prompt:
Chapter: An old man, clothed in picturesque patches and tatters, paused and
leaned on his stout oak staff. He was tired. He drew off his rusty felt
hat, swept a sleeve across his forehead, and sighed. He had walked many
miles that day, and even now the journey's end, near as it really was,
seemed far away. Ah, but he would sleep soundly that night, whether the
bed were of earth or of straw. His peasant garb rather enhanced his fine
head. His eyes were blue and clear and far-seeing, the eyes of a hunter
or a woodsman, of a man who watches the shadows in the forest at night
or the dim, wavering lines on the horizon at daytime; things near or far
or roundabout. His brow was high, his nose large and bridged; a face of
more angles than contours, bristling with gray spikes, like one who has
gone unshaven several days. His hands, folded over the round, polished
knuckle of his staff, were tanned and soiled, but they were long and
slender, and the callouses were pink, a certain indication that they
were fresh.

The afternoon glow of the September sun burned along the dusty white
highway. From where he stood the road trailed off miles behind and wound
up five hundred feet or more above him to the ancient city of Dreiberg.
It was not a steep road, but a long and weary one, a steady, enervating,
unbroken climb. To the left the mighty cliff reared its granite side to
the hanging city, broke in a wide plain, and then went on up several
thousand feet to the ledges of dragon-green ice and snow. To the right
sparkled and flashed a wild mountain stream on its way to the broad,
fertile valley, which, mistily green and brown and yellow with vineyards
and hops and corn, spread out and on to the north, stopping abruptly at
the base of the more formidable chain of mountains.

Across this lofty jumble of barren rock and glacial cleft, now purpling
and darkening as the sun mellowed in its decline, lay the kingdom of
Jugendheit; and toward this the wayfarer gazed meditatively, absorbing
little or nothing of the exquisite panorama. By and by his gaze wavered,
and that particular patch in the valley, brown from the beating of many
iron-shod horses, caught and chained his interest for a space. It was
the military field, and it glittered and scintillated as squadron after
squadron of cavalry dashed from side to side or wheeled in bewildering
circles.

"The philosophy of war is to prepare for it," mused the old man, with a
jerk of his shoulders. "France! So the mutter runs. There is a Napoleon
in France, but no Bonaparte. Clatter-clatter! Bang-bang!" He laughed
ironically and cautiously glanced at his watch, an article which must
have cost him many and many a potato-patch. He pulled his hat over his
eyes, scratched the irritating stubble on his chin, and stepped forward.

He had followed yonder goose-girl ever since the incline began. Oft the
little wooden shoes had lagged, but here they were, still a hundred
yards or more ahead of him. He had never been close enough to
distinguish her features. The galloping of soldiers up and down the road
from time to time disturbed her flock, but she was evidently a patient
soul, and relied valiantly upon her stick of willow. Once or twice he
had been inclined to hasten his steps, to join her, to talk, to hear the
grateful sound of his own voice, which he had not heard since he passed
the frontier customs; yet each time he had subdued the desire and
continued to lessen none of the distance between them.

The little goose-girl was indeed tired, and the little wooden shoes grew
heavier and heavier, and the little bare feet ached dully; but her heart
was light and her mind sweet with happiness. Day after day she had
tended the geese in the valley and trudged back at evening alone, all
told a matter of twelve miles; and now she was bringing them into the
city to sell in the market on the morrow. After that she would have
little to do save an hour or two at night in a tavern called the Black
Eagle, where she waited on patrons.

On the two went, the old man in tatters, the goose-girl in wooden shoes.
The man listened; she was singing brightly, and the voice was sweet and
strong and true.

"She is happy; that is some recompense. She is richer than I am." And
the peasant fell into a reverie.

Presently there was a clatter of horses, a jingle of bit and spur and
saber. The old man stepped to the side of the road and sat down on the
stone parapet. It would be wiser now to wait till the dust settled. Half
a dozen mounted officers trotted past. The peasant on the parapet
instantly recognized one of the men. He saluted with a humbleness which
lacked sincerity. It was the grand duke himself. There was General
Ducwitz, too, and some of his staff, and a smooth-faced, handsome young
man in civilian riding-clothes, who, though he rode like a cavalryman,
was obviously of foreign birth, an Englishman or an American. They were
laughing and chatting amiably, for the grand duke of Ehrenstein bothered
himself about formalities only at formal times. The outsider watched
them regretfully as they went by, and there was some envy in his heart,
too.

When the cavalcade reached the goose-girl, the peace of the scene
vanished forthwith. Confusion took up the scepter. The silly geese,
instead of remaining on the left of the road, in safety, straightway
determined that their haven of refuge was on the opposite side.
Gonk-gonk! Quack-quack! They scrambled, they blundered, they flew. Some
tried to go over the horses, some endeavored to go under. One landed,
full-winged, against the grand duke's chest and swept his vizored cap
off his head and rolled it into the dust. The duke signed to his
companions to draw up; to proceed in this undignified manner was
impossible. All laughed heartily, however; all excepting the goose-girl.
To her it was far from being a laughing matter. It would take half an
hour to calm her stupid charges. And she was _so_ tired.

"Stupids!" she cried despairingly.

"From pigs and chickens, good Lord deliver us!" shouted the civilian,
sliding from his horse and recovering the duke's cap.

Now, the duke was a kind-hearted, thoughtful man, notwithstanding his
large and complex affairs of state; as he ceased laughing, he searched a
pocket, and tossed a couple of coins to the forlorn goose-girl.

"I am sorry, little one," he said gravely. "I hope none of your geese
is hurt."

"Oh, Highness!" cried the girl, breathless from her recent endeavors and
overcome with the grandeur of the two ducal effigies in her hand. She
had seen the grand duke times without number, but she had never yet been
so near to him. And now he had actually spoken to her. It was a miracle.
She would tell them all that night in the dark old Krumerweg. And for
the moment his prospect overshadowed all thought of her geese.

The civilian dusted the royal cap with his sleeve, returned it, and
mounted. He then looked casually at the girl.

"By George!" he exclaimed, in English.

"What is it?" asked the duke, gathering up the reins.

"The girl's face; it is beautiful."

The duke, after a glance, readily agreed. "You Americans are always
observant."

"Whenever there's a pretty face about," supplemented Ducwitz.

"I certainly shouldn't trouble to look at a homely one," the American
retorted.

"Pretty figure, too," said one of the aides, a colonel. But his eye
held none of the abstract admiration which characterized the American's.

The goose-girl had seen this look in other men's eyes; she knew. A faint
color grew under her tan, and waned, but her eyes wavered not the
breadth of a hair. It was the colonel who finally was forced to turn his
gaze elsewhere, chagrined. His face was not unfamiliar to her.

"Beauty is a fickle goddess," remarked Ducwitz tritely, settling himself
firmly in the saddle. "In giving, she is as blind as a bat. I know a
duchess now--but never mind."

"Let us be going forward," interrupted the duke. There were more vital
matters under hand than the beauty of a strolling goose-girl.

So the troop proceeded with dust and small thunder, and shortly passed
the city gates, which in modern times were never closed. It traversed
the lumpy cobbles of the narrow streets, under hanging gables, past dim
little shops and markets, often unintentionally crowding pedestrians
into doorways or against the walls. One among those so inconvenienced
was a youth dressed as a vintner. He was tall, pliantly built, blond as
a Viking, possessing a singular beauty of the masculine order. He was
forced to flatten himself against the wall of a house, his arms extended
on either side, in a kind of temporary crucifixion. Even then the
stirrup of the American touched him slightly. But it was not the touch
of the stirrup that startled him; it was the dark, clean-cut face of the
rider. Once they were by, the youth darted into a doorway.

"He? What can he be doing here? No, it is utterly impossible; it is
merely a likeness."

He ventured forth presently, none of the perturbation, however, gone
from his face. He ran his hand across his chin; yes, he would let his
beard grow.

The duke and his escort turned into the broad and restful sweep of the
Koenig Strasse, with its fashionable residences, shops, cafes and hotels.
At the end of the _Strasse_ was the Ehrenstein Platz, the great square
round which ran the palaces and the royal and public gardens. On the way
many times the duke raised his hand in salutations; for, while not
exactly loved, he was liked for his rare clean living, his sound sense
of justice and his honest efforts to do what was right. Opera-singers
came and went, but none had ever penetrated into the private suites of
the palace. The halt was made in the courtyard, and all dismounted.

The American thanked the duke gratefully for the use of the horse.

"You are welcome to a mount at all times, Mr. Carmichael," replied the
duke pleasantly. "A man who rides as well as yourself may be trusted
anywhere with any kind of a horse."

The group looked admiringly at the object of this marked attention. Here
was one who had seen two years of constant and terrible warfare, who had
ridden horses under fire, and who bore on his body many honorable scars.
For the great civil strife in America had come to its close but two
years before, and Europe was still captive to her amazement at the
military prowess of the erstwhile inconsiderable American.

As Carmichael saluted and turned to leave the courtyard, he threw a
swift, searching glance at one of the palace windows. Did the curtain
stir? He could not say. He continued on, crossing the Platz, toward the
Grand Hotel. He was a bachelor, so he might easily have had his quarters
at the consulate; but as usual with American consulates--even to the
present time--it was situated in an undesirable part of the town, over a
_Bierhalle_ frequented by farmers and the middle class. Having a
moderately comfortable income of his own, he naturally preferred living
at the Grand Hotel.

Where had he seen that young vintner before?

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, the goose-girl set resolutely about the task of remarshaling
her awkward squad. With a soft, clucking sound she moved hither and
thither. A feather or two drifted lazily about in the air. At last she
gathered them in, all but one foolish, blank-eyed gander, which, poising
on a large boulder, threatened to dive headforemost into the torrent.
She coaxed him gently, then severely, but without success. The old man
in patches came up.

"Let me get him for you, _Kindchen_," he volunteered.

The good-fellowship in his voice impressed her far more than the humble
state of his dress. But she smiled and shook her head.

"It is dangerous," she affirmed. "It will be wiser to wait. In a little
while he will come down of his own accord."

"Bah!" cried the old man. "It is nothing; I am a mountaineer."

In spite of his weariness, he proved himself to be a dexterous climber.
Foot by foot he crawled up the side of the huge stone. A slip, and his
life would not have been worth one of the floating feathers. The gander
saw him coming and stirred uneasily. Nearer and nearer came this human
spider. The gander flapped its wings, but hesitated to take the leap.
Instantly a brown hand shot up and caught the scaly yellow legs. There
was much squawking on the way down, but when his gandership saw his more
tractable brothers and sisters peacefully waddling up the road, he
subsided and took his place in the ranks without more ado.

"You are a brave man, Herr." There was admiration in the girl's eyes.

"To court danger and to overcome obstacles is a part of my regular
business. I do not know what giddiness is. You are welcome to the
service. It is a long walk from the valley."

"I have walked it many times this summer. But this is the last day.
To-morrow I sell the geese in the market to the hotels. They have all
fine livers"--lightly touching a goose with her willow stick.

"What, the hotels?"--humorously.

"No, no, my geese!"

"What was that song you were singing before the horses came up?"

"That? It was from the poet Heine"--simply.

He stared at her with a rudeness not at all intentional.

"Heine? Can you read?"

"Yes, Herr."

The other walked along beside her in silence. After all, why not? Why
should he be surprised? From one end of the world to the other printer's
ink was spreading and bringing light. But a goose-girl who read Heine!

"And the music?" he inquired presently.

"That is mine"--with the first sign of diffidence. "Melodies are always
running through my head. Sometimes they make me forget things I ought to
remember."

"Your own music? An impresario will be discovering you some fine day,
and your fortune will be made."

The light irony did not escape her. "I am only a goose-girl."

He felt disarmed. "What is your name?"

"Gretchen."

"What else?"

"Nothing else"--wistfully. "I never knew any father or mother."

"So?" This was easier for the other to understand. "But who taught you
to read?"

"A priest. Once I lived in the mountains, at an inn. He used to come in
evenings, when the snow was not too deep. He taught me to read and
write, and many things besides. I know that Italy has all the works of
art; that France has the most interesting history; that Germany has all
the philosophers, and America all the money," adding a smile. "I should
like to see America. Sometimes I find a newspaper, and I read it all
through."

"History?"

"A little, and geography."

"With all this wide learning you ought to be something better than a
tender of geese."

"It is honest work, and that is good."

"I meant nothing wrong, _Kindchen_. But you would find it easier in a
milliner's shop, as a lady's maid, something of that order."

"With these?"--holding out her hands.

"It would not take long to whiten them. Do you live alone?"

"No. I live with my foster-mother, who is very old. I call her
grandmother. She took me in when I was a foundling; now I am taking care
of her. She has always been good to me. And what might your name be?"

"Ludwig."

"Ludwig what?"--inquisitive in her turn.

"Oh, the other does not matter. I am a mountaineer from Jugendheit."

"Jugendheit?" She paused to look at him more closely. "We are not
friendly with your country."

"More's the pity. It is a grave blunder on the part of the grand duke.
There is a mote in his eye."

"Wasn't it all about the grand duke's daughter?"

"Yes. But she has been found. Yet the duke is as bitter as of old. He
is wrong, he was always wrong." The old man spoke with feeling. "What is
this new-found princess like?"

"She is beautiful and kind."

"So?"

The geese were behaving, and only occasionally was she obliged to use
her stick. And as her companion asked no more questions, she devoted her
attention to the flock, proud of their broad backs and full breasts.

On his part, he observed her critically, for he was more than curious
now, he was interested. She was not tall, but her lithe slenderness gave
her the appearance of tallness. Her hands, rough-nailed and sunburnt,
were small and shapely; the bare foot in the wooden shoe might have worn
without trouble Cinderella's magic slipper. Her clothes, coarse and
homespun, were clean and variously mended. Her hair, in a thick braid,
was the tone of the heart of a chestnut-bur, and her eyes were of that
mystifying hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes gray, according to whether
the sky was clear or overcast. And there was something above and beyond
all these things, a modesty, a gentleness and a purity; none of the
bold, rollicking, knowing manner so common in handsome peasant girls. He
contemplated her through half-closed eyes and gave her in fancy the
tariffing furbelows of a woman of fashion; she would have been
beautiful.

"How old are you, Gretchen?"

"I do not know," she answered, "perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty."

Again they went forward in silence. By the time they reached the gates
the sun was no longer visible on the horizon, but it had gone down ruddy
and uncrowned by any cloud, giving promise of a fair day on the morrow.
The afterglow on the mountains across the valley was now in its prime
glory; and once the two wayfarers paused and commented upon it. Once
more the mountaineer was agreeably surprised; the average peasant is
impervious to atmospheric splendor, beauty carries no message.

Arriving at length in the city, they passed through the crooked streets,
sometimes so narrow that the geese were packed from wall to wall. Oft
some jovial soldier sent a jest or a query to them across the now gray
backs of the geese. But Gretchen looked on ahead, purely and serenely.

"Gretchen, where shall I find the Adlergasse?"

"We pass through it shortly. I will show you. You are also a stranger in
Dreiberg?"

"Yes."

They took the next turn, and the weather-beaten sign _Zum Schwartzen
Adler_, hanging in front of a frame house of many gables, caused the
mountaineer to breathe gratefully.

"Here my journey ends, Gretchen. The Black Eagle," he added, in an
undertone; "it is unchanged these twenty years. Heaven send that the
beds are softer than aforetime!"

They were passing a clock-mender's shop. The man from Jugendheit peered
in the window, which had not been cleaned in an age, but there was no
clock in sight to give him warning of the time, and he dared not now
look at his watch. He had a glimpse of the ancient clock-mender himself,
however, huddled over a table upon which sputtered a candle. It touched
up his face with grotesque lights. Here was age, mused the man outside
the window; nothing less than fourscore years rested upon those
rounded shoulders. The face was corrugated with wrinkles, like a
frosted road; eyes heavily spectacled, a ragged thatch of hair on the
head, a ragged beard on the chin. Aware of a shadow between him and the
fading daylight, the clock-mender looked up from his work. The eyes of
the two men met, but only for a moment.

The mountaineer, who felt rejuvenated by this contrast, straightened his
shoulders and started to cross the street to the tavern.

[Illustration: "Good night, Gretchen. Good luck to you."]

"Good night, Gretchen. Good luck to you and your geese to-morrow."

"Thanks, Herr Ludwig. And will you be long in the city?"

"That depends; perhaps," adding a grim smile in answer to a grim
thought.

He offered his hand, which she accepted trustfully. He was a strange old
man, but she liked him. When she withdrew her hand, something cold and
hard remained in her palm. Wonders of all the world! It was a piece of
gold. Her eyes went up quickly, but the giver smiled reassuringly and
put a finger against his lips.

"But, Herr," she remonstrated.

"Keep it; I give it to you. Do not question providence, and I am her
handmaiden just now. Go along with you."

So Gretchen in a mild state of stupefaction turned away. Clat-clat! sang
the little wooden shoes. A plaintive gonk rose as she prodded a laggard
from the dank gutter. A piece of gold! Clat-clat! Clat-clat! Surely this
had been a day of marvels; two crowns from the grand duke and a piece of
gold from this old man in peasant clothes. Instinctively she knew that
he was not a peasant. But what could he be? Comparison would have made
him a king. She was too tired and hungry to make further deductions.

She was regarded with kindly eyes till the dark jaws of the Krumerweg
swallowed up both her and her geese.

"Poor little goose-girl!" he thought. "If she but knew, she could make a
bonfire of a thousand hearts. A fine day!" He eyed again the battered
sign. It was then that he discerned another, leaning from the ledge of
the first story of the house adjoining the tavern. It was the tarnished
shield of the United States.

"What a penurious government it must be! Two weeks, tramping about the
country in this unholy garb, following false trails half the time,
living on crusts and cold meats. Ah, you have led me a merry dance,
nephew, but I shall not forget!"

He entered the tavern and applied for a room, haggling over the price.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: First up we meet Anidori-Kiladra Talianna Isilee, a real life princess of Kildenree--but we're just gonna call her Ani for short. When she was born, she didn't open her eyes for a few days, but luckily her aunt came to the rescue, rocking her little niece back and forth. This same aunt went on to teach little Ani how to speak and interact with others. It all seemed pretty harmless to Ani, but for some reason no one liked her aunt hanging around her very much--everyone thought she was a bit coo-coo since she knew how to talk to animals. Pretty soon, she taught Ani how to talk with the swans and geese too--in the magical world of Kildenree, this is possible, though only for some people. We learn that people are born with one type of language: people-speaking, animal-speaking, or nature-speaking. Ani's mom and most rulers have the first, but Ani and her aunt have the second. As for the 3rd? That's the rarest language of all because it means people can hear the wind, fire, and trees talking to them. A girl Ani's age named Selia invites Ani to tea. When the aunt sees this girl, she warns Ani to be careful because Selia has the powerful gift of people-speaking. Ani and her aunt keep hanging out, and one day, the aunt tells Ani to not let anyone else in on their little secret of talking to animals--and then she leaves. Ani isn't really sure what this all means, but when she has a new companion the next day, she misses her aunt. She tries to speak to her little puppy or the swans, but her new companion doesn't let her and even tattle-tales to her mom about it. Boo. Let's just say her mom is not a happy camper when she finds out what Ani has been up to. A princess shouldn't talk to animals, apparently, and her mom tells her she's got to put a stop to this madness, or else. Oh--by the way--her aunt died too. Ani's shocked her mom isn't sadder about her sister's death, and doesn't see what the big deal is with talking to birds. She runs away to the forest and hangs out with the swans. Talone, Watcher of the East Gate, finds her there, asleep and very cold, among the swans. He takes her back home to the palace, where her mom is worried and annoyed all at the same time.


prompt:
Chapter: The nights in Dreiberg during September are often chill. The heavy mists
from the mountain slip down the granite clifts and spread over the city,
melting all sharp outlines, enfeebling the gas-lamps, and changing the
moon, if there happens to be one, into something less than a moon and
something more than a pewter disk. And so it was this night.

Carmichael, in order to finish his cigar on the little balcony fronting
his window, found it necessary to put on his light overcoat, though he
perfectly knew that he was in no manner forced to smoke on the balcony.
But the truth was he wanted a clear vision of the palace and the lighted
windows thereof, and of one in particular. He had no more sense than
Tom-fool, the abetter of follies. She was as far removed from him as the
most alien of the planets; but the magnet shall ever draw the needle,
and a woman shall ever draw a man. He knew that it was impossible, that
it grew more impossible day by day, and he railed at himself bitterly
and satirically.

He sighed and teetered his legs. A sigh moves nothing forward, yet it is
as essential as life itself. It is the safety-valve to every emotion; it
is the last thing in laughter, the last thing in tears. One sighs in
entering the world and in leaving it, perhaps in protest. A child sighs
for the moon because it knows no better. Carmichael sighed for the
Princess Hildegarde, understanding. It was sigh or curse, and the latter
mode of expression wastes more vitality. Oh, yes; they made over him, as
the world goes; they dined and wined him and elected him honorary member
to their clubs; they patted him on the back and called him captain; but
it was all in a negligent toleration that turned every pleasure into
rust.

Arthur Carmichael was Irish. He was born in America, educated there and
elsewhere, a little while in Paris, a little while at Bonn, and, like
all Irishmen, he was baned with the wandering foot; for the man who is
homeless by choice has a subtle poison in his blood. He was at Bonn when
the Civil War came. He went back to America and threw himself into the
fight with all the ardor that had made his forebears famous in the
service of the worthless Stuarts. It wasn't a question with him of the
mere love of fighting, of tossing the penny; he knew with which side he
wished to fight. He joined the cavalry of the North, and hammered and
fought his way to a captaincy. He was wounded five times and imprisoned
twice. His right eye was still weak from the effects of a powder
explosion; and whenever it bothered him he wore a single glass,
abominating, as all soldiers do, the burden of spectacles. At the end of
the conflict he returned to Washington.

And then the inherent curse put a hand on his shoulder; he must be
moving. His parents were dead; there was no anchor, nor had lying
ambition enmeshed him. There was a little property, the income from
which was enough for his wants. Without any influence whatever, save his
pleasing address and his wide education, he blarneyed the State
Department out of a consulate. They sent him to Ehrenstein, at a salary
not worth mentioning, with the diplomatic halo of dignity as a tail to
the kite. He had been in the service some two years by now, and those
who knew him well rather wondered at his sedative turn of mind. Two
years in any one place was not in reckoning as regarded Carmichael; yet,
here he was, caring neither for promotion nor exchange. So, then, all
logical deductions simmered down to one: _Cherchez la femme_.

He knew that his case would never be tried in court nor settled out of
it; and he realized that it would be far better to weigh anchor and set
his course for other parts. But no man ever quite forsakes his
dream-woman; and he had endued a princess with all the shining
attributes of an angel, when, had he known it, she was only angelic.

The dreamer is invariably tripping over his illusions; and Carmichael
was rather boyish in his dreams. What absurd romances he was always
weaving round her! What exploits on her behalf! But never anything
happened, and never was the grand duke called upon to offer his
benediction.

It was all very foolish and romantic and impossible, and no one
recognized this more readily than he. No American ever married a
princess of a reigning house, and no American ever will. This law is as
immovable as the law of gravitation. Still, man is master of his dreams,
and he may do as he pleases in the confines of this small circle.
Outside these temporary lapses, Carmichael was a keen, shrewd,
far-sighted young man, close-lipped and observant, never forgetting
faces, never forgetting benefits, loving a fight but never provoking
one. So he and the world were friends. Diplomacy has its synonym in
tact, and he was an able tactician, for all that an Irishman is
generally likened to a bull in a china-shop.

"How the deuce will it end?"--musing half aloud. "I'll forget myself
some day and trip so hard that they'll be asking Washington for my
recall. I'll go over to the gardens and listen to the band. They are
playing dirges to-night, and anything funereal will be a light and happy
tonic to my present state of mind."

He was standing on the curb in front of the hotel, his decision still
unrounded, when he noticed a closed carriage hard by the fountain in
the Platz. The driver dozed on his box.

"Humph! There's a man who is never troubled with counting the fool's
beads. Silver and copper are his gods and goddesses. Ha! a fare!"

A woman in black, thoroughly veiled and cloaked, came round from the
opposite side of the fountain. She spoke to the driver, and he tumbled
off the box, alive and hearty. There seemed to be a short interchange of
words of mutual satisfaction. The lady stepped into the carriage, the
driver woke up his ancient Bucephalus, and went clickety-clack down the
Koenig Strasse toward the town.

To Carmichael it was less than an incident. He twirled his cane and
walked toward the public gardens. Here he strolled about, watching the
people, numerous but orderly, with a bright military patch here and
there. The band struck up again, and he drifted with the crowd toward
the pavilion. The penny-chairs were occupied, so he selected a spot
off-side, near enough for all auditual purposes. One after another he
carelessly scanned the faces of those nearest. He was something of an
amateur physiognomist, but he seldom made the mistakes of the tyro.

Within a dozen feet of him, her arms folded across her breast, her eyes
half shut in the luxury of the senses, stood the goose-girl. He smiled
as he recalled the encounter of that afternoon. It was his habit to ride
to the maneuvers every day, and several times he had noticed her, as
well as any rider is able to notice a pedestrian. But that afternoon her
beauty came home to him suddenly and unexpectedly. Had she been other
than what she was, a woman well-gowned, for instance, riding in her
carriage, his interest would have waned in the passing. But it had come
with the same definite surprise as when one finds a rare and charming
story in a dilapidated book.

"Why couldn't I have fallen in love with some one like this?" he
cogitated.

With a friendly smile on his lips, he took a step toward her, but
instantly paused. Colonel von Wallenstein of the general staff
approached her from the other side, and Carmichael was curious to find
out what that officer's object was. Wallenstein was a capital soldier,
and a jolly fellow round a board, but beyond that Carmichael had no
real liking for him. There were too many scented notes stuck in his
pockets.

The colonel dropped his cigarette, leaned over Gretchen's shoulder and
spoke a few words. At first she gave no heed. The colonel persisted.
Without a word in reply, she resolutely sought the nearest policeman.
Wallenstein, remaining where he was, laughed. Meantime the policeman
frowned. It was incredible; his excellency could not possibly have
intended any wrong, it was only a harmless pleasantry. Gretchen's lips
quivered; the law of redress in Ehrenstein had no niche for the
goose-girl.

"Good evening, colonel," said Carmichael pleasantly. "Why can't your
bandmaster give us light opera once in a while?"

The colonel pulled his mustache in chagrin, but he did not give
Carmichael the credit for bringing about this cheapening sense. For the
time being Gretchen was freed from annoyance. The colonel certainly
could not rush off to her and give this keen-eyed American an
opportunity to witness a further rebuff.

"Light operas are rare at present," he replied, accepting his defeat
amiably enough.

"Paris is full of them just now," continued Carmichael.

"Paris? Would you like a riot in the gardens?" asked the colonel,
amused.

"A riot?" said Carmichael derisively. "Why, nothing short of a bombshell
would cause a riot among your phlegmatic Germans."

"I believe you love your Paris better than your Dreiberg."

"Not a bit of doubt. And down in your heart you do, too. Think of the
lights, the theaters, the cafes and the pretty women!" Carmichael's cane
described a flourish as if to draw a picture of these things.

"Yes, yes," agreed the colonel reminiscently; "you are right. There is
no other night equal to a Parisian night. _Ach, Gott!_ But think of the
mornings, think of the mornings!"--dolefully.

"On the contrary, let us not think of them!"--with a mock shudder.

And then a pretty woman rose from a chair near-by. She nodded brightly
at the colonel, who bowed, excused himself to Carmichael, and made off
after her.

"I believe I stepped on his toe that time," said Carmichael to himself.

Then he looked round for Gretchen. She was still at the side of the
policeman. She had watched the scene between the two men, but was quite
unconscious that it had been set for her benefit. She came back.
Carmichael stepped confidently to her side and raised his hat.

"Did you get your geese together without mishap?" he asked.

The instinct of the child always remains with the woman. Gretchen
smiled. This young man would be different, she knew.

"They were only frightened. But his highness"--eagerly--"was he very
angry?"

"Angry? Not the least. He was amused. But he was nearly knocked off his
horse. If you lived in America now, you might reap a goodly profit from
that goose."

"America? How?"

"You could put him in a museum and exhibit him as an intimate friend of
the grand duke of Ehrenstein."

But Gretchen did not laugh. It was a serious thing to talk lightly of so
grand a person as the duke. Still, the magic word America, where the
gold came from, flamed her curiosity.

"You are from America?"

"Yes."

"Are you rich?"

"In fancy, in dreams"--humorously.

"Oh! I thought they were all rich."

"Only one or two of us."

"Is it very large, this America?"

"France, Spain, Prussia would be lonesome if set down in America. Only
Russia has anything to boast of."

"Did you fight in the war?"

"Yes. Do you like music?"

"Were you ever wounded?"

"A scratch or two, nothing to speak of. But do you like music?"

"Very, very much. When they play Beethoven, Bach, or Meyerbeer, _ach_, I
seem to live in another country. I hear music in everything, in the
leaves, the rain, the wind, the stream."

It seemed strange to him that he had not noticed it at first, the almost
Hanoverian purity of her speech and the freedom with which she spoke.
The average peasant is diffident, with a vocabulary of few words,
ignorant of art or music or where the world lay.

"What is your name?"

"Gretchen."

"It is a good name; it is famous, too."

"Goethe used it."

"So he did." Carmichael ably concealed his surprise: "You have some one
who reads to you?"

"No, Herr. I can read and write and do sums in addition."

He was willing to swear that she was making fun of him. Was she a simple
goose-girl? Was she not something more, something deeper? War-clouds
were forming in the skies; they might gather and strike at any time. And
who but the French could produce such a woman spy? Ehrenstein was not
Prussia, it was true; but the duchy with its twenty thousand troops was
one of the many pulses that beat in unison with this man Bismarck's
plans. Carmichael addressed her quickly in French, aiming to catch her
off her guard.

"I do not speak French, Herr,"--honestly.

He was certainly puzzled, but a glance at her hands dissolved his
doubts. These hands were used to toil, they were in no way disguised. No
Frenchwoman would sacrifice her hands for her country; at least, not to
this extent. Yet the two things in his mind would not readily cohese: a
goose-girl who was familiar with the poets and composers.

"You have been to school?"

"After a manner. My teacher was a kind priest. But he never knew that,
with knowledge, he was to open the gates of discontent."

"Then you are not happy with your lot?"

"Is any one, Herr?"--quietly. "And who might you be, and what might you
be doing here in Dreiberg, riding with the grand duke?"

"I am the American consul."

Gretchen took a step back.

"Oh, it is nothing that will bite you," he added.

"But perhaps I have been disrespectful!"

"Pray, how?"

Gretchen found that she had no definite explanation to offer.

"What did Colonel Wallenstein say to you?"

"Nothing of importance. I am used to it. I am perfectly able to take
care of myself," she answered.

"But he annoyed you."

"That is true," she admitted.

"What did the policeman say?"

"What would he say to a goose-girl?"

"Shall I speak to him?"

"Would it really do any good?"--skeptically.

"It might. The duke is friendly toward me, and I am certain he would not
tolerate such conduct in his police."

"You would only make enemies for me; insolence would become persecution.
I know. Yet, I thank you, Herr--"

"Carmichael. Now, listen, Gretchen; if at any time you are in trouble,
you will find me at the Grand Hotel or at the consulate next door to the
Black Eagle."

"I shall remember. Sometimes I work in the Black Eagle." And
recollection rose in her mind of the old man who had given her the gold
piece.

"Good night," he said.

"Thank you, Herr."

Gretchen extended her hand and Carmichael took it in his own, inspecting
it.

"Why do you do that?"

"It is a good hand; it is strong, too."

"It has to be strong, Herr. Good night."

Carmichael raised his hat again, and Gretchen breathed contentedly as
she saw him disappear in the crowd. That little act of courtesy made
everything brighter. There was only one other who ever touched his hat
to her respectfully. And as she stood there, dreaming over the unusual
happenings of the day, she felt an arm slip through hers, gently but
firmly, even with authority. Her head went round.

"Leo?" she whispered.

The young vintner whom Carmichael had pushed against the wall that day
smiled from under the deep shade of his hat, drawn down well over his
face.

"Gretchen, who was that speaking to you?"

"Herr Carmichael, the American consul."

"Carmichael!" The arm in Gretchen's stiffened.

"What is it, Leo?"

"Nothing. Only, I grow mad with rage when any of these gentlemen speak
to you. Gentlemen! I know them all too well."

"This one means no harm."

"I would I were certain. Ah, how I love you!" he whispered.

Gretchen thrilled and drew his arm closely against her side.

"To me the world began but two weeks ago. I have just begun to live."

"I am glad," said Gretchen. "But listen."

The band was playing again.

"Sometimes I am jealous even of that."

"I love you none the less for loving it."

"I know; but I am sad and lonely to-night"--gloomily. "I want all your
thoughts."

"Are they not always yours? And why should you be sad and miserable?"

"Why, indeed!"

"Leo, as much as I love you, there is always a shadow."

"What shadow?"

"It is always at night that I see you, rarely in the bright daytime.
What do you do during the day? It is not yet vintage. What do you do?"

"Will you trust me a little longer, Gretchen, just a little longer?"

"Always, not a little longer, always. But wait till the music stops and
I will tell you of my adventure."

"You have had an adventure?"--distrustfully.

"Yes. Be still."

There were tones in Gretchen's voice that the young vintner could never
quite understand. There was a will little less than imperial, and often
as he rebelled, he never failed to bow to it.

"What was this adventure?" he demanded, as the music stopped.

She told him about the geese, the grand duke, and the two crowns. He
laughed, and she joined him, for it was amusing now.

The musicians were putting away their instruments, the crowd was
melting, the attendants were stacking the chairs, so the two lovers went
out of the gardens toward the town and the Krumerweg.

Meanwhile Carmichael had lectured the policeman, who was greatly
disturbed.

"Your Excellency, I am sure Colonel von Wallenstein meant no harm."

"Are you truthfully sure?"

The policeman plucked at his beard nervously. "It is every man for
himself, as your excellency knows. Had I spoken to the colonel, he would
have had me broken."

"You could have appealed to the duke."

"Perhaps. I am sorry for the girl, but I have a family to take care of."

"Well, mark me; this little woman loves music; she comes here often. The
next time she is annoyed by Wallenstein or any one else, you report it
to me. I'll see that it reaches his highness."

"I shall gladly do that, your Excellency."

Carmichael left the gardens and wandered with aimless step. He was
surprised to find that he was opposite the side gates to the royal
gardens. His feet had followed the bent of his mind. Yet he did not
cross the narrow side street. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to
halt. He waited. The carriage he had seen by the fountain drew up before
the gates, and the woman in black alighted. She spoke to the sentinel,
who opened the gates and closed them. The veiled lady vanished abruptly
beyond the shrubbery.

"I wonder who that was?" was Carmichael's internal question. "Bah! Some
lady-in-waiting with an affair on hand."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At Selia's mom's apartment, Ani and Selia drink tea and swap stories. Selia is Ani's servant companion now, and Ani is uncomfortable and wishes she could be out with the animals instead of pent up inside, talking about royal subjects she isn't all that interested in. Selia, on the other hand, seems to be more of a princess than Ani. She knows how to talk to people, what to say, how to act--all the things that make Ani's head spin. Quickly Ani excuses herself from tea, which is disappointing to Selia's mom since she's the princess and all, though Ani doesn't care, since she wants to go riding with her dad. At the stables, Ani asks Falada to take her riding--but she does so without talking. She and Falada share a special bond where they can communicate through their brains without ever uttering a word aloud to one another. Cool trick, right? She meets up with her father over by one of the gates, and he teases her about playing crown princess--he knows she has to, but he prefers riding with her to sending her off to play tea party with a bunch of snobs. After a few more jabs, the two go off riding and have a race to see whose horse is the fastest. The king gets to the fence first, but just as he is about to jump, his horse fumbles the jump and he falls off its back. Ani rushes toward her dad, trying to help him, but it's of no use--he dies right there in front of her. Needless to say, this is a major bummer. At her dad's funeral, Ani tries to seem strong for the people since she knows she will be queen one day and has to seem like their leader. She's in for a big surprise, though, because when her mom makes a speech at the funeral, she claims her son, Calib-Loncris, will take over as ruler once she's gone... not Ani. Ani is confused, but Selia is outraged at the news--how dare she take this away from the crown princess. Selia encourages Ani to ask her mom what the deal is, but Ani's not so sure--and when she finally gets up the nerve to visit the queen, her mom is expecting her. The queen explains that five years ago, the Prime Minister of Bayern--the country on the other side of the mountain--came for a little visit and explained that the king wants to expand his country. Since the queen knew her own armies were insufficient, she promised Ani to the kingdom of Bayern instead--so now Ani will marry the Bayern prince very soon, since she is sixteen now and all. Ani is surprised that her mom never mentioned this to her before, and asks whether her dad was in on this whole marriage scheme. It turns out that he wasn't in the loop on this one, but the queen did everything she could--and since Ani's always been different, this way she'll still be a queen, just not of Kildenree. Burn, right? Right. Even though her mom apologizes, Ani doesn't feel any better--she's got to leave her home and family for a new world that she's never been to.


prompt:
Chapter: "Count, must I tell you again not to broach that subject? There can be
no alliance between Ehrenstein and Jugendheit."

"Why?" asked Count von Herbeck, chancellor, coolly returning the angry
flash from the ducal eyes.

"There are a thousand reasons why, but it is not my purpose to name
them."

"Name only one, your Highness, only one."

"Will that satisfy you?"

"Perhaps."

"One of my reasons is that I do not want any alliance with a country so
perfidious as Jugendheit. What! I make overtures? I, who have been so
cruelly wronged all these years? You are mad."

"But what positive evidence have you that Jugendheit wronged you?"

"Positive? Have I eyes and ears? Have I not seen and read and heard?"
This time the duke struck the desk savagely. "Why do you always rouse me
in this fashion, Herbeck? You know how distasteful all this is to me."

"Your highness knows that I look only to the welfare of the country. In
the old days it was a foregone conclusion that this alliance was to be
formed. Now, you persist in averring that the late king was the chief
conspirator in abducting her serene highness, aided by Arnsberg, whose
successor I have the honor to be. I have never yet seen any proofs. You
have never yet produced them. Show me something which absolutely
convicts them, and I'll surrender."

"On your honor?"

"My word."

The grand duke struck the bell on the chancellor's desk.

"My secretary, and tell him to bring me the packet marked A. He will
understand."

The two men waited without speaking, each busy with thought. The duke
had been in his youth, and was still, a handsome man, splendidly set
up, healthy and vigorous, keen mentally, and whatever stubbornness he
possessed nicely balanced by common sense. He might have been guilty in
his youth of a few human peccadillos, but the kingly and princely
excesses which at that time were making the east side of the Rhine the
scandal of the world had in no wise sullied his name. Ehrenstein means
"stone of honor," and he had always carried the thought of this in his
heart. He was frank in his likes and dislikes, he hated secrets, and he
loved an opponent who engaged him in the open. Herbeck often labored
with him over this open manner, but the mind he sought to work upon was
as receptive to political hypocrisy as a wall of granite. It was this
extraordinary rectitude which made the duke so powerful an aid to
Bismarck in the days that followed. The Man of Iron needed this sort of
character as a cover and a buckler to his own duplicities.

Herbeck was an excellent foil. He was as silent and secretive as sand.
He moved, as it were, in circles, thus always eluding dangerous corners.
He was tall, angular, with a thin, immobile countenance, well guarded
by his gray eyes and straight lips. He was a born financier, with almost
limitless ambition, though only he himself knew how far this ambition
reached. He had not brought prosperity to Ehrenstein, but he had
fortified and bastioned it against extravagance, and this was probably
the larger feat of the two. He loved his country, and brooded over it as
a mother broods over her child. Twice had he saved Ehrenstein from the
drag-net of war, and with honor. So he was admired by fathers and
revered by mothers.

The secretary came in and laid a thin packet of papers on the
chancellor's desk. "It was the packet A, your Highness?"--his hand still
resting upon the documents.

"Yes. You may go."

The secretary bowed and withdrew.

The duke stirred the papers angrily, took one of them and spread it out
with a rasp.

"Look at that. Whose writing, I ask?"

Herbeck adjusted his glasses and scrutinized the slanting hieroglyphics.
He ran over it several times. At length he opened a drawer in his desk,
sorted some papers, and brought out a yellow letter. This he laid down
beside the other.

"Yes, they are alike. This will be Arnsberg. But"--mildly--"who may say
that it is not a cunning forgery?"

"Forgery!" roared the duke. "Read this one from the late king of
Jugendheit to Arnsberg, then, if you still doubt."

Herbeck read slowly and carefully.

Then he rose and walked to the nearest window, studying the letter again
in the sharper light. Presently his hands fell behind his back and met
about the paper, while he himself stared over into the royal gardens. He
remained in this attitude for some time.

"Well?" said the duke impatiently.

Herbeck returned to his chair. "I wish that you had shown me these long
ago."

"To what end?"

"You accused the king?"

"Certainly, but he denied it."

"In a letter?"

"Yes. Here, read it."

Herbeck compared the two. "Where did you find these?"

"In Arnsberg's desk," returned the duke, the anger in his eyes giving
place to gloomy retrospection. "Arnsberg, my boyhood playmate, the man I
loved and trusted and advanced to the highest office in my power. Is
that not the way? Do we ever trust any one fully without being in the
end deceived? Well, dead or alive," the duke continued, his throat
swelling, "ten thousand crowns to him who brings Arnsberg to me, dead or
alive."

"He will never come back," said Herbeck.

"Not if he is wise. He was clever. He sent all his fortune to Paris, so
I found, and what I confiscated was nothing but his estate. But do you
believe me"--putting a hand against his heart--"something here tells me
that some day fate will drag him back and give him into my hands?"

"You are very bitter."

"And have I not cause? Did not my wife die of a broken heart, and did I
not become a broken man? You do not know all, Herbeck, not quite all.
Franz also sought the hand of the Princess Sofia. He, too, loved her,
but I won. Well, his revenge must have been sweet to him."

"But your daughter has been restored to her own."

"Due to your indefatigable efforts alone. Ah, Herbeck, nothing will ever
fill up the gap between, nothing will ever restore the mother." The duke
bowed his head.

Herbeck studied him thoughtfully.

"I love my daughter and she loves me, but I don't know what it is, I
can't explain it," irresolutely.

"What can not your highness explain?"

"Perhaps the gap is too wide, perhaps the separation has been too long."

Herbeck did not press the duke to be more explicit. He opened another
drawer and took forth a long hood envelope, crested and sealed.

"Your Highness, here is a letter from the prince regent of Jugendheit,
formally asking the hand of the Princess Hildegarde for his nephew,
Frederick, who will shortly be crowned. My advice is to accept, to let
bygones be bygones."

"Write the prince that I respectfully decline."

"Do nothing in haste, your Highness. Temporize; say that you desire some
time to think about the matter. You can change your mind at any time. A
reply like this commits you to nothing, whereas your abrupt refusal will
only widen the breach."

"The wider the breach the better."

"No, no, your Highness; the past has disturbed you. We can stand war,
and it is possible that we might win, even against Jugendheit; but war
at this late day would be a colossal blunder. Victory would leave us
where we began thirty years ago. One does not go to war for a cause that
has been practically dead these sixteen years. And an insult to
Jugendheit might precipitate war. It would be far wiser to let me answer
the prince regent, saying that your highness will give the proposal your
thoughtful consideration."

"Have your way, then, but on your head be it if you commit me to
anything."

The duke was about to gather up his documentary evidence, when Herbeck
touched his hand.

"I have an idea," said the chancellor. "A great many letters reach me
from day to day. I have an excellent memory. Who knows but that I might
find the true conspirator, the archplotter? Leave them with me, your
Highness."

"I shall not ask you to be careful with them, Herbeck."

"I shall treasure them as my life."

The duke departed, stirred as he had not been since the restoration of
the princess. Herbeck sometimes irritated him, for he was never in the
wrong, he was never impatient, he was never hasty, he never had to go
over a thing twice. This supernal insight, which overlooked all things
but results, set the duke wondering if Herbeck was truly all human. If
only he could catch him at fault once in a while!

Count von Herbeck remained at his desk, his face as inscrutable as ever,
his eyes without expression, and his lips expressing nothing. He
smoothed out a sheet of paper, affixed the state seal, and in a flowing
hand wrote a diplomatic note, considering the proposal of his royal
highness, the prince regent of Jugendheit, on behalf of his nephew, the
king. This he placed in the diplomatic pouch, called for a courier, and
despatched him at once for the frontier.

The duke sought his daughter. She was in the music-room, surrounded by
several of her young women companions, each holding some musical
instrument in her hands. Hildegarde was singing. The duke paused,
shutting his eyes and striving to recall the voice of the mother. When
the voice died away and the young women leaned back in their chairs to
rest, the duke approached. Upon seeing him all rose. With a smile he
dismissed them.

"My child," he began, taking Hildegarde's hand and drawing her toward a
window-seat, "the king of Jugendheit asks for your hand."

"Mine, father?"

"Even so."

"Then I am to marry the king of Jugendheit?" There was little joy in her
voice.

"Ah, we have not gone so far as that. The king, through his uncle, has
simply made a proposal. How would you regard it, knowing what you do of
the past, the years that you lived in comparative penury, amid
hardships, unknown, and almost without name?"

"It is for you to decide, father. Whatever your decision is, I shall
abide by it."

"It is a hard lesson we have to learn, my child. We can not always
marry where we love; diplomacy and politics make other plans. But
fortunately for you you love no one yet." He put his hand under her chin
and searched the deeps of her gray eyes. These eyes were more like her
mother's than anything else about her. "The king is young, handsome,
they say, and rich. Politically speaking, it would be a great match."

"I am in your hands. You know what is best."

The duke was poignantly disappointed. Why did she not refuse outright,
indignantly, contemptuously, as became one of the House of Ehrenstein?
Anything rather than this complacency.

"What is he like?" disengaging his hand and turning her face toward the
window.

"That no one seems to know. He has been to his capital but twice in ten
years, which doubtless pleased his uncle, who loves power for its own
sake. The young king has been in Paris most of the time. That's the way
they educate kings these days. They teach them all the vices and make
virtue an accident. Your father loves you, and if you are inclined
toward his majesty, if it is in your heart to become a queen, I shall
not let my prejudices stand in the way."

She caught up his hand with a strange passion and kissed it.

"Father, I do not want to marry any one," wistfully. "But a queen!" she
added thoughtfully.

"It is only a sound, my dear; do not let it delude you. Herbeck advises
this alliance, and while I realize that his judgment is right, my whole
soul revolts against it. But all depends upon you."

"Would it benefit the people? Would it be for the good of the state?"

Here was reason. "Yes; my objections are merely personal," said the
duke.

"For the good of my country, which I love, I am ready to make any
sacrifice. I shall think it over."

"Very well; but weigh the matter carefully. There is never any retracing
a step of this kind." He stood up, his heart heavy. Saying no more, he
moved toward the door.

She gazed after him, and suddenly and silently she stretched out her
arms, her eyes and face and lips yearning with love. Curiously enough,
the duke happened to turn. He was at her side in a moment, holding her
firm in his embrace.

"You are all I have, girl!" with a bit of break in his voice.

"My father!" She stroked his cheek.

When he left the room it was with lighter step.

The restoration of the Princess Hildegarde of Ehrenstein had been the
sensation of Europe, as had been in the earlier days her remarkable
abduction. For sixteen years the search had gone on fruitlessly. The
cleverest adventuresses on the continent tried devious tricks to palm
themselves off as the lost princess. From France they had come, from
Prussia, Italy, Austria, Russia and England. But the duke and the
chancellor held the secret, unknown to any one else--a locket. In a
garret in Dresden the agents of Herbeck found her, a singer in the
chorus of the opera. The newspapers and illustrated weeklies raged about
her for a while, elaborated the story of her struggles, the mysterious
remittances which had, from time to time, saved her from direst poverty,
her ambition, her education which, by dint of hard work, she had
acquired. It was all very puzzling and interesting and romantic. For
what purpose had she been stolen, and by whom? The duke accused Franz of
Jugendheit, but he did so privately. Search as they would, the duke and
the chancellor never traced the source of the remittances. The duke held
stubbornly that the sender of these benefactions was moved by the
impulse of a guilty conscience, and that this guilty conscience was in
Jugendheit. But these remittances, argued Herbeck, came long after the
death of the old king. He had his agents, vowed the duke. Herbeck would
not listen to this. He preferred to believe that Count von Arnsberg was
the man.

There was an endless tangle of red tape before the girl became secure in
her rights. But finally, when William of Prussia and Franz Josef of
Austria congratulated the duke, everybody else fell into line, and every
troop in the duchy came to Dreiberg to the celebration. Then the world
ran away in pursuit of other adventures, and forgot all about her serene
highness.

And was she happy with all this grandeur, with all these lackeys and
attentions and environs? Who can say? Sometimes she longed for the
freedom and lack-care of her Dresden garret, her musician friends, the
studios, the crash and glitter of the opera. To be suddenly deprived of
the fruits of ambition, to reach such a pinnacle without striving, to be
no longer independent, somehow it was all tasteless with the going of
the novelty.

She looked like a princess, she moved and acted like one, but after the
manner of kindly fairy princesses in story-books. All fell in love with
her, from the groom who saddled her horse, to the chancellor, who up to
this time was known never to have loved anything but the state.

She was lovely enough to inspire fervor and homage and love in all
masculine minds. She was witty and talented. Carmichael said she was one
of the most beautiful women in Europe. Later he modified this statement
by declaring that she was the most beautiful woman in Europe or
elsewhere. Yet, often she went about as one in a waking dream. There was
an aloofness which was not born of hauteur but rather of a lingering
doubt of herself.

She was still in the window-seat when the chancellor was announced. She
distrusted him a little, she knew not why; yet, when he bent over her
hand she was certain that his whole heart was behind his salute.

"Your Highness," he said, "I am come to announce to you that there waits
for you a high place in the affairs of the world."

"The second crown in Jugendheit?"

"Your father--?"

"Yes. He leaves the matter wholly in my hands."

The sparkle in his eyes was the first evidence of emotion she had ever
seen in him. It rather pleased her.

"It is for the good of the state. A princess like yourself must never
wed an inferior."

"Would a man who was brave and kind and resourceful, but without a
title, would he be an inferior?"

"Assuredly, politically. And I regret to say that your marriage could
never be else than a matter of politics."

"I am, then, for all that I am a princess, simply a certificate of
exchange?"

His keen ear caught the bitter undercurrent. "The king of Jugendheit is
young. I do not see how he can help loving you the moment he knows you.
Who can?" And the chancellor enjoyed the luxury of a smile.

"But he may not be heart whole."

"He will be, politically."

"Politics, politics; how I hate the word! Sometimes I regret my garret."

The chancellor frowned. "Your Highness, I beg of you never to give that
thought utterance in the presence of your father."

"Ah, believe me, I am not ungrateful; but all this is new to me, even
yet. I am living in a dream, wondering and wondering when I shall wake."

The chancellor wrinkled his lips. It was more of a grimace than a smile.

"Will you consent to this marriage?"

"Would it do any good to reject it?"

"On the contrary, it would do Ehrenstein great harm."

"Give me a week," wearily.

"A week!" There was joy on the chancellor's face now, unmasked,
unconcealed. "Oh, when the moment comes that I see the crown of
Jugendheit on your beautiful head, all my work shall not have been in
vain. So then, within seven days I shall come for your answer?"

"One way or the other, my answer will be ready then."

"There is one thing more, your Highness."

"And that?"

"There must not be so many rides in the morning with his excellency,
Herr Carmichael."

She met his piercing glance with that mild duplicity known only to
women. "He is a gentleman, he amuses me, and there is no harm. Grooms
are always with us. And often he is only one of a party."

"It is politics again, your Highness; I merely offer the suggestion."

"Marry me to the king of Jugendheit, if you will, but in this I shall
have my way." But she laughed as she laid down this law.

He surrendered his doubt. "Well, for a week. But once the banns are
published, it will be neither wise nor--"

"Proper? That is a word, Count, that I do not like."

"Pardon me, your Highness. All this talk is merely for the sake of
saving you needless embarrassment."

He bowed and took his leave of her.

"Jugendheit! Ah, I had rather my garret, my garret!"

And her gaze sped across the Platz and lingered about one of the little
window-balconies of the Grand Hotel.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As Ani prepares to leave her home country, she talks to Selia about what's happened. Selia is outraged, of course, but there isn't really anything Ani can do about it. Who knows? This might end up being a good thing--Ani can decide who she wants to be, and Selia will get to come with her too. One day Ani meets up with her bro Calib, who is a little nervous around her--she tells him not to worry, though. Sure, she was bummed at first to leave, but now she's used to the idea--in other words, no harm, no foul. As she's leaving, the queen makes a big speech about how precious her daughter Ani is, and how she wants everyone to protect her on the journey. She even gives Ani a special handkerchief passed down from her grandma, stained with her mom's blood; it will protect her out in the woods, on the journey to Bayern. At first Ani's touched, but then she's not sure if her mom is doing this all for show or not. No matter, though--they're off. Ani and her entourage make a beeline for the forest--it's a long journey to Bayern, but at least Selia seems excited to get the show on the road. Hmm... wonder what's put a spring in her step. Out in the woods, everyone seems a bit on edge, but not Falada; soon Ani realizes she should just to listen to her horse when it comes to figuring out the trees and animals around her. One night Falada tells Ani that wolves are coming toward the camp. Ani warns everyone, then sure enough a wolf comes toward them--an archer kills it, though. No one seems grateful to the young princess at all. In fact, everyone is surprised and a little creeped out that she knew wolves were coming that way. Gee, some thanks she gets for saving their lives. A few days later, still on the road, Ani catches Selia and some of the guards joking around. When she asks what's funny though, they all shut her out--she's not sure what's going on, but something is definitely happening between Selia and the guards. So Ani talks to Talone instead. He's the guy who rescued her when she was outside with the swans and fell asleep in the cold, so he must be trustworthy. There are still weeks of traveling ahead before they are supposed to arrive at Bayern, and Falada is tired from the journey. When some of the group is off bathing or getting water, Ishta starts talking to Ani in a really creepy way. She doesn't like Talone being around her because he makes her skin crawl, and she's not sure whom she can trust. Selia returns, cold and wet from bathing in the cold stream, and Ani tells her to bathe in the camp--like she does--but Selia mocks her. Who would heat her water? No one cares about her like they do about Ani. Ani tells her not to worry, though, because soon they'll be in Bayern, where hot water and warm beds await them both. Strangely, Selia replies by saying that even more than that awaits her in Bayern...


prompt:
Chapter: The Black Eagle (_Zum Schwartzen Adler_) in the Adlergasse was a
prosperous tavern of the second rate. The house was two hundred years
old and had been in the Bauer family all that time.

Had Fraeu Bauer, or Fraeu-Wirtin, as she was familiarly called, been
masculine, she would have been lightly dubbed Bauer VII. She was a
widow, and therefore uncrowned. She had been a widow for many a day, for
the novelty of being her own manager had not yet worn off. She was
thirty-eight, plump, pretty in a free-hand manner, and wise. It was
useless to loll about the English bar where she kept the cash-drawer; it
was useless to whisper sweet nothings into her ear; it was more than
useless, it was foolish.

"Go along with you, Herr; I wouldn't marry the best man living. I can
add the accounts, I can manage. Why should I marry?"

"But marriage is the natural state!"

"Herr, I crossed the frontier long ago, but having recrossed it, never
again shall I go back. One crown-forty, if you please. Thank you."

This retort had become almost a habit with the Fraeu-Wirtin; and when a
day went by without a proposal, she went to bed with the sense that the
day had not been wholly successful.

To-night the main room of the tavern swam in a blue haze of smoke, which
rose to the blackened rafters, hung with many and various sausages,
cheeses, and dried vegetables. Dishes clattered, there was a buzzing of
voices, a scraping of feet and chairs, a banging of tankards, altogether
noisy and cheerful. The Fraeu-Wirtin preferred waitresses, and this
preference was shared by her patrons. They were quicker, cleaner; they
remembered an order better; they were not always surreptitiously
emptying the dregs of tankards on the way to the bar, as men invariably
did. Besides, the barmaid was an English institution, and the
Fraeu-Wirtin greatly admired that race, though no one knew why. The girls
fully able to defend themselves, and were not at all diffident in boxing
a smart fellow's ears. They had a rough wit and could give and take. If
a man thought this an invitation and tried to take a kiss, he generally
had his face slapped for his pains, and the Fraeu-Wirtin was always on
the side of her girls.

The smoke was so thick one could scarcely see two tables away, and if
any foreigner chanced to open a window there was a hubbub; windows were
made for light, not air. There were soldiers, non-commissioned
officers--for the fall maneuvers brought many to Dreiberg--farmers and
their families, and the men of the locality who made the Black Eagle a
kind of socialist club. Socialism was just taking hold in those days,
and the men were tremendously serious and secretive regarding it, as it
wasn't strong enough to be popular with governments which ruled by
hereditary might and right.

Gretchen came in, a little better dressed than in the daytime, the
change consisting of coarse stockings and shoes of leather, of which she
was correspondingly proud.

"Will you want me, Fraeu-Wirtin, for a little while to-night?" she asked.

"Till nine. Half a crown as usual."

Gretchen sought the kitchen and found an apron and cap. These
half-crowns were fine things to pick up occasionally, for it was only
upon occasions that she worked at the Black Eagle.

In an obscure corner sat the young vintner. He had finished his supper
and was watching and scrutinizing all who came in. His face brightened
as he saw the goose-girl; he would have known that head anywhere,
whether he saw the face or not. He wanted to go to her at once, but knew
this action would not be wise.

In the very corner itself, his back to the vintner's, and nothing but
the wall to look at, was the old man in tatters and patches, the
mountaineer who possessed a Swiss watch and gave golden coins to
goose-girls. He was busily engaged in gnawing the leg of a chicken.
Between times he sipped his beer, listening.

Carmichael had forgotten some papers that day. He had dined early at the
hotel and returned at once to the consulate. He was often a visitor at
the Black Eagle. The beer was sweet and cool. So, having pocketed his
papers, he was of a mind to carry on a bit of badinage with Fraeu Bauer.
As he stepped into the big hall, in his evening clothes, he was as
conspicuous as a passing ship at sea.

"Good evening, Fraeu-Wirtin."

"Good evening, your Excellency." She was quite fluttered when this fine
young man spoke to her. He was the only person who ever caused her
embarrassment, even though temporary. There was always a whimsical smile
on his lips and in his eyes, and Fraeu Bauer never knew exactly how to
take him. "What is on your mind?" brightly.

"Many things. You haven't aged the least since last I saw you."

"Which was day before yesterday!"

"Not any further back than that?"

"Not an hour."

She turned to make change, while Carmichael's eyes roved in search of a
vacant chair. He saw but one.

"The goose-girl?" he murmured suddenly. "Is Gretchen one of your
waitresses?"

"She comes in once in a while. She's a good girl and I'm glad to help
her," Fraeu Bauer replied.

"I do not recollect having seen her here before."

"That is because you rarely come at night."

Gretchen carried a tray upon which steamed a vegetable stew. She saw
Carmichael and nodded.

"I shall be at yonder table," he said indicating the vacant chair. "Will
you bring me a tankard of brown Ehrensteiner?"

"At once, Herr."

Carmichael made his way to the table. Across the room he had not
recognized the vintner, but now he remembered. He had crowded him
against a wall two or three days before.

"This seat is not reserved, Herr?" he asked pleasantly, with his hand on
the back of the chair.

"No." There was no cordiality in the answer. The vintner turned back the
lid of his stein and drank slowly.

Carmichael sat down sidewise, viewing the scene with never-waning
interest. These German taverns were the delight of his soul. Everybody
was so kindly and orderly and hungry. They ate and drank like persons
whose consciences were not overburdened. From the corner of his eye he
observed that the vintner was studying him. Now this vintner's face was
something familiar. Carmichael stirred his memory. It was not in
Dreiberg that he had seen him before. But where?

Gretchen arrived with the tankard which she sat down at Carmichael's
elbow.

"Will you not join me, Herr?" he invited.

"Thank you," said the vintner, without hesitation.

He smiled at Gretchen and she smiled at him. Carmichael smiled at them
both tolerantly.

"What will you be drinking?"

"Brown," said the vintner.

Gretchen took up the empty tankard and made off. The eyes of the two men
followed her till she reached the dim bar, then their glances swung
round and met. Carmichael was first to speak, not because he was forced
to, but because it was his fancy at that moment to give the vintner the
best of it.

"She is a fine girl."

"Yes," tentatively.

"She is the handsomest peasant I ever saw or knew."

"You know her?" There was a spark in the vintner's eyes.

"Only for a few days. She interests me." Carmichael produced a pipe and
lighted it.

"Ah, yes, the pretty peasant girl always interests you gentlemen." There
was a note of bitterness. "Did you come here to seek her?"

"This is the first time I ever saw her here. And let me add," evenly,
"that my interest in her is not of the order you would infer. She is
good and patient and brave, and my interest in her is impersonal. It is
not necessary for me to make any explanations, but I do so."

"Pardon me!" The vintner was plainly abashed.

"Granted. But you, you seem to possess a peculiar interest."

The vintner flushed. "I have that right," with an air which rather
mystified Carmichael.

"That explains everything. I do not recollect seeing you before in the
Black Eagle."

"I am from the north; a vintner, and there is plenty of work here in
the valleys late in September."

"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as
they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the
Rhine."

"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any
France in the future?"

Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will
always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not
die."

"You are fond of France?"

"Very."

"Do you think it wise to say so here?"

"I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions."

"The American consul," repeated the vintner.

Gretchen could now be seen, wending her return in and out among the
clustering tables. She set the tankards down, and Carmichael put out a
silver crown.

"And do not bother about the change."

"Are all Americans rich?" she asked soberly. "Do you never keep the
change yourselves?"

[Illustration: "Are all Americans rich?" she asked, soberly.]

"Not when we are in our Sunday clothes."

"Then it is vanity." Gretchen shook her head wisely.

"Mine is worth only four coppers to-night," he said.

The vintner laughed pleasantly. Gretchen looked into his eyes, and an
echo found haven in her own.

Carmichael thirstily drank his first tankard, thinking: "So this vintner
is in love with our goose-girl? Confound my memory! It never failed me
like this before. I would give twenty crowns to know where I have seen
him. It's only the time and place that bothers me, not the face. A fine
beer," he said aloud, holding up the second tankard.

The vintner raised his; there was an unconscious grace in the movement.
A covert glance at his hand satisfied Carmichael in regard to one thing.
He might be a vintner, but the hand was as soft and well-kept as a
woman's, for all that it was stained by wind and sunshine. A handsome
beggar, whoever and whatever he was. But a second thought disturbed him.
Could a man with hands like these mean well toward Gretchen? He was a
thorough man of the world; he knew innocence at first glance, and
Gretchen was both innocent and unworldly. To the right man she might be
easy prey. Never to a man like Colonel von Wallenstein, whose power and
high office were alike sinister to any girl of the peasantry; but a man
in the guise of her own class, of her own world and people, here was a
snare Gretchen might not be able to foresee. He would watch this fellow,
and at the first sign of an evil--Carmichael's muscular brown hands
opened and shut ominously. The vintner did not observe this peculiar
expression of the hands; and Carmichael's face was bland.

A tankard, rapping a table near-by, called Gretchen to her duties. There
was something reluctant in her step, in the good-by glance, in the
sudden fall of the smiling lips.

"She will make some man a good wife," said Carmichael.

The vintner scowled at his tankard.

"He is not sure of her," thought Carmichael. Aloud he said: "What a
funny world it is!"

"How?"

"Gretchen is beautiful enough to be a queen, and yet she is merely a
Hebe in a tavern."

"Hebe?" suspiciously. The peasant is always suspicious of anything he
doesn't understand.

"Hebe was a cup-bearer to the mythological gods in olden times,"
Carmichael explained. He had set a trap, but the vintner had not fallen
into it.

"A fairy-story." The vintner nodded; he understood now.

Carmichael's glance once more rested on the vintner's hand. He would lay
another trap.

"What happened to her?"

"Oh," said Carmichael, "she spilled wine on a god one day, and they
banished her."

"It must have been a rare vintage."

"I suppose you are familiar with all valleys. Moselle?"

"Yes. That is a fine country."

The old man in tatters sat erect in his chair, but he did not turn his
head.

"You have served?"

"A little. If I could be an officer I should like the army." The vintner
reached for his pipe which lay on the table.

"Try this," urged Carmichael, offering his pouch.

"This will be good tobacco, I know." The vintner filled his pipe.

Carmichael followed this gift with many questions about wines and
vintages; and hidden in these questions were a dozen clever traps. But
the other walked over them, unhesitant, with a certainty of step which
chagrined the trapper.

By and by the vintner rose and bade his table-companion a good night. He
had not offered to buy anything, another sign puzzling to Carmichael.
This frugality was purely of the thrifty peasant. But the vintner was
not ungrateful, and he expressed many thanks. On his way to the door he
stopped, whispered into Gretchen's ear, and passed out into the black
street.

"Either he is a fine actor, or he is really what he says he is."
Carmichael was dissatisfied. "I'll stake my chances on being president
of the United States, which is safe enough as a wager, that this fellow
is not genuine. I'll watch him. I've stumbled upon a pretty romance of
some sort, but I fear that it is one-sided." He wrinkled his forehead,
but that part of his recollection he aimed to stir remained fallow, in
darkness.

The press in the room was thinning. There were vacant chairs here and
there now. A carter sauntered past and sat down unconcernedly at the
table occupied by the old man whose face Carmichael had not yet seen.
The two exchanged not even so much as a casual nod. A little later a
butcher approached the same table and seated himself after the manner of
the carter. It was only when the dusty baker came along and repeated
this procedure, preserving the same silence, that Carmichael's curiosity
was enlivened. This curiosity, however, was only of the evanescent
order. Undoubtedly they were socialists and this was a little conclave,
and the peculiar manner of their meeting, the silence and mystery, were
purely fictional. Socialism at that time revolved round the blowing up
of kings, of demolishing established order. Neither kings were blown up
nor order demolished, but it was a congenial topic over which to while
away an evening. This was in the German states; in Russia it was a
different matter.

Had Carmichael not fallen a-dreaming over his pipe he would have seen
the old man pass three slips of paper across the table; he would have
seen the carter, the butcher, and the baker pocket these slips
stolidly; he would have seen the mountaineer wave his hand sharply and
the trio rise and disperse. And perhaps it would have been well for him
to have noted these singular manifestations of conspiracy, since shortly
he was to become somewhat involved. It was growing late; so Carmichael
left the Black Eagle, nursing the sunken ember in his pipe and
surrendering no part of his dream.

Intermediately the mountaineer paid his score and started for the stairs
which led to the bedrooms above. But he stopped at the bar. A very old
man was having a pail filled with hot cabbage soup. It was the ancient
clock-mender across the way. The mountaineer was startled out of his
habitual reserve, but he recovered his composure almost instantly. The
clock-mender, his heavy glasses hanging crookedly on his nose, his whole
aspect that of a weary, broken man, took down his pail and shuffled
noiselessly out. The mountaineer followed him cautiously. Once in his
shop the clock-mender poured the steaming soup into a bowl, broke bread
in it, and began his evening meal. The other, his face pressed against
the dim pane, stared and stared.

"_Gott in Himmel!_ It is _he_!" he breathed, then stepped back into the
shadow, while the moisture from his breath slowly faded and disappeared
from the window-pane.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's been four weeks since Ani and crew left Kildenree, and by now everyone is a little homesick. Talone tells her that they've reached the halfway point, which he can tell by a mark he sees on a tree--of course, no one's ever travelled this journey though, except for Ungolad. Talone wasn't sure he wanted the old guard to join them before they left, since he's a wild card, but he volunteered and Ungolad has made the trip before, so Talone couldn't really refuse. When Ani gets back to her tent, she notices Selia trying on one of her dresses. Say what? Selia immediately jumps and apologizes since she's just a lowly servant, but Ani doesn't care at all--she's always been Ani's friend, so she doesn't care if Selia looks at her stuff. Somehow Selia gets annoyed at this, acting like Ani's so high and mighty for being kind to a servant--but Ani's not really sure what this is about, and tells Selia she's being super weird lately. Things go from bad to worse, and Selia tells Ani that she's nothing. She's never been good at being a crown princess, and she won't make anything of herself in Bayern either. Ouch. Fine, Ani retorts. If she wants to play it that way, let's go. Ani tells Selia not to call her anything but her official title--princess--again, and to put down her things immediately. She's not sure where she found the strength to stand up to Selia, but then she looks down and sees her mom's handkerchief and thinks it might be magic after all. Later on, Ani is walking out on some wet rocks, when something--or someone--pushes her and she almost face plants. When she doesn't, she knows the handkerchief has saved her once again, and she doesn't trust anyone--even Selia. A week later, Ungolad chats with Ani while riding. He notices her checking out his horse, and asks her about it, so he tells him his horse has a stone in his front hoof--and sure enough, it does. Ungolad is impressed by the princess and realizes for the first time that she's got some spirit in her. Later, Ani talks to Talone about what's been going on with the other men--she's noticed some of them seem to be planning something, but she's not sure what it would be. Talone tells her that if anything happens, to run to the nearest horse and go to the Bayern king for safety. Ani's not sure what could happen, but she promises to do just that if the men try anything. When Ani goes down to the river to get a drink, she bends over and her handkerchief falls out. Uh-oh... Falada tells her she's dropped it, but she doesn't hear him in time, so though she senses something is wrong, she's not sure what. Back at the camp, Talone is arguing with Yulan about how to dress and behave in front of the ladies. Yulan doesn't listen, and Terne even jokes that Ani isn't really a princess out in the forest--they're not in Kildenree or Bayern, so she's not really anyone. Ungolad praises Princess Selia, and some of the others raise their voices in unison. Talone points out that this is treason--and that they can't switch the real princess with such a lowly imposter--but Selia counters with some speech about how royalty shouldn't be through blood. Why is Ani better than her anyway? Selia's sure she'd make a much better princess. The men fight, and Ani tries to get to Falada to run away. She can't make it to her beloved horse without getting to Ungolad first, so she grabs another horse instead. Just a little bit further to the next town in the forest, she tells herself, pushing the horse to go faster and faster; the men are after her, and she knows it won't be good when they reach her.