high overhead the tall pines on either hand serenely drinking 
starshine; and in the sudden quiet of her spirit she heard with joy 
the firm plunge of the cataract in the pool.  She scrambled forth 
dripping.  In the face of her proved weakness, to adventure again 
upon the horror of blackness in the groves were a suicide of life or 
reason.  But here, in the alley of the brook, with the kind stars 
above her, and the moon presently swimming into sight, she could 
await the coming of day without alarm.

This lane of pine-trees ran very rapidly down-hill and wound among 
the woods; but it was a wider thoroughfare than the brook needed, 
and here and there were little dimpling lawns and coves of the 
forest, where the starshine slumbered.  Such a lawn she paced, 
taking patience bravely; and now she looked up the hill and saw the 
brook coming down to her in a series of cascades; and now approached 
the margin, where it welled among the rushes silently; and now gazed 
at the great company of heaven with an enduring wonder.  The early 
evening had fallen chill, but the night was now temperate; out of 
the recesses of the wood there came mild airs as from a deep and 
peaceful breathing; and the dew was heavy on the grass and the 
tight-shut daisies.  This was the girl's first night under the naked 
heaven; and now that her fears were overpast, she was touched to the 
soul by its serene amenity and peace.  Kindly the host of heaven 
blinked down upon that wandering Princess; and the honest brook had 
no words but to encourage her.

At last she began to be aware of a wonderful revolution, compared to 
which the fire of Mittwalden Palace was but the crack and flash of a 
percussion-cap.  The countenance with which the pines regarded her 
began insensibly to change; the grass too, short as it was, and the 
whole winding staircase of the brook's course, began to wear a 
solemn freshness of appearance.  And this slow transfiguration 
reached her heart, and played upon it, and transpierced it with a 
serious thrill.  She looked all about; the whole face of nature 
looked back, brimful of meaning, finger on lip, leaking its glad 
secret.  She looked up.  Heaven was almost emptied of stars.  Such 
as still lingered shone with a changed and waning brightness, and 
began to faint in their stations.  And the colour of the sky itself 
was the most wonderful; for the rich blue of the night had now 
melted and softened and brightened; and there had succeeded in its 
place a hue that has no name, and that is never seen but as the 
herald of morning.  'O!' she cried, joy catching at her voice, 'O! 
it is the dawn!'

In a breath she passed over the brook, and looped up her skirts and 
fairly ran in the dim alleys.  As she ran, her ears were aware of 
many pipings, more beautiful than music; in the small dish-shaped 
houses in the fork of giant arms, where they had lain all night, 
lover by lover, warmly pressed, the bright-eyed, big-hearted singers 
began to awaken for the day.  Her heart melted and flowed forth to 
them in kindness.  And they, from their small and high perches in 
the clerestories of the wood cathedral, peered down sidelong at the 
ragged Princess as she flitted below them on the carpet of the moss 
and tassel.

Soon she had struggled to a certain hill-top, and saw far before her 
the silent inflooding of the day.  Out of the East it welled and 
whitened; the darkness trembled into light; and the stars were 
extinguished like the street-lamps of a human city.  The whiteness 
brightened into silver, the silver warmed into gold, the gold 
kindled into pure and living fire; and the face of the East was 
barred with elemental scarlet.  The day drew its first long breath, 
steady and chill; and for leagues around the woods sighed and 
shivered.  And then, at one bound, the sun had floated up; and her 
startled eyes received day's first arrow, and quailed under the 
buffet.  On every side, the shadows leaped from their ambush and 
fell prone.  The day was come, plain and garish; and up the steep 
and solitary eastern heaven, the sun, victorious over his 
competitors, continued slowly and royally to mount.

Seraphina drooped for a little, leaning on a pine, the shrill joy of 
the woodlands mocking her.  The shelter of the night, the thrilling 
and joyous changes of the dawn, were over; and now, in the hot eye 
of the day, she turned uneasily and looked sighingly about her.  
Some way off among the lower woods, a pillar of smoke was mounting 
and melting in the gold and blue.  There, surely enough, were human 
folk, the hearth-surrounders.  Man's fingers had laid the twigs; it 
was man's breath that had quickened and encouraged the baby flames; 
and now, as the fire caught, it would be playing ruddily on the face 
of its creator.  At the thought, she felt a-cold and little and lost 
in that great out-of-doors.  The electric shock of the young sun-
beams and the unhuman beauty of the woods began to irk and daunt 
her.  The covert of the house, the decent privacy of rooms, the 
swept and regulated fire, all that denotes or beautifies the home 
life of man, began to draw her as with cords.  The pillar of smoke 
was now risen into some stream of moving air; it began to lean out 
sideways in a pennon; and thereupon, as though the change had been a 
summons, Seraphina plunged once more into the labyrinth of the wood.

She left day upon the high ground.  In the lower groves there still 
lingered the blue early twilight and the seizing freshness of the 
dew.  But here and there, above this field of shadow, the head of a 
great out-spread pine was already glorious with day; and here and 
there, through the breaches of the hills, the sun-beams made a great 
and luminous entry.  Here Seraphina hastened along forest paths.  
She had lost sight of the pilot smoke, which blew another way, and 
conducted herself in that great wilderness by the direction of the 
sun.  But presently fresh signs bespoke the neighbourhood of man; 
felled trunks, white slivers from the axe, bundles of green boughs, 
and stacks of firewood.  These guided her forward; until she came 
forth at last upon the clearing whence the smoke arose.  A hut stood 
in the clear shadow, hard by a brook which made a series of 
inconsiderable falls; and on the threshold the Princess saw a sun-
burnt and hard-featured woodman, standing with his hands behind his 
back and gazing skyward.

She went to him directly: a beautiful, bright-eyed, and haggard 
vision; splendidly arrayed and pitifully tattered; the diamond ear-
drops still glittering in her ears; and with the movement of her 
coming, one small breast showing and hiding among the ragged covert 
of the laces.  At that ambiguous hour, and coming as she did from 
the great silence of the forest, the man drew back from the Princess 
as from something elfin.

'I am cold,' she said, 'and weary.  Let me rest beside your fire.'

The woodman was visibly commoved, but answered nothing.

'I will pay,' she said, and then repented of the words, catching 
perhaps a spark of terror from his frightened eyes.  But, as usual, 
her courage rekindled brighter for the check.  She put him from the 
door and entered; and he followed her in superstitious wonder.

Within, the hut was rough and dark; but on the stone that served as 
hearth, twigs and a few dry branches burned with the brisk sounds 
and all the variable beauty of fire.  The very sight of it composed 
her; she crouched hard by on the earth floor and shivered in the 
glow, and looked upon the eating blaze with admiration.  The woodman 
was still staring at his guest: at the wreck of the rich dress, the 
bare arms, the bedraggled laces and the gems.  He found no word to 
utter.

'Give me food,' said she, - 'here, by the fire.'

He set down a pitcher of coarse wine, bread, a piece of cheese, and 
a handful of raw onions.  The bread was hard and sour, the cheese 
like leather; even the onion, which ranks with the truffle and the 
nectarine in the chief place of honour of earth's fruits, is not 
perhaps a dish for princesses when raw.  But she ate, if not with 
appetite, with courage; and when she had eaten, did not disdain the 
pitcher.  In all her life before, she had not tasted of gross food 
nor drunk after another; but a brave woman far more readily accepts 
a change of circumstances than the bravest man.  All that while, the 
woodman continued to observe her furtively, many low thoughts of 
fear and greed contending in his eyes.  She read them clearly, and 
she knew she must begone.

Presently she arose and offered him a florin.

'Will that repay you?' she asked.

But here the man found his tongue.  'I must have more than that,' 
said he.

'It is all I have to give you,' she returned, and passed him by 
serenely.

Yet her heart trembled, for she saw his hand stretched forth as if 
to arrest her, and his unsteady eyes wandering to his axe.  A beaten 
path led westward from the clearing, and she swiftly followed it.  
She did not glance behind her.  But as soon as the least turning of 
the path had concealed her from the woodman's eyes, she slipped 
among the trees and ran till she deemed herself in safety.

By this time the strong sunshine pierced in a thousand places the 
pine-thatch of the forest, fired the red boles, irradiated the cool 
aisles of shadow, and burned in jewels on the grass.  The gum of 
these trees was dearer to the senses than the gums of Araby; each 
pine, in the lusty morning sunlight, burned its own wood-incense; 
and now and then a breeze would rise and toss these rooted censers, 
and send shade and sun-gem flitting, swift as swallows, thick as 
bees; and wake a brushing bustle of sounds that murmured and went 
by.

On she passed, and up and down, in sun and shadow; now aloft on the 
bare ridge among the rocks and birches, with the lizards and the 
snakes; and anon in the deep grove among sunless pillars.  Now she 
followed wandering wood-paths, in the maze of valleys; and again, 
from a hill-top, beheld the distant mountains and the great birds 
circling under the sky.  She would see afar off a nestling hamlet, 
and go round to avoid it.  Below, she traced the course of the foam 
of mountain torrents.  Nearer hand, she saw where the tender springs 
welled up in silence, or oozed in green moss; or in the more 
favoured hollows a whole family of infant rivers would combine, and 
tinkle in the stones, and lie in pools to be a bathing-place for 
sparrows, or fall from the sheer rock in rods of crystal.  Upon all 
these things, as she still sped along in the bright air, she looked 
with a rapture of surprise and a joyful fainting of the heart; they 
seemed so novel, they touched so strangely home, they were so hued 
and scented, they were so beset and canopied by the dome of the blue 
air of heaven.

At length, when she was well weary, she came upon a wide and shallow 
pool.  Stones stood in it, like islands; bulrushes fringed the 
coast; the floor was paved with the pine needles; and the pines 
themselves, whose roots made promontories, looked down silently on 
their green images.  She crept to the margin and beheld herself with 
wonder, a hollow and bright-eyed phantom, in the ruins of her palace 
robe.  The breeze now shook her image; now it would be marred with 
flies; and at that she smiled; and from the fading circles, her 
counterpart smiled back to her and looked kind.  She sat long in the 
warm sun, and pitied her bare arms that were all bruised and marred 
with falling, and marvelled to see that she was dirty, and could not 
grow to believe that she had gone so long in such a strange 
disorder.

Then, with a sigh, she addressed herself to make a toilette by that 
forest mirror, washed herself pure from all the stains of her 
adventure, took off her jewels and wrapped them in her handkerchief, 
re-arranged the tatters of her dress, and took down the folds of her 
hair.  She shook it round her face, and the pool repeated her thus 
veiled.  Her hair had smelt like violets, she remembered Otto 
saying; and so now she tried to smell it, and then shook her head, 
and laughed a little, sadly, to herself.

The laugh was returned upon her in a childish echo.

She looked up; and lo! two children looking on, - a small girl and a 
yet smaller boy, standing, like playthings, by the pool, below a 
spreading pine.  Seraphina was not fond of children, and now she was 
startled to the heart.

'Who are you?' she cried hoarsely.

The mites huddled together and drew back; and Seraphina's heart 
reproached her that she should have frightened things so quaint and 
little, and yet alive with senses.  She thought upon the birds and 
looked again at her two visitors; so little larger and so far more 
innocent.  On their clear faces, as in a pool, she saw the 
reflection of their fears.  With gracious purpose she arose.

'Come,' she said, 'do not be afraid of me,' and took a step towards 
them.

But alas! at the first moment, the two poor babes in the wood turned 
and ran helter-skelter from the Princess.

The most desolate pang was struck into the girl's heart.  Here she 
was, twenty-two - soon twenty-three - and not a creature loved her; 
none but Otto; and would even he forgive?  If she began weeping in 
these woods alone, it would mean death or madness.  Hastily she trod 
the thoughts out like a burning paper; hastily rolled up her locks, 
and with terror dogging her, and her whole bosom sick with grief, 
resumed her journey.

Past ten in the forenoon, she struck a high-road, marching in that 
place uphill between two stately groves, a river of sunlight; and 
here, dead weary, careless of consequences, and taking some courage 
from the human and civilised neighbourhood of the road, she 
stretched herself on the green margin in the shadow of a tree.  
Sleep closed on her, at first with a horror of fainting, but when 
she ceased to struggle, kindly embracing her.  So she was taken home 
for a little, from all her toils and sorrows, to her Father's arms.  
And there in the meanwhile her body lay exposed by the highwayside, 
in tattered finery; and on either hand from the woods the birds came 
flying by and calling upon others, and debated in their own tongue 
this strange appearance.

The sun pursued his journey; the shadow flitted from her feet, 
shrank higher and higher, and was upon the point of leaving her 
altogether, when the rumble of a coach was signalled to and fro by 
the birds.  The road in that part was very steep; the rumble drew 
near with great deliberation; and ten minutes passed before a 
gentleman appeared, walking with a sober elderly gait upon the 
grassy margin of the highway, and looking pleasantly around him as 
he walked.  From time to time he paused, took out his note-book and 
made an entry with a pencil; and any spy who had been near enough 
would have heard him mumbling words as though he were a poet testing 
verses.  The voice of the wheels was still faint, and it was plain 
the traveller had far outstripped his carriage.

He had drawn very near to where the Princess lay asleep, before his 
eye alighted on her; but when it did he started, pocketed his note-
book, and approached.  There was a milestone close to where she lay; 
and he sat down on that and coolly studied her.  She lay upon one 
side, all curled and sunken, her brow on one bare arm, the other 
stretched out, limp and dimpled.  Her young body, like a thing 
thrown down, had scarce a mark of life.  Her breathing stirred her 
not.  The deadliest fatigue was thus confessed in every language of 
the sleeping flesh.  The traveller smiled grimly.  As though he had 
looked upon a statue, he made a grudging inventory of her charms: 
the figure in that touching freedom of forgetfulness surprised him; 
the flush of slumber became her like a flower.

'Upon my word,' he thought, 'I did not think the girl could be so 
pretty.  And to think,' he added, 'that I am under obligation not to 
use one word of this!'  He put forth his stick and touched her; and 
at that she awoke, sat up with a cry, and looked upon him wildly.

'I trust your Highness has slept well,' he said, nodding.

But she only uttered sounds.

'Compose yourself,' said he, giving her certainly a brave example in 
his own demeanour.  'My chaise is close at hand; and I shall have, I 
trust, the singular entertainment of abducting a sovereign 
Princess.'

'Sir John!' she said, at last.

'At your Highness's disposal,' he replied.

She sprang to her feet.  'O!' she cried, 'have you come from 
Mittwalden?'

'This morning,' he returned, 'I left it; and if there is any one 
less likely to return to it than yourself, behold him!'

'The Baron - ' she began, and paused.

'Madam,' he answered, 'it was well meant, and you are quite a 
Judith; but after the hours that have elapsed, you will probably be 
relieved to hear that he is fairly well.  I took his news this 
morning ere I left.  Doing fairly well, they said, but suffering 
acutely.  Hey? - acutely.  They could hear his groans in the next 
room.'

'And the Prince,' she asked, 'is anything known of him?'

'It is reported,' replied Sir John, with the same pleasurable 
deliberation, 'that upon that point your Highness is the best 
authority.'

'Sir John,' she said eagerly, 'you were generous enough to speak 
about your carriage.  Will you, I beseech you, will you take me to 
the Felsenburg?  I have business there of an extreme importance.'

'I can refuse you nothing,' replied the old gentleman, gravely and 
seriously enough.  'Whatever, madam, it is in my power to do for 
you, that shall be done with pleasure.  As soon as my chaise shall 
overtake us, it is yours to carry you where you will.  But,' added 
he, reverting to his former manner, 'I observe you ask me nothing of 
the Palace.'

'I do not care,' she said.  'I thought I saw it burning.'

'Prodigious!' said the Baronet.  'You thought?  And can the loss of 
forty toilettes leave you cold?  Well, madam, I admire your 
fortitude.  And the state, too?  As I left, the government was 
sitting, - the new government, of which at least two members must be 
known to you by name: Sabra, who had, I believe, the benefit of 
being formed in your employment - a footman, am I right? - and our 
old friend the Chancellor, in something of a subaltern position.  
But in these convulsions the last shall be first, and the first 
last.'

'Sir John,' she said, with an air of perfect honesty, 'I am sure you 
mean most kindly, but these matters have no interest for me.'

The Baronet was so utterly discountenanced that he hailed the 
appearance of his chaise with welcome, and, by way of saying 
something, proposed that they should walk back to meet it.  So it 
was done; and he helped her in with courtesy, mounted to her side, 
and from various receptacles (for the chaise was most completely 
fitted out) produced fruits and truffled liver, beautiful white 
bread, and a bottle of delicate wine.  With these he served her like 
a father, coaxing and praising her to fresh exertions; and during 
all that time, as though silenced by the laws of hospitality, he was 
not guilty of the shadow of a sneer.  Indeed his kindness seemed so 
genuine that Seraphina was moved to gratitude.

'Sir John,' she said, 'you hate me in your heart; why are you so 
kind to me?'

'Ah, my good lady,' said he, with no disclaimer of the accusation, 
'I have the honour to be much your husband's friend, and somewhat 
his admirer.'

'You!' she cried.  'They told me you wrote cruelly of both of us.'

'Such was the strange path by which we grew acquainted,' said Sir 
John.  'I had written, madam, with particular cruelty (since that 
shall be the phrase) of your fair self.  Your husband set me at 
liberty, gave me a passport, ordered a carriage, and then, with the 
most boyish spirit, challenged me to fight.  Knowing the nature of 
his married life, I thought the dash and loyalty he showed 
delightful.  "Do not be afraid," says he; "if I am killed, there is 
nobody to miss me."  It appears you subsequently thought of that 
yourself.  But I digress.  I explained to him it was impossible that 
I could fight!  "Not if I strike you?" says he.  Very droll; I wish 
I could have put it in my book.  However, I was conquered, took the 
young gentleman to my high favour, and tore up my bits of scandal on 
the spot.  That is one of the little favours, madam, that you owe 
your husband.'