prompt:
Chapter: The watch, slipping from the clock-mender's hand, spun like a coin on
the counter, while the clock-mender himself, his eyes bulging, his jaw
dangling, it might be said, staggered back upon his stool.

"So this is the end?" he said in a kind of mutter.

"The end of what?" demanded the owner of the watch.

"Of all my labors, to me and to what little I have left!"

"Fiddlesticks! I am here for no purpose regarding you, my comrade. So
far as I am concerned, your secret is as dead as it ever was. I had a
fancy that you were living in Paris."

"Paris! _Gott!_ For seventeen, eighteen years I have traveled hither and
thither, always on some false clue. Never a band of Gipsies I heard of
that I did not seek them out. Nothing, nothing! You will never know what
I have gone through, and uselessly, to prove my innocence. It always
comes back in a circle; what benefit to me would have been a crime like
that of which I was accused? Was I not high in honor? Was I not wealthy?
Was not my home life a happy one? What benefit to me, I say?" a growing
fierceness in his voice and gestures. "All my estates confiscated, my
wife dead of shame, and I molding among these clocks!"

"But why the clocks?" in wonder.

"It was a pastime of mine when I was a boy. I used to be tinkering among
all the clocks in the house. So I bought out this old shop. From time to
time I have left it in the hands of an assistant. The grand duke has a
wonderful Friesian clock. One day it fell out of order, and the court
jeweler could do nothing with it. I was summoned, I! No one recognized
me, I have changed so. I mended the clock and went away."

"But what is the use of all this, now that her highness is found?"

"My honor; to the duke it is black as ever."

"Have you gone forward any?"

"Like Sisyphus! I had begun to give up hope, when the Gipsy I was
seeking was seen by one of my agents. He alone knows the secret. And I
am waiting, waiting. But you believe, Ludwig?"

"Carl, you are as innocent of it all as I am or as my brother was. Come
with me to Jugendheit."

"No, Ludwig, this is my country, however unjustly it has treated me."

"Yes, yes. And to think that you and I and the grand duke were comrades
at Heidelberg! But if your Gipsy fails you?"

"Still I shall remain. This will be all I shall have, these clocks. I am
only sixty-eight, yet no one would believe me under eighty. I no longer
gaze into mirrors. I have forgotten how I look. There were letters found
in my desk, all forgeries, I knew, but so cleverly done I could only
deny. I saw that my case was hopeless, so I fled to Paris. I wrote
Herbeck once while there. He believed that I was innocent. I have his
letter yet. He has a great heart, Ludwig, and he has done splendid work
for Ehrenstein."

"He keeps a steady hand on the duke."

"But you, what are you doing in Dreiberg, in this guise?"

Herr Ludwig sat upon the counter and clasped a knee. "Do you care for
fairy-stories?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, once upon a time there lived a king. He was young. He had an
uncle who watched over him and his affairs. They call such uncles prince
regents. This prince regent had an idea regarding the future welfare of
this nephew. He would bring him up to be a man, well educated,
broad-minded, and clean-lived. He should have a pilot to guide him past
the traps and vices which befall the young. Time wore on. The lad grew
up, clean in mind, strong in body, liberal; a fine prince. No scandalous
entanglements; no gaming; no wine-bibbing beyond what any decent man may
do. In his palace few saw anything of him after his fifteenth year. He
went into the world under an assumed name. By and by he came home,
quietly. His uncle was proud of him, for his eye was clear and his
tongue was clean. In one month he was to be coronated. And now what do
you think? He must have one more adventure, just one. Would his uncle
go with him? Certainly not. Moreover, the time for adventure was over.
He must no longer wander about; he was a king; he must put his hand to
king-craft. And one morning his uncle found him gone, gone as completely
as if he had never existed. What to do? Ah! The prince regent set it
going that his majesty had gone a-hunting in Bavaria. Then the prince
regent put on some old clothes and went a-venturing himself."

"And the end?"

"God knows!" said Ludwig, sliding off the counter.

Nothing but the ticking of the clocks was heard.

"And fatuous fool that this uncle was, he committed an almost
irreparable blunder. He tried to marry his nephew."

"I understand. But if you are discovered here?"

"That is not likely."

"Ah, Ludwig, it is not the expected that always happens. Be careful; you
know the full wording of Herbeck's treaty."

"Herbeck; there's a man," said Herr Ludwig admiringly. "To have found
her highness as he did!"

"He is lucky," but without resentment.

The other picked up his watch. "Can I be of material assistance?"

"I want nothing," haughtily.

"Proud old imbecile!" replied the mountaineer kindly. "You have been
deeply wronged, but some day you will pick up the thread in the
labyrinth, and there will be light forward. I myself shall see what can
be done with the duke."

"He will never be brought to reason unless indubitable evidence of my
innocence confronts him. With the restoration of the princess fifty
political prisoners were given their liberty and restored to
citizenship. The place once occupied by my name is still blank,
obliterated. It is hard. I have given the best of my heart and of my
brain to Ehrenstein--for this! I am innocent."

"I believe you, Carl. Remember, Jugendheit will always welcome you. I
must be going. I have much to do between now and midnight. The good God
will unravel the snarl."

"Or forget it," cynically. "Good-by, Ludwig."

There was a hand-clasp, and the mountaineer took himself off. The
clock-mender philosophically reached for his tools. He had wasted time
enough over retrospection; he determined to occupy himself with the
present only. Tick-tock! tick-tock! sang the clocks about him. All at
once a volume of musical sounds broke forth; cuckoo-calls, chimes,
tinkles light and thin, booms deep and vibrant. But the clock-mender
bent over his work; all he was conscious of was the eternal tick-tock!
tick-tock! on and on, without cessation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Carmichael walked his horse. This morning he had ridden out almost to
the frontier and was now on his return. As he passed through the last
grove of pines and came into the clearing the picture was exquisite; the
three majestic bergs of ice and snow above Dreiberg, the city shining
white and fairylike in the mid-morning's sun, and the long,
half-circling ribbon of a road. He sighed, and the horse cocked his ears
at the sound.

No longer did Carmichael take the south pass for his morning rides.
That was the favored going of her highness, and he avoided her now. In
truth, he dared not meet her now; it would have been out of wisdom. So
long as she had been free his presence had caused no comment, only
tolerant amusement among the nobles at court. It chafed him to be
regarded as a harmless individual, for he knew that he was far from
being in that class. There was a wild strain in him. Dreiberg might have
waked up some fine morning to learn that for a second time her princess
had been stolen, and that there was a vacancy in the American consulate.
How many times had he been seized with the mad desire to snatch the
bridle of her horse and ride away with her into a far country! How often
had his arms started out toward her, only to drop stiffly to his sides!

March hares! They were Solons as compared with his own futile madness.
But it was different now. She was to marry the king of Jugendheit; it
was in the order of things that he ride alone. He knew that court
etiquette demanded the isolation of the Princess Hildegarde from male
escort other than that formally provided. The two soldiers detailed to
act as her grooms or bodyguards were not, of course, to be considered.
So, of the morning, he went down to the military field to watch the
maneuvers, which were drawing to a close; or rode out to the frontier,
or took the side road to Eissen, where the summer palaces were. But it
was all dreary; the zest of living had somehow dropped out of things.

The road to Eissen began about six miles north of the base of the
Dreiberg mountain. It swerved to the east. As Carmichael reached the
fork his horse began to limp. He jumped down and removed the stone. It
was then that he heard the far-off mutter of hoofs. Coming along the
road from Eissen were a trio of riders. Carmichael laughed weakly.

"I swear to Heaven that this is no fault of mine!"

Should he mount and be off before she made the turn? Bah! It was an
accident; he would make the most of it. The bodyguard could easily
vindicate him, in any event. He remounted and waited.

She came in full flight, rosy, radiant, as lovely as Diana. Carmichael
swung his cap boyishly; and there was a swirl of dust as she drew up.

"Good morning, Herr Carmichael!"

"Good morning, your Highness!"

"Which way have you been riding?"

"Toward Jugendheit."

"And you are returning?" With a short nod of her head she signaled for
the two soldiers to fall back.

The two looked at each other embarrassedly.

"Pardon, Highness," said one of them, "but the orders of the duke will
not permit us to leave you. There have been thieves along the road of
late."

Thieves? This was the first time Carmichael had heard of it. The real
significance of the maneuver escaped him; but her highness was not
fooled.

"Very well," she replied. "One of you ride forward and one of you take
the rear." Then she spoke to Carmichael in English.

The soldiers shrugged. To them it did not matter what language her
highness adopted so long as they obeyed the letter of the duke's
instructions. The little cavalcade directed its course toward the city.

"You have not been riding of late," she said.

Then she had missed him. Carmichael's heart expanded. To be missed is to
be regretted, and one regrets only those in whom one is interested.

"I have ridden the same as usual, your Highness; only I have taken this
road for a change."

"Ah!" She patted the glistening neck of her mare. So he had purposely
tried to avoid her? Why? She stole a sly glance at him. Why were not
kings molded in this form? All the kings she had met had something the
matter with them, crooked legs, weak eyes, bald, young, or old, and daft
over gaming-tables and opera-dancers. And the one man among them all--at
least she had been informed that the king of Jugendheit was all of a
man--had politely declined. There was some chagrin in this for her, but
no bitterness or rancor. In truth, she was more chagrined on her
father's account than on her own.

"You should have taken the south pass. It was lovely yesterday."

"Perhaps this way has been wisest."

"Are you become afraid of me?" archly.

"Yes, your Highness." If he had looked at her instead of his horse's
ears, and smiled, all would have been well.

She instantly regretted the question. "I am sorry that I have become an
ogress."

"To me your highness is the most perfect of women. I am guilty of
lese-majesty."

"I shall not lock you up," she said, and added under her breath, "as my
good father would like to! Besides," she continued aloud, "I rather like
to set the court by the ears. Whoever heard of a serene highness doing
the things I do? I suppose it is because I have known years of freedom,
freedom of action, of thought, of speech. These habits can not change at
once. In fact, I do not believe they ever will. But the duke, my father,
is good; he understands and trusts me. Ah, but I shall lead some king a
merry life!" with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Frederick of Jugendheit?"

"Is it true that you have not heard yet? I have declined the honor."

"Your highness?"

"My serene highness," with a smile. "This, of course, is as yet a state
secret; and my reason for telling you is not a princess', but a woman's.
Solve it if you can."

Carmichael fumbled the reins blindly. "They say that he is a handsome
young man."

"What has that to do with it? The interest he takes in his kingdom is
positively negative. I have learned that he has been to his capital but
twice since he was fifteen. He is even now absent on a hunting trip in
Bavaria, and his coronation but a few days off. There will be only one
king in Jugendheit, and that will be the prince regent."

"He has done tolerably well up to the present," observed Carmichael,
welcoming this change. "Jugendheit is prosperous; it has a splendid
army. The prince regent is a fine type of man, they say, rugged,
patient, frugal and sensible."

"There is an instance where he made a cruel blunder."

"No man is infallible," said he, wondering what this blunder was.

"I suppose not. Look! The artillery is firing."

Boom-boom! They saw the smoke leap from the muzzles of the cannon, and
it seemed minutes before the sound reached them.

"I have a fine country, too," she said, with pride; "prosperous, and an
army not inferior to that of Jugendheit."

"I was not making comparisons, your Highness."

"I know that, my friend. I was simply speaking from the heart. But I
doubt if the prince regent is a better man than our Herbeck."

"I prefer Herbeck, never having met the prince regent. But I have some
news for your highness."

"News for me?"

"Yes. I am about to ask for my recall," he said, the idea having come
into his mind at that precise moment.

"Your recall?"

Had he been looking at her he would have noticed that the color on her
fair cheeks had gone a shade lighter.

"Yes."

"Is not this sudden? it is not very complimentary to Ehrenstein."

"The happiest days in my life have been spent here."

"Then why seek to be recalled?"

"I am essentially a man of action, your Highness. I am growing dull and
stupid amid these charming pleasures. Action; I have always been mixed
up in some trouble or other. Here it is a round of pleasure from day to
day. I long for buffets. I am wicked enough to wish for war."

"_Cherchez la femme!_" she cried. "There is a woman?"

"Oh, yes!" recklessly.

"Then go to her, my friend, go to her." And she waved her crop over his
head as in benediction. "Some day, before you go, I shall ask you all
about her." Ah, as if she did not know! But half the charm in life is
playing with hidden dangers.

He did not speak, but caught up the reins firmly. She touched her mare
on the flank, and the four began trotting, a pace which they maintained
as far as the military field. Here they paused, for the scene was
animated and full of color. Squadrons of cavalry raced across the
field; infantry closed in or deployed; artillery rumbled, wheeled,
stopped, unlimbered. Bang-bang! The earth shivered and rocked. Guerdons
were flying, bugles were blowing, and sabers were flashing.

"It is beautiful," she cried, "this mimic war."

"May your highness never see aught else!" he replied fervently.

"Yes, yes; you have seen it divested of all its pomp. You have seen it
in all its cruelty and horror."

"I have known even the terror of it."

"You were afraid?"

"Many times."

She laughed. It is only the coward who denies fear.

He would certainly ask for his recall or transfer. He was eating his
heart out here in Dreiberg.

They began the incline. She did most of the talking, brightly and gaily;
but his ears were dull, for the undercurrent passed by him. He was, for
the first time, impressed with the fact that the young ladies of the
court never accompanied her on her morning rides. There were frequent
afternoon excursions, when several ladies and gentlemen rode with her
highness, but in the mornings, never.

"Will you return to America?" she queried.

"I shall idle in Paris for a while. I have an idea that there will be
war one of these days."

"And which side will you take?"

"I should be a traitor if I fought for France; I should be an ingrate if
I fought against her. I should be a spectator, a neutral."

"That would expose you to danger without the right to strike a blow in
defense."

"If I were hurt it would be but an accident. War correspondents would
run a hundred more risks than I. Oh, I should be careful; I know war too
well not to be."

"All this is strange talk for a man who is a confessed lover."

"Pardon me!" his eyes rather empty.

"Why, you tell me there is a woman; and all your talk is about war and
danger. These are opposites; please explain."

"There is a woman, but she will not hinder me in any way. She will, in
fact, know nothing about it."

"You are a strange lover. I never read anything like you in
story-books. Forgive me! I am thoughtless. The subject may be painful to
you."

The horses began to pull. Under normal circumstances Carmichael would
not have dismounted, but his horse had carried him many miles that
morning, and he was a merciful rider. In the war days often had his life
depended upon the care of his horse.

"You have been riding hard?"

"No, only far."

"I do not believe that there is a finer horseman in all Ehrenstein than
yourself."

"Your highness is very good to say that." Why had he not gone on instead
of waiting at the fork?

Within a few hundred yards of the gates he mounted again. And then he
saw a lonely figure sitting on the parapet. He would have recognized
that square form anywhere. And he welcomed the sight of it.

"Your Highness, do you see that man yonder, on the parapet? We fought in
the same cavalry. He is covered with scars. Not one man in a thousand
would have gone through what he did and lived."

"Is he an American?"

"By adoption. And may I ask a favor of your highness?"

"Two!" merrily.

"May I present him? It will be the joy of his life."

"Certainly. All brave men interest me."

Grumbach rose up, uncovered, thinking that the riders were going to pass
him. But to his surprise his friend Carmichael stopped his horse and
beckoned to him.

"Herr Grumbach," said Carmichael, "her serene highness desires me to
present you."

Hans was stricken dumb. He knew of no greater honor.

"Mr. Carmichael," she said in English, "tells me that you fought with
him in the American war?"

"Yes, Highness."

She plied him with a number of questions; how many battles they had
fought in, how many times they had been wounded, how they lived in camp,
and so forth; and which was the more powerful engine of war, the
infantry or the cavalry.

"The cavalry, Highness," said Hans, without hesitation.

She laughed. "If you had been a foot-soldier, you would have said the
infantry; of the artillery, you would have sworn by the cannon."

"That is true, Highness. The three arms are necessary, but there is ever
the individual pride in the arm one serves in."

"And that is right. You speak good English," she remarked.

"I have lived more than sixteen years in America, Highness."

"Do you like it there?"

"It is a great country, full of great ideas and great men, Highness."

"And you will go back?"

"Soon, Highness."

The mare, knowing that this was the way home, grew restive and began
prancing and pawing the road. She reined in quickly. As she did so,
something yellow flashed downward and tinkled as it struck the ground.
Grumbach hastened forward.

"My locket," said her highness anxiously.

"It is not broken, Highness," said Grumbach; "only the chain has come
apart." Then he handed it to her gravely.

"Thank you!" Her highness put both chain and locket into a small purse
which she carried in her belt, touched the mare, and sped up the road,
Carmichael following.

Grumbach returned to the parapet. He followed them till they passed out
of sight beyond the gates.

"_Gott!_" he murmured.

His face was as livid as the scar on his head.

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

completion: Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Winter's finally here, and Ideca announces that the princess's guards are looking for a second yellow girl. Wait, what? It turns out they lost one of their companions when travelling to Bayern and want to find her right away--now that the word's out, everyone will be looking for a blonde girl... so Ani better make sure to keep her cap on tightly. Ani decides she'll head back to Kildenree as soon as the winter passes anyway, though, since Falada's dead, Geric's gone, and she's got nothing but trouble waiting for her here. She's sure her mom will welcome her back, even if she's got nothing else to go back for. Right now, Ani's just chillin' at being goose girl. It's relaxing in a way. Wintermoon--a big festival--is coming up, and Ani goes with her worker friends. There, she sees future-tellers, dancers, and even the royals, all gathered in one section, looking down at people. Enna and Ani joke about the king's son who is about thirteen years old and still has all his baby fat--and suddenly Ani's glad she's not getting married to the prince. Razo thinks Ani's prettier than the princess, which makes her blush; Geric is with the royals, and looks a bit sheepish when he sees Ani. What's that about? Everyone's having a good time, until Yulan and Ishta spot Ani. He's all too happy to see her so he can arrange her funeral already. Ani threatens him, saying soon people will come visit from Kildenree and know Selia is an imposter--this charade can't go on forever. Nevertheless, the men grab her and start dragging her away from the crowd. But just then, Peace-keepers show up, and ask the men what they're doing; then the Peace-keepers tell the men to let the girl go since they are disrupting the festival. Enna must have gotten them for her, and Ani is super grateful--they would totally have killed her otherwise.


prompt:
Chapter: Herbeck dropped his quill, and there was a dream in his eyes. His desk
was littered with papers, well covered with ink; flowing sentences, and
innumerable figures. He was the watch-dog of the duchy. Never a bill
from the Reichstag that did not pass under his cold eye before it went
to the duke for his signature, his approval, or veto. Not a copper was
needlessly wasted, and never was one held back unnecessarily. Herbeck
was just both in great and little things. The commoners could neither
fool nor browbeat him.

The dream in his eyes grew; it was tender and kindly. The bar of
sunlight lengthened across his desk, and finally passed on. Still he sat
there, motionless, rapt. And thus the duke found him. But there was no
dream in _his_ eyes; they were cold with implacable anger. He held a
letter in his hand and tossed it to Herbeck.

"I shall throw ten thousand men across the frontier to-night, let the
consequences be what they may."

"Ten thousand men?" The dream was shattered. War again?

"Read that. It is the second anonymous communication I have received
within a week. As the first was truthful, there is no reason to believe
this one to be false."

Herbeck read, and he was genuinely startled.

"What do you say to that?" triumphantly.

"This," with that rapid decision which made him the really great
tactician he was. "Let them go quietly back to Jugendheit."

"No!" blazed the duke.

"Are we rich enough for war?"

"Always questions, questions! What the devil is my army for if not to
uphold my dignity? Herbeck, you shall not argue me out of this."

"Rather let me reason. This is some prank, which I am sure does not
concern Ehrenstein in the least. They would never dare enter Dreiberg
for aught else. There must be a flaw in our secret service."

"Doubtless."

"I have seen this writing before," said Herbeck. "I shall make it my
business to inquire who it is that takes this kindly interest in the
affairs of state."

The duke struck the bell violently.

"Summon the chief of the police," he said to the secretary.

"Yes, yes, your Highness, let it be a police affair. This letter does
not state the why and wherefore of their presence here."

"It holds enough for me."

"Will your highness leave the matter in my hands?"

"Herbeck, in some things you are weak."

"And in others I am strong," smiled the chancellor. "I am weak when
there is talk of war; I am strong when peace is in the balance."

"Is it possible, Herbeck, that you do not appreciate the magnitude of
the situation?"

"It is precisely because I do that I wish to move slowly. Wait. Let the
police find out _why_ they are here. There will be time enough then to
declare war. They have never seen her highness. Who knows?"

"Ah! But they have violated the treaty."

"That depends upon whether their presence here is or is not a menace to
the state. If they are here on private concerns which in no wise touch
Ehrenstein, it would be foolhardy to declare war. Your highness is
always letting your personal wounds blur your eyesight. Some day you
will find that Jugendheit is innocent."

"God hasten the day and hour!"

"Yes, let us hope that the mystery of it all will be cleared up. You are
just and patient in everything but this." Herbeck idled with his quill.
The little finger of his right hand was badly scarred, the mutilation of
a fencing-bout in his student days.

"What do you advise?" wearily. It seemed to the duke that Herbeck of
late never agreed with him.

"My advice is to wait. In a day or so arrest them under the pretext that
you believe them to be spies. If they remain mute, then the case is
serious, and you will have them on the hip. If, on the other hand, this
invasion is harmless and they declare themselves, the matter can be
adjusted in this wise: ignore their declaration and confine them a day
or two in the city prison, then publish the news broadcast. Having
themselves broken the letter if not the spirit of the treaty, they will
not dare declare war. Every court in Europe will laugh."

The duke struck his hands together. "You are always right, Herbeck. This
plan could not have been devised better or more to my satisfaction." The
duke laughed. "You are right. Ah, here is the chief."

Herbeck read the letter in part to the chief, who jotted down the words,
repeating aloud in a kind of mutter: "A mountaineer, a vintner, a
carter, a butcher, and a baker. You will give me their descriptions,
your Excellency?"

Herbeck read the postscript.

"But you don't tell him who--"

"Why should he know?" said Herbeck, glancing shrewdly at the duke. "His
ignorance will be all the better for the plot."

"Then this is big game, your Highness?" asked the chief.

"Big game."

"One is as big and powerful as a Carpathian bear. Look out," warned
Herbeck.

"And he is?"

"The mountaineer."

"And the vintner?"

"Oh, he is a little fellow, and hasn't grown his bite yet," said Herbeck
dryly.

The duke laughed again. It would be as good as a play.

"I thank you, Herbeck. You have neatly arranged a fine comedy. I do not
think so clearly as I used to. When the arrest is made, give it as much
publicity as possible. Take a squad of soldiers; it will give it a
military look. Will you be on the field this afternoon?"

"No, your highness," touching the papers which strewed his desk; "this
will keep me busy well into evening."

The duke waved his hand cheerfully and left the cabinet.

"Your excellency, then, really leaves me to work in the dark?" asked the
chief uneasily.

"Yes," tearing up the note. "But you will not be in the dark long after
you have arrested these persons. Begin with the mountaineer and the
vintner; the others do not matter so much." Then Herbeck laughed. The
chief raised his head. He had not heard his excellency laugh like that
in many moons. "Report to me your progress. Unfortunately my informant
does not state just where these fellows are to be found."

"That is my business, your Excellency."

"Good luck to you!" responded Herbeck, with a gesture of dismissal.

When her highness came in from her morning's ride she found the duke
waiting in her apartments.

"Why, father," kissing him, "what brings you here?"

"A little idea I have in mind." He drew her down to the arm of the
chair. "We all have our little day-dreams."

"Who does not, father?" She slid her arm round his neck. She was full of
affection for this kindly parent.

"But there are those of us who must not accept day-dreams as realities;
for then there will be heartaches and futile longings."

"You are warning me. About what, father?" There was a little stab in her
heart.

"Herr Carmichael is a fine fellow, brave, witty, shrewd. If all
Americans are like him, America will soon become a force in the world.
I have taken a fancy to him; and you know what they say of your
father--no formality with those whom he likes. Humanly, I am right; but
in the virtue of everyday events in court life, I am wrong."

She moved uneasily.

He went on: "Herbeck has spoken of it, the older women speak of it; and
they all say--"

"Say!" she cried hotly, leaping to her feet. "What do I care what they
say? Are you not the grand duke, and am I not your daughter?"

In his turn the duke felt the stab.

"You must ride no more with Herr Carmichael. It is neither wise nor
safe."

"Father!"

He was up, with his arms folding round her. "Child, it is only for your
sake. Listen to me. I married your mother because I loved her and she
loved me. The case is isolated, rare, out of the beaten path in the
affairs of rulers. But you, you must be a princess. You must steel your
heart against the invasion of love, unless it comes from a state equal
or superior to your own. It is harsh and cruel, but it is a law that
will neither bend nor break. Do you understand me?"

The girl stared blindly at the wall. "Yes, father."

"It is all my fault," said the duke, deeply agitated, for the girl
trembled under his touch.

"I shall not ride with him any more."

"There's a good girl," patting her shoulder.

"I have been a princess such a little while."

He kissed the wheaten-colored hair. "Be a brave heart, and I shall
engage to find a king for you."

"I don't want any playthings, father," with the old light touch; and
then she looked him full in the eyes. "I promise to do nothing more to
create comment if, on the other hand, you will promise to give me two
years more of freedom."

The duke readily assented, and shortly returned to his own suite, rather
pleased that there had been no scene; not that he had expected any.

Now that she was alone, she slipped into the chair, beat a light tattoo
with her riding-whip against her teeth, and looked fixedly at the wall
again, as if to gaze beyond it, into the dim future. But she saw nothing
save that she was young and that the days in Dresden, for all their
penury, were far pleasanter than these.

Meantime the chief of police called his subaltern and placed in his
hands the peculiar descriptions. The word vintner caused him to give
vent to an ejaculation of surprise.

"He was in here last night. I have had him followed all day. He lives
over the American consulate. Among his things was found the uniform of a
colonel in the Prussian Uhlans."

"Ha! Arrest him to-morrow, or the day after at the latest. But the
mountaineer is the big game. Do not arrest the vintner till you have
him. Where one is the other is likely to be. But on the moment of arrest
you must have a squad of soldiers at your back."

"Soldiers?" doubtfully.

"Express orders of his highness."

"It shall be done."

Considerable activity was manifest in the police bureau the rest of that
day.

To return to Carmichael. He had never before concerned himself with
resignations. Up to this hour he had never resigned anything he had set
his heart upon. So it was not an easy matter for him to compose a
letter to the secretary of state, resigning the post at Dreiberg. True,
he added that he desired to be transferred to a seaport town, France or
Italy preferred. The high altitude in Dreiberg had affected his heart.
However, in case there was no other available post, they would kindly
appoint his successor at once. Carmichael never faltered where his
courage was concerned, and it needed a fine quality of moral courage to
write this letter and enclose it in the diplomatic pouch which went into
the mails that night. It took courage indeed to face the matter squarely
and resolutely, when there was the urging desire to linger on and on,
indefinitely. That she was not going to marry the king of Jugendheit did
not alter his affairs in the least. It was all hopeless, absurd, and
impossible. He must go.

Some one was knocking on the door.

"Come in."

"A letter for your excellency," said the concierge.

"Wait till I read it. There may be an answer."

"If Herr Carmichael would learn the secret of number forty Krumerweg,
let him attire himself as a vintner and be in the Krumerweg at eight
o'clock to-night."

This note was as welcome to the recipient as the flowers in the spring.
An adventure? He was ready, now and always. Anything to take his mind
off his own dismal affairs. Then he recalled the woman in black; the
letter could apply to none but her. More than this, he might light upon
the puzzle regarding the vintner. He had met the fellow before. But
where?

"What sort of clothes does a vintner wear?" he asked.

"A vintner, your Excellency?"

"Yes. I shall need the costume of a vintner this evening."

"Oh, that will be easy," affirmed the concierge, "if your excellency
does not mind wearing clothes that have already been worn."

"My excellency will not care a hang. Procure them as soon as you can."

So it came about that Carmichael, dressed as a vintner, his hat over his
eyes, stole into the misty night and took the way to the Krumerweg. He
knew exactly where he wished to go: number forty. It was gray-black in
the small streets; and but for the occasional light in a window the dark
would have had no modification. Sometimes he would lose the point of the
compass and blunder against a wall or find himself feeling for the curb,
hesitant of foot. The wayside shrine was a rift in the gloom, and he
knew that he had only a few more steps to take. After all, who was the
lady in black and why should he bother himself about her? She probably
came from the back stairs of the palace. And yet, the chancellor himself
had been in this place. What should he do? Should he wait across the
street? Should he knock at the door and ask to be admitted? No; he must
skulk in the dark, on the opposite side. He picked his way over the
street and stood for a moment in the denser black.

A step? He trained his ear. But even as he did so his arms were grasped
firmly and twisted behind his back, and at the same time a cloth was
wrapped round the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes and nose
visible. It was all so sudden and unexpected that he was passive the
first few seconds; after that there was some scuffling, strenuous, too.
He was fighting against three. Desperately he surged this way and that.
Even in the heat of battle he wondered a little why no one struck him;
they simply clung to him, and at length he could not move. His hands
were tied, not roughly, but surely. In all this commotion, not a
whisper, not a voice; only heavy breathing.

Then one of the three whistled. A minute or two after a closed carriage
came into the Krumerweg, and Carmichael was literally bundled inside.
His feet were now bound. Two of his captors sat on the forward seat,
while the third joined the driver. Carmichael could distinguish nothing
but outlines and shadows. He choked, for he was furious. To be trussed
like this, without any explanation whatever! What the devil was going
on? Unanswered.

The carriage began to move slowly. It had to; swift driving in the
Krumerweg was hardly possible and at no time safe. Carmichael set
himself to note the turns of the street. One turn after another he
counted, fixing as well as he could the topography of the town through
which they were passing. At last he realized that they were leaving
Dreiberg behind and were going down the mountain on the north side,
toward Jugendheit. Once the level road was reached, a fast pace was set
and maintained for miles. At the Ehrenstein barrier no question was
asked, and Carmichael's one hope was shattered. At the Jugendheit
barrier the carriage stopped. There were voices. Carmichael saw the
flicker of a lantern. His captors got out. Presently there appeared at
the door an old man dressed as a mountaineer. In his hand was the
lantern.

"Pardon me, dear nephew--Fools!" he broke off, swinging round. "He has
tricked you all. This is not _he_!"

Three astonished faces peered over the old man's shoulder. Carmichael
eyed them evilly. He now saw that one was a carter, another a butcher,
and the third a baker. He had seen them before, in the Black Eagle. But
this signified nothing.

"Untie him and take off that rag. It may be Scharfenstein." The old man
possessed authority.

Carmichael, freed, stretched himself.

"Well?" he said, with a dangerous quiet.

"Herr Carmichael, the American consul!" The old man nearly dropped the
lantern. "Oh, you infernal blockheads!"

"Explanations are in order," suggested Carmichael.

"You are offered a thousand apologies for a stupid mistake. Now, may I
ask how you came to be dressed in these clothes on this particular
night?"

Carmichael's anger dissolved, and he laughed. All the mystery was gone
with the abruptness of a mist under the first glare of the sun. He saw
how neatly he had been duped. He still carried the note. This he gave to
the leader of this midnight expedition.

"Humph!" said the old man in a growl. "I thought as much." He whispered
to his companions. "Herr Carmichael, I shall have the honor of escorting
you back to Dreiberg."

"But will it be as easy to go in as it was to come out?"

"Trust you for that. The American consul's word will be sufficient for
our needs."

"And if I refuse to give that word?"

"In that case, you will have to use your legs," curtly.

"I prefer to ride."

"Thanks. I shall sit with the driver."

"That also will please me."

"And you ask no further questions?"

"Why should I? I know all I wish to know, which is more than you would
care to have me."

The mountaineer swore.

"If we talk any longer I shall be late for breakfast."

"Forward, then!"

On the way, it all came back to Carmichael with the vividness of a
forgotten photograph, come upon suddenly: Bonn, the Rhine, swift and
turbulent, a tow-headed young fellow who could not swim well, his own
plunge, his fingers in the flaxen hair, and the hard fight to the
landing; all this was a tale twice told.

Vintner? Not much!

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

completion: When she's not tending to her geese, Ani hangs out by the fire with the other workers, roasting nuts and cheese and playing games together. For the first time Ani feels like a family with these people, laughing and swapping stories together. On her walk back to her room, Ani sees Falada and hears a whisper of his last word to her: Princess. She's not sure if it's her imagination, or the head talking, but suddenly, Ani starts hearing the wind too. At home, Ani cries over her dead horse, and his reminder of her real nature--she's a princess, and she knows it. A couple weeks pass, and the days start to get longer. Nothing much has changed, except for Conrad's mood--while he was never a sunny person, lately he's been sulking around. Ani notices that whenever someone asks her a question, Conrad gets all annoyed and moody. The wind and Falada speak to her in chunks--little strings of words like "cold, ice, geese moving toward stream"--but nothing else. She can't really figure out how to talk back, though it helps her all the same. Conrad watches her closely and notices the geese respond to her better than him, though he can't figure out why. When he complains about this to the gang, Razo tells him to cool it and to quit having a tantrum. One day as Ani's listening to the wind, she stops to let it move through her. The only problem is, the wind knocks off her cap, and Conrad sees her hair--her beautiful yellow hair. She's the yellow girl the guards are looking for. That night, Conrad grills Ani in front of everyone. What is it that her family sells again? Where is she from in the forest? Why does she wear that cap all the time? She knows it's coming, but she's still hurt when Conrad blabs the truth about her hair to everyone. Luckily, Enna steps in and saves her again, telling everyone that Ani's embarrassed because her hair burnt off in a fire. Everyone thinks Conrad's just blowing smoke and rolls their eyes at him, but it seems like he's too bent out of shape to let this go. The next day Ani's alone in the pasture when she feels the wind again--she's been too scared to talk to it under Conrad's watchful eye, but she finally lets herself since he's nowhere to be found. The wind flows through her, and though it doesn't have the passion or thought of a bird or a horse, she loves listening to it anyway. When Conrad shows up, the wind blows his cap off, and he goes chasing after it. Ani can't help but be amused, but Conrad, on the other hand, thinks she's a demon. Who can control the wind?


prompt:
Chapter: It was dawn when they began to pull up the road to Dreiberg. The return
had been leisurely despite Carmichael's impatience. In the military
field the troops were breaking camp for their departure to the various
posts throughout the duchy. Only the officers, who were to attend the
court ball that evening, and the resident troops would remain. The
maneuvers were over; the pomp of miniature war was done. Carmichael
peered through the window. What a play yonder scene was to what he had
been through! To break camp before dawn, before breakfast, rain and hail
and snow smothering one; when the frost-bound iron of the musket caught
one's fingers and tore the skin; the shriek of shot overhead, the boom
of cannon and the gulp of impact; cold, hungry, footsore, sleepy; here
and there a comrade crumpling up strangely and lying still and white;
the muddy ruts in the road; the whole world a dead gray like the face of
death! What did those yonder know of war?

The carriage stopped.

"I shall not intrude, I trust?" said the old man, opening the door and
getting in.

"Not now," replied Carmichael. "What is all this about?"

"A trifle; I might say a damn-fool trifle. But what did you mean when
you said you knew all you wanted to know?" The mountaineer showed some
anxiety.

"Exactly what I said. The only thing that confuses me is the motive."

The old man thought for a while. "Suppose you had a son who was making a
fool of himself?"

"Or a nephew?"

"Well, or a nephew?"

"Making a fool of himself over what?"

"A woman."

"Nothing unusual in that. But what kind of a woman?"

"A good woman, honest, too good by far for any man."

"Oh!"

"Suppose she was vastly his inferior in station, that marriage to him
was merely a political contract? What would you do?"

"I believe I begin to understand."

"I am grateful for that."

"But the risks you run!"

"I believed them all over last night."

"But you would dare handle him in this way?"

"When the devil drives, my friend!" The other smiled. "I was born in the
heart of a war. I have taken so many risks that the sense of danger no
longer has a keen edge. But now that you understand, I am sure a soldier
like yourself will pardon the blunder of last night."

"Your nephew is an ungrateful wretch."

"What?" coldly.

"He knew all along who I was. I dragged him out of the Rhine upon a
certain day, and he plays this trick!"

"You? Carmichael, Carmichael; of course; I should have remembered the
name, as he wrote me at the time. Thank you! And you knew him all the
while?"

"No; I recalled his face, but the time and place were in the dark till
this early morning. Here we are at the gates. What's this? Guards? I
never saw them at these gates before."

"You will make yourself known to them?"

"Yes. But if they question me?"

"Wink. Every soldier knows what that means."

"When a fellow turns in early in the morning?" Carmichael laughed
hilariously.

"I ask you frankly not to let them question me. When I left the city
last night I never expected to return."

"I'll do what I can."

Carmichael bared his head and leaned out of the window. He recognized
one of the guards. A policeman in military uniform!

"Good morning!" said Carmichael.

"Herr Carmichael?" surprised. "Your excellency?"

"Yes. I've been having a little junket, I and my friend here." And
Carmichael winked.

"Ah!"

"But what--"

"Sh! Very important affair," said the disguised officer. "Go on."

But after the carriage had passed it occurred to him that Carmichael
wore a dress like a vintner's and that his friend was a mountaineer! _Du
lieber Himmel!_ What kind of a mix-up was this? The chancellor never
could have meant Carmichael!

"Thanks!" whispered the old man.

"Did you see the soldier?"

"Yes."

"He is one of the police in disguise. Be on your guard. If you don't
mind I'll use this carriage to the hotel."

"You are a thousand times welcome. I will leave you here. And take the
advice of an old man who has seen the four sides of humanity: leave
falling in love to poets and to fools!"

The mountaineer got out quickly, closed the door, spoke a word to the
driver, and slipped into an alleyway.

Carmichael arrived at the Grand Hotel in time to see her serene
highness, accompanied by two of her ladies and an escort of four
soldiers, start out for her morning ride. The zest of his own strange
adventure died. He waited till they had passed, then slunk into the
hotel. The concierge gazed at him in amazement. Carmichael winked. The
concierge smiled. He understood. _Americaner_ or _Ehrensteiner_, the
young fellows were all the same.

"Police at the gates," mused Carmichael, as he soaked his head and face
in cold water. "By George, it looks as if my friend the vintner was in
for some excitement! Far be it that I should warn him. He had his little
joke; I can wait for mine."

Gretchen! Carmichael stopped, his collar but half-way around his throat.
Gretchen, brave, kindly, beautiful Gretchen! Now, by the Lord, that
should not be! He would wring the vintner's neck. He snapped the collar
viciously. He was not in an amiable mood this fair September morning.
And when some one hammered on the door he called sharply.

Grumbach entered.

"You are angry about something," he said.

"So I am, but you are always welcome."

"You have overslept?"

"No; on the contrary."

"Poker?"

"After a fashion," said Carmichael, the grumble gone from his voice. "I
was beaten by three of a kind."

"So?"

"But I found a good hand later."

"Kings."

"Four?"

"Oh, no; only one. I haven't drawn yet."

"You are not telling me all."

"No. You are going to the ball to-night?"

"I would not miss it for five thousand crowns," sadly.

"You look as if you were going to a funeral instead of the greatest
event of the year in Dreiberg."

"I didn't sleep well either."

"Out?"

"No; one does not have to go out in order not to sleep."

"I'd like to know what's going on in that bullet-head of yours."

"Nothing is going on; everything has stopped."

"Can't you make a confidant of me, Hans?"

"Not yet, Captain."

"When you are ready it may be too late. I leave Dreiberg for good in a
few weeks."

"No!" For the first time Grumbach showed interest.

"I have resigned the consulship."

"And for what reason?"

Carmichael silently drew on his coat.

_"Ach!_ So you have one, too?"

"One what?"

"One secret."

"Yes. But it's the kind we can't talk about."

"I understand. Have you had breakfast?"

"Neither have I. Let us go together. It may be we need each other's
company this morning. You and I won't have to bother about talking."

"You make a good comrade, Hans."

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a large crowd outside the palace that night, which was clear
and starry. A troop of cavalry patrolled the fence. Carriage after
carriage rolled in through the gates, coming directly from the opera. It
was eleven o'clock. All the great in the duchy were on hand that night.
Often a cheer rose from the ranks of the outsiders as some popular
general or some famous beauty passed. It was an orderly crowd, jostling
and good-natured, held only by curiosity. Every window in the palace
presented a glowing square of light; and beams crisscrossed the emerald
lawns and died in the arms of the lurking shadows. The gardens were
illuminated besides. It was fairy-land, paid for by those who were not
entitled to enter. Few, however, thought of this inconsistency. A duchy
is a duchy; nothing more need be said.

Carmichael was naturally democratic. To ride a block in a carriage was
to him a waste of time. And he rather liked to shoulder into a press.
With the aid of his cane and a frequent push of the elbow he worked his
way to the gates. And close by the sentry-box he saw Gretchen and her
vintner. Carmichael could not resist stopping a moment. He raised his
hat to Gretchen, to the wonder of those nearest. The vintner would have
gladly disappeared, but the human wall behind made this impossible. But
he was needlessly alarmed. Carmichael only smiled ironically.

"Do you know where the American consulate is?" he asked low, so that
none but Gretchen and the vintner heard.

"Yes," said the vintner, blushing with shame.

"I live above the agency."

"Good! I shall expect to see you in the morning."

But the vintner was determined that he shouldn't. He would be at work in
the royal vineyards on the morrow.

"To-morrow?" repeated Gretchen, to whom this by-play was a blank. "Why
should he wish to see you?"

"Who knows? Let us be going. They are pressing us too close to the
gates."

"Very well," acquiesced Gretchen, somewhat disappointed. She wanted to
see all there was to be seen.

"It is half-after ten," he added, as if to put forward some logical
excuse for leaving at this moment.

A man followed them all the way to the Krumerweg.

Carmichael threw himself eagerly into the gaiety of the dance. Never had
he seen the ball-room so brilliant with color. Among all those there
his was the one somber dress. The white cambric stock and the frill in
his shirt were the only gay touches. It was not his fault: the rules of
the service compelled him thus to dress. But he needed no brass or cloth
of gold. There was not a male head among all the others to compare with
his.

He was an accomplished waltzer, after the manner of that day, when one
went round and round like some mechanical toy wound up. Strauss and
Waldteufel tingled his feet; and he whirled ambassadors' wives till they
were breathless and ambassadors' daughters till they no longer knew or
cared where they were. He was full of subtle deviltry this night, with
an undercurrent of malice toward every one and himself in particular.
This would be the last affair of the kind for him, and he wanted a full
memory of it. Between times he exchanged a jest or two with the
chancellor or talked battles with old Ducwitz; twice he caught the grand
duke's eye, but there was only a friendly nod from that august
personage, no invitation to talk. Thrice, while on the floor, her
highness passed him; but there was never a smile, never a glance. He
became careless and reckless. He would seek her and talk to her and
smile at her even if the duke threw a regiment in between. The Irish
blood in him burned to-night, capable of any folly. He no longer danced.
He waited and watched; and it was during one of these waits that he saw
Grumbach in the gallery.

"Now, what the devil is the Dutchman doing with a pair of
opera-glasses!"

It required some time and patience to discover the object of this
singular attention on the part of Grumbach. Carmichael was finally
convinced that this object was no less a person than her serene
highness!

Later her highness stood before one of the long windows in the
conservatory, listlessly watching the people in the square. And these
poor fools envied her! To envy her, who was a prisoner, a chattel to be
exchanged for war's immunity, who was a princess in name but a cipher in
fact! All was wrong with the world. She had stolen out of the ball-room;
the craving to be alone had been too strong. Little she cared whether
they missed her or not. She left the window and sat on one of the
divans, idly opening and shutting her fan. Was that some one coming for
her? She turned.

It was Carmichael.

What an opportunity for scandal! She laughed inwardly. The barons and
their wives, the ambassadors' wives and their daughters, would miss them
both. And the spirit of deviltry lay also upon her heart. She smiled at
the man and with her fan bade him be seated at her side. The divinity
that hedges in a king did not bother either of them just then.

"You have not asked me to dance to-night," she declared.

"I know it."

"Why?"

"I am neither a prince nor an ambassador."

"But you _have_ danced with me."

"Yes; I have been to Heaven now and then."

"And do you eject yourself thus easily?"

"By turning myself out my self-esteem remains unruffled."

"Then you expected to be turned out?"

"Sooner or later."

"Why?"

Again that word! To him it was the most tantalizing word in the
language. It crucified him.

"Why?" she repeated, her eyes soft and dreamy.

"As I have said, I am not a prince. I am only a consul, not even a
diplomat, simply a business arm of my government. My diplomacy never
ascends above the quality of hops and wines imported. I am supposed to
take in any wandering sailor, feed him, and ship him home. I am also the
official guide of all American tourists."

"That is no reason."

"Your father--" He should have said the grand duke.

"Ah, yes; my father, the chancellor, the ambassadors, and their wives
and daughters! I begin to believe that you have grown afraid of them."

"I confess that I have. I had an adventure last night. Would you like to
hear about it?"

How beautiful she was in that simple gown of white, unadorned by any
jewels save the little crown of sparkling white stones in her hair!

"Tell me."

He was a good story-teller. It was a crisp narrative he made.

"A veiled lady," she mused. "What would you say if I told you that your
mystery is no mystery at all? I am the veiled lady. And the person I
went to see was my old nurse, my foster-mother, with whom I spent the
happiest, freest days of my life, in the garret at Dresden. Pouf! All
mysteries may be dispelled if we go to the right person. So you are to
be recalled?"

"I have asked for my recall, your Highness."

"And so Dreiberg no longer appeals to you? You once told inc that you
loved it."

"I am cursed with _wanderlust_, your Highness." He regretted that he had
not remained in the ball-room. He was in great danger.

"You promised to tell me what she is like." Suddenly all his fear went
away, all his trepidation; the spirit of recklessness which had vised
him a little while ago again empowered him. He was afraid of nothing.
His face flushed and there were bright points of fire in his eyes. She
saw what she had roused, and grew afraid herself. She pretended to
become interested in the Watteau cupids on her fan.

"How shall I describe her?" he said. "I have seen only paintings and
marbles, and these are inanimate. I have never seen angels, so I can not
draw a comparison there. Have you ever seen ripe wheat in a rain-storm?
That is the color of her hair. There is jade and lapis-lazuli in her
eyes. And Ole Bull could not imitate the music of her voice." He leaned
toward her. "And I love her better than life, better than hope; and
between us there is the distance of a thousand worlds. So I must give up
the dream and go away, as an honorable man should."

Neither of them heard the chancellor's approach.

"And because I love her."

The fan in her hand slipped unheeded to the floor.

"Your Highness," broke in the cold even tones of Herbeck, "your father
is making inquiries about you."

Carmichael rose instantly, white as the frill in his shirt.

Hildegarde, however, was a princess. She gained her feet leisurely, with
half a smile on her lips.

"Count, Herr Carmichael tells me that he is soon to leave Dreiberg."

"Ah!" There was satisfaction in Herbeck's ejaculation, satisfaction of a
frank order. But there was a glint of admiration in his eyes as he
recognized the challenge in Carmichael's. He saw that he must step
carefully in regard to this hot-headed young Irishman. "We shall miss
Herr Carmichael."

Her highness moved serenely toward the door. Carmichael waited till she
was gone from sight, then he stooped and picked up the fan. Herbeck at
once held out his hand.

"Give it to me, Herr Captain," he said, with a melancholy gentleness. "I
will return it to her highness."

Carmichael deliberately thrust the fan into a pocket and shook his head.

"Your Excellency, I do not know how long you stood behind us, but you
were there long enough to learn that I have surrendered my dream.
Nothing but force will cause me to surrender this fan."

"Keep it, then, my son," replied the chancellor, with good
understanding.

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

completion: Another couple weeks pass, and Ani tends to her geese. One day, the wind tells her five men on horses are coming toward her--Ani knows something's not right, especially when she hears the geese say danger. The men arrive and try to steal the geese, but Ani tells him these are the King's geese, so they're gonna need to go ahead and leave them alone. One of the men forces Ani onto the ground with a pole--unable to move, Ani summons the wind to help her. How? She starts moving the wind all around them, picking up dirt as it goes, pushing it into their eyes and all around. The men aren't sure what's happening, but they run away, and victory is Ani's. Phew. When Conrad and another boy show up, ready to help, the men are already gone. They can't believe Ani stood up to thieves by herself--and won. Ani can't believe Conrad actually went to get help, so she thanks him. Everyone's buzzing about the fight, and word even gets to the king of Ani's heroic efforts. Tatto from the palace comes to get her to bring her back to the king for a reward, but Ani doesn't feel much like going, and she tells Conrad he should go instead. Conrad's surprised, but he goes to the palace . Ani stays back because she doesn't want to risk being seen, plus in two months she'll be able to leave Bayern and head back home. That night, Enna comes to Ani's room and tells her to come quickly to hear what Tatto is telling everyone. It turns out there's going to be a war with Kildenree--the princess told the king that she's really just a decoy, and her home nation is all set to attack Bayern as soon as possible. Suddenly Ani gets it. This is how Selia is going to keep her secret--by killing off everyone who knows she's not really a princess. And if Bayern strikes Kildenree first, Selia's position as princess will be safe. Before, Ani was happy to go back to Kildenree alone and let Selia be princess in Bayern, but now the lives of her family in Kildenree depend on her revealing her former bestie as an imposter. Back in her room, Ani cuddles up to Jok, who still keeps her company. Outside, footsteps break the silence. She knows it's Ungolad after her--she can feel his body creeping up--so she tells Jok to attack. She runs out of her room, and then all the way out of Bayern, into the forest. Ungolad's dagger hits Ani's back, but she keeps on running and running until she collapses.


prompt:
Chapter: The ducal vineyards covered some forty acres of rich hillside. All day
long the sun beat squarely upon the clustering fruit. A low rambling
building of stone covered the presses and bottling departments, and was
within comparatively easy distance of the city. During the vintage
several hundred men and women found employment. The grand duke derived a
comfortable private revenue from these wines, the Tokay being scarcely
inferior to that made in Hungary. There was a large brewery besides,
which supplied all the near-by cities and towns. The German noble, be he
king, duke, or baron, has always been more or less a merchant; and it
did not embarrass the grand duke of Ehrenstein in the least to see his
coat of arms burnt into oaken wine-casks.

A former steward had full charge of the business, personally hiring and
paying the help and supervising the various branches. He was a gruff old
fellow, just and honest; and once you entered his employ he was as much
a martinet as any captain at sea. The low cunning of the peasant never
eluded his watchful eye. He knew to the last pound of grapes how much
wine there should be, how much beer to the last measure of hops.

The entrance to the vineyards was made through a small lodge where the
ducal vintner lived, and kept his books and moneys till such time as he
should be required to place them before the proper official.

Upon this brave morning, the one following the ball at the palace, the
vintner was reclining against the outside wall of the gates, smoking his
china-pipe and generally at peace with the world. The bloom was early
upon the grape, work was begun, and the vintage promised to be
exceptionally fine. Through a drifting cloud of smoke he discerned a
solitary figure approaching from the direction of Dreiberg, a youthful
figure, buoyant of step, and confident. Herr Hoffman was rather
interested. Ordinarily the peasant who came to this gate had his hat in
his hand and his feet were laggard. Not so this youth. He paused at the
gate and inspected the old man highly.

"Herr Hoffman?"

"Yes."

"I want work."

"So? What can you do?" He was a clean youngster, this, but there was
something in his eyes that vaguely disturbed the head vintner. It was
like mockery more than anything else. The youth recounted his abilities,
and Hoffman was gracious enough to admit that he seemed to know what he
was talking about.

"I have a letter to you also."

"_Ach!_ We shall be properly introduced now," said Hoffman, growling.
"Let me see it."

He saw it, but with starting eyes. There was, then, something new under
the sun? A picker of grapes, recommended by a princess! He turned the
letter inside out, but found no illumination.

"_Du lieber Gott!_ You are Leopold Dietrich?"

"Yes, Herr."

"How did you come by this letter?"

"Her serene highness is patron to Gretchen, the goose-girl, at whose
request the recommendation was given me."

This altered matters. "Follow me," said Hoffman.

The two entered the office.

"Can you write?"

"A little, Herr."

"Then write your name on this piece of paper and that. Each night you
will present yours with the number of pounds, which will be credited to
you. You must bring it back each morning. If you lose it you will be
paid nothing for your labor."

Dietrich wrote his name twice. It was rather hard work, for he screwed
up his mouth and cramped his fingers. Still, Hoffman was not wholly
satisfied with his eyes.

"Gottlieb," he said to one of the men, "take him to terrace
ninety-eight. That hasn't been touched yet. We'll see what sort of
workman he is." He spoke to Dietrich again. "What is Gretchen to you?"
For Hoffman knew Gretchen; many a time she had filled her basket and
drawn her crowns.

"She is my sweetheart, Herr." And there was no mockery in the youth's
eyes as he said this.

"Take him along, Gottlieb. You will have no further use for this letter
from her highness, so I'll keep it and frame it and hang it in the
office." Which showed that Hoffman himself had had lessons in the gentle
art of mockery.

Terrace ninety-eight was given over to small grapes; thus, many bunches
had to be picked to fill the basket. But Dietrich went to work with a
will. His fingers were deft and his knife was sharp; and by midsun he
had turned his sixth basket, which was fair work, considering.

As Hoffman did not feed his employees, Dietrich was obliged to beg from
his co-workers. Very willingly they shared with him their coarse bread
and onions. He ate the bread and stuffed the onions in his pocket. There
was no idling. As soon as the frugal meal was over, the peasants trooped
away to their respective terraces. Once more the youth was alone. He set
down his basket and laughed. Was there ever such a fine world? Had there
ever been a more likable adventure? The very danger of it was the spice
which gave it flavor. He stretched out his arms as if to embrace this
world which appeared so rosal, so joyous to his imagination.

"Thanks, thanks! You have given me youth, and I accept it," he said
aloud, perhaps addressing that mutable goddess who presides over all
follies. "Regret it in my old age? Not I! I shall have lived for one
short month. Youth was given to us to enjoy, and I propose to press the
grape to the final drop. And when I grow old this adventure shall be the
tonic to wipe out many wrinkles of care. A mad fling, a brimming cup,
one short merry month--and then, the reckoning! How I hate the thought!"

He sobered; the laughter went out of his eyes and face. Changeful
twenty, where so many paths reach out into the great world, paths
straight and narrow, of devious turnings which end at precipices, of
blind alleys which lead nowhere and close in behind!

"I love her, I love her!" His face grew bright again, and the wooing
blood ran tingling in his veins. "Am I a thief, a scoundrelly thief,
because I have that right common to all men, to love one woman? Some day
I shall suffer for this; some day my heart shall ache; so be it!"

The sun began the downward circle; the shadows crept eastward and
imperceptibly grew longer; a gray tone settled under the stones at his
feet. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he stood dreaming. His fingers were
growing sore and sticky and there was a twinge in his back as he
shouldered his eighth basket and scrambled down to the man who weighed
the pick. He was beginning his ninth when he saw Gretchen coming along
the purple aisle. She waved a hand in welcome, and he sheathed his
knife. No more work this day for him. He waited.

"What a beautiful day!" said Gretchen, with a happy laugh.

"Aye, what a day for love!"

"And work!"

"Kiss me!"

"When you fill that basket."

"Not before?"

"Not even a little one," mischief in her glance. Out came the knife and
the vintner plied himself furiously. Gretchen had a knife of her own,
and she joined him. They laughed gaily. Snip, snip; bunch by bunch the
contents of the basket grew.

"There!" he said at last. "That's what I call work; but it is worth it.
Now!"

Gretchen saw that it would be futile to hold him off longer; what she
would not give he would of a surety take. So she put her hands behind
her back, closed her eyes, and raised her chin. He kissed not only the
lovely mouth, but the eyes and cheeks and hair.

"Gretchen, you are as good and beautiful as an angel."

"What are angels like?"

"An angel is the most beautiful woman a poet can describe or imagine."

"Then there are no men angels?"

"Only Gabriel; at least I never heard of any other."

"Then I do not want to be an angel. I had rather be what I am. Besides,
angels do not have tempers; they do not long for things they should not
have; they have no sweethearts." She caught him roughly by the arms.
"Ah, if anything should happen to you, I should die! It seems as though
I had a hundred hearts and that they had all melted into one for love of
you. Do men love as women love? Is it everything and all things, or
only an incident? I would give up my soul to you if you asked for it."

"I ask only for your love, Gretchen; only that." And he pressed her
hands. "All men are rogues, more or less. There are so many currents and
eddies entering into a man's life. It is made up of a thousand variant
interests. No, man's love is never like a woman's. But remember this,
Gretchen, I loved you the best I knew how, as a man loves but once,
honorably as it was possible, purely and dearly."

The shade of trouble crossed her face. "Why are you always talking like
that? Do I not know that you love me? Have I not my dowry, and are we
not to be married after the vintage?"

"But your singing?"

"Singing? Why, my voice belongs to you; for your sake I wish to be
great, for no other reason."

He ripped a bunch of grapes from the vine, a thing no careful vintner
should do, and held it toward her.

"Have you ever heard of the kissing cherries?" he asked.

She shook her head. He explained.

"This bunch will do very well."

He took one grape at the bottom in his teeth. Gingerly Gretchen did the
same. Their lips met in a smothered laughter. Then they tried it again.

And this Watteau picture met the gaze of two persons on the terrace
below. The empurpling face of one threatened an explosion, but the
smiling face of the other restrained this vocal thunder. The old head
vintner kicked a stone savagely, and at this rattling noise Gretchen and
her lover turned. They beheld the steward, and peering over his shoulder
the amused countenance of the Princess Hildegarde.

"You--" began the steward, no longer able to contain himself.

"Patience, Hoffman!" warned her highness. Then she laughed blithely. It
was such a charming picture, and never had she seen a handsomer pair of
bucolic lovers. A sudden pang drove the merriment from her face. Ah, but
she envied Gretchen! For the peasant there was freedom, there was the
chosen mate; but for the princess--

"Your hat, scoundrel!" cried Hoffman.

The vintner snatched off his hat apologetically and swung it round on
the tips of his fingers.

"Is this the way you work?"

"I have picked nine baskets."

"You should have picked twelve."

It interested her highness to note that this handsome young fellow was
not afraid of the head vintner. So this was Gretchen's lover? He was
really handsome; there was nothing coarse about his features or figure.
And presently she realized that he was returning her scrutiny with
interest. He had never seen her highness at close range before, and he
now saw that Gretchen was more beautiful only because he saw her through
the eyes of a lover.

The pause was broken by Gretchen.

"Pardon, Highness!"

"For what, Gretchen?"

"For not having seen your approach."

"That was my fault, not yours. When is the wedding?"

"After the vintage, Highness."

Her highness then spoke to the bridegroom-elect. "You will be good to
her?"

"Who could help it, your Highness?"

The pronoun struck her oddly, for peasants as a usual thing never used
it in addressing the nobility.

"Well, on the day of the wedding I will stand sponsor to you both. And
good luck go with you. Come, Hoffman; my horse will be restive and my
men impatient."

She passed down the aisle, and the head vintner followed, wagging his
head. He was not at all satisfied with that tableau. He employed men to
work; he wanted no love-affairs inside his vineyards. As for her
highness, she had come for the sole purpose of seeing Gretchen's lover;
and it occurred to her that the really desirable men were generally
unencumbered by titles.

"He will discharge me," said the young vintner gloomily.

"He will not dare," returned Gretchen. "We have done nothing wrong. Her
highness will stand by us. It must be five o'clock," looking at the sun.

"In that case, no more work for the day."

He swung the basket to his shoulder, and the sun, flashing upon its
contents, turned the bloomy globes into dull rubies. He presented his
card at the office and was duly credited with three crowns, which,
according to Gretchen, was a fine day's work. Hoffman said nothing about
dismissal.

"Come day after to-morrow; to-morrow is a feast-day. You are always
having feast-days when work begins. All summer long you loaf about, but
the minute you start to work you must find excuses to lay off. Clear
out, both of you!"

"Work at last," said Dietrich, as he and Gretchen started for the city.
"If I can get a position in the brewery for the winter I shall be rich."

"Oh, the beautiful world!"

"Do you recall the first day I met you?" he asked.

"Yes. A little more and that dog would have killed the big gander. What
little things bring about big ones! When I walked into the city that
day, had any one told me that I should fall in love, I should have
laughed."

"And I!"

Arm in arm they went on. Sometimes Gretchen sang; often he put her hand
to his lips. By and by they came abreast of an old Gipsy. He wore a
coat of Joseph's, and his face was as lined as a frost-bitten apple. But
his eyes were keen and undimmed, and he walked confidently and erect,
like a man who has always lived in the open.

"Will you tell me how to find the Adlergasse?" he asked in broken
German. His accent was that of a Magyar. He had a smattering of a dozen
tongues at his command, for in his time he had crossed and recrossed the
Danube, the Rhine, and the Rhone.

They carelessly gave him specific directions and passed on. He followed
grimly, like fate, whose agent he was, though long delayed. When he
reached the Adlergasse he looked for a sign. He came to a stop in front
of the dingy shop of the clock-mender. He went inside, and the ancient
clock-mender looked up from his work, for he was always working.

He rose wearily and asked what he could do for his customer. His eyes
were bothering him, so the fact that the man was a Gipsy did not at
first impress him.

The Gipsy smiled mysteriously and laid a hand on his heart.

"Who are you?" sharply demanded the clock-mender.

"Who I am does not matter. I am he whom you seek."

"God in Heaven!" The bony hands of the clock-mender shot out and
clutched the other's coat in a grip which shook, so intense was it. The
Gipsy released himself slowly. "But first show me your pretty crowns and
the paper which will give me immunity from the police. I know something
about you. You never break your word. That is why I came. Your crowns,
as you offered, and immunity; then I speak."

"Man, I can give you the crowns, but God knows I have no longer the
power to give you immunity."

"So?"

The Gipsy shouldered his bundle.

"For God's sake, wait!" begged the clock-mender.

But the Gipsy walked out, unheeding.

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

completion: For three days, Ani walks in the forest; for four nights, she sleeps on the ground--girl just keeps walking, until she makes it to Gilsa's cottage. This time, she remembers to tell Gilsa she's going to faint before she does. When Ani wakes up, Gilsa tells her that she's been sleeping for a couple days, but she's out of the woods--figuratively of course. Ani's fever has finally broken. Of course Gilsa and Finn have a lot of questions about why she's there--and with a knife wound no less--so Ani tells them everything. We mean everything: being a princess, talking to the wind, Falada's head--every last detail. When she's done with her story, Finn and Gilsa ask her what she's planning on doing next, since she can't just ride around town proclaiming she's a princess. Ani's not sure what to do next, and the story she's just told Finn and Gilsa doesn't seem real to her somehow, so she hangs out at their place while gathering her strength back. She has just been stabbed in the back after all. When Gilsa's neighbor, Frigart, stops by, Ani notices a gold and ruby ring on her hand--her gold and ruby ring. Ani asks the lady about it, and she gets all cagey about where she got it. Until Ani points out a guy was murdered in the woods with that ring on, and then the lady lets up--she got it as payment from a guy she helped get back on his feet. Ani insists on being taken to see this man. Immediately. When they get to Frigart's house, Ani's surprised to see her trusted guard Talone--alive. The two catch up on all that's happened since they were last together. Talone was badly injured, and rested at Frigart's place; he's got no horse or money, and thought Ani was dead this whole time. His plan has been to travel back to Kildenree once he heals in order to tell the queen what happened. He feels guilty that he didn't protect her, but Ani assures him it wasn't his fault. Then she tells Talone all about being a goose girl--and this time when she shares her story, it seems real to her somehow. She's even figured out it was Conrad who turned her in to Ungolad when he went to the king for her reward. Both Talone and Ani want to act right away, but they also both still need to heal, so they decide to go into the city in another week once they are stronger. Gilsa isn't impressed with the news that her forest refugee is actually royalty, and Ani is warmed by it--she feels loved and secure with these people out in the forest, more so than she did six months ago in the palace, that's for sure. She anxiously waits until they can spring into action.


prompt:
Chapter: Two days later, in the afternoon.

"Grumbach," said Carmichael, "what the deuce were you looking at the
other night, with those opera-glasses?"

"At the ball?" Grumbach pressed down the ash in his pipe and brushed his
thumb on his sleeve. "I was looking into the past."

"With a pair of opera-glasses?"

"Yes." Grumbach was perfectly serious.

"Oh, pshaw! You were following her highness with them. I want to know
why."

"She is beautiful."

"You made a promise to me not long ago."

"I did?" non-committally.

"Yes. Soon I shall be shaking the dust of Dreiberg, and I want to know
beforehand what this Chinese puzzle is. What did you do that compelled
your flight from Ehrenstein?"

Grumbach's pipe hung pendulent in his hand. He swung it to and fro
absently.

"I am waiting. Remember, you are an American citizen, for all that you
were born here. If anything should happen to you, I must know the whole
story in order to help you. You know that you may trust me."

"It isn't that, Captain. I have grown to like you in these few days."

"What has that to do with it?" impatiently.

"Nothing, perhaps. Only, if I tell you, you will not be my friend."

"Nonsense! What you did sixteen years ago doesn't matter now. It is
enough for me that you fought in my regiment, and that you were a brave
soldier."

"Those opera-glasses; it was an idea. Well, since you will know. I was a
gardener's boy. I worked under my brother Hermann. I used to ask the
nurse, who had charge of her serene highness, where she would go each
day. Then I'd cut flowers and meet them on the road somewhere and give
the bouquet to the child. There was never any escort; a footman and a
driver. The little one was always greatly pleased, and she would call
me Hans. I was in love those days." Grumbach laughed with bitterness.
"Yes, even I. Her name was Tekla, and she was a jade. I wanted to run
away, but I had no money. I had already secured a passport; no matter
how. It was the first affair, and I was desperately hurt. One day a
Gipsy came to me. I shall always know him by the yellow spot in one of
his black eyes. I was given a thousand crowns to tell him which road her
highness was to be driven over the next day. As I said, I was mad with
love. Why a Gipsy should want to know where her highness was going to
ride was of no consequence to me. I told him. I was to get the money the
same night. It was thus that her highness was stolen; it was thus that I
became accessory before the fact, as the lawyers say. Flight with a band
of Magyar Gipsies; weary days in the mountains, with detachments of
troops scouring the whole duchy. Finally I escaped. A fortune was
offered for the immediate return of the child. At the time I believed
that it was an abduction for ransom. But no one ever came forward for
the reward. There was a price on my head when it was known that I had
fled." Grumbach stared into his pipe without seeing anything.

"And no one ever came for the reward? That is strange. Was immunity
promised?" asked Carmichael.

"It was inferred, but not literally promised."

"Fear kept them away."

"Perhaps. And there is Arnsberg."

"Was he guilty?"

"I never saw _his_ hand anywhere."

"So this is the story! Well, when a man's in love he is, more or less,
in the clutch of temporary insanity." Carmichael's tone wasn't exactly
cheery.

"Insanity! Then you do not judge me harshly?"

"No, Hans. I've a wild streak in me also. But what I can't understand is
why you return and put your head in the lion's mouth. The police will
stumble on something. I tell you frankly that if you are arrested I
could do little or nothing for you. The United States protects only
harmless political outcasts. Yours is a crime such as nullifies your
citizenship, and any government would be compelled, according to the
terms of treaty, to send you back here, if the demand was made for your
extradition."

"I know all that," Grumbach replied, dumping the ash into his palm and
casting it into the paper-basket.

"I suppose that when conscience drives we must go on. But the princess
has been found. The best thing you can do is to put your passports into
immediate use and return to the States. You can do no good here."

"Maybe." Grumbach refilled his pipe, lighted it, and without saying more
went out and down into the street.

Carmichael watched him through the window. Cloud after cloud of smoke
ran wavering behind the exile. He was smoking like one deeply perturbed.

"He's a queer codger, and it's a queer story. I don't believe I have
heard it all, either. What was he really hunting for with those glasses?
I give it up."

He was not angry with Grumbach; rather he seemed to be drawn to him more
closely than ever. Mad with love. That was the phrase. He conned it over
and over; mad with love. That excused many things. How strangely the
chess-men were moved! Had Grumbach not assisted in the abduction, her
highness would in all probability have grown up as other princesses,
artificial, cold, reserved, seldom touched by the fires of animated
thought or action. In fact, had things been otherwise, he never would
have ridden with her highness in the freshness of the morning--or fallen
in love with her. By rights he ought to curse Grumbach; but for him he
would still be captain of his heart. Mad with love! There was no doubt
of it. And the phrase rang in his ear for some time.

Grumbach was indeed perturbed, and this sensation was the result of what
he had _not_ told his friend. _Gott!_ What was going on? He hadn't the
least idea where his footsteps were leading him. He went on, his teeth
set strongly on the horn mouthpiece of his pipe, his hands jammed in his
pockets. And after a time he woke. He was in the Adlergasse. And of all
that happy, noisy family, only he and Hermann left! In one of the open
doorways, for it was warm, a final caress of vanishing summer, he saw a
fat, youngish woman knitting woolen hose. Two or three children
sprawled about her knees. There was that petulance of lip and forehead
which marked the dissatisfaction of the coquette married.

"Tekla!" Grumbach murmured.

He was not conscious that he had paused, but the woman was. She eyed him
with the mild indifference of the bovine. Then she dropped her glance
and the shining needles clicked afresh. Grumbach forced his step onward.
And for this! He laughed discordantly. The woman looked up again
wonderingly. Now, why should this stranger laugh all by himself like
that?

Hans saw the sign of the Black Eagle, and directed his steps
thitherward. He sat down and ordered a beer, drinking it quickly. He
repeated the order, but he did not touch the second glass. He threw back
the lid and stared at the creamy froth as a seer stares at his ball of
crystal. Carmichael was right; he was a doddering fool. What was done
was done, and a thousand consciences would not right it. And what right
had conscience to drag him back to Ehrenstein, where he had known the
bitterest and happiest moments of his life? And yet, rail as he might at
this invisible restraint called conscience, he saw God's direction in
this return. Only _he_, Hans Grumbach, knew and one other. And that
other, who?

Fat, Tekla was fat; and he had treasured the fair picture of her youth
these long years! Well, there was an end to that. Little fat Tekla, to
have nearly overturned a duchy, and never a bit the wiser! And then Hans
became aware of voices close at hand, for he sat near the bar.

"Yes, Fraeu, he is at work in the grand duke's vineyards. And think, the
first day he picked nine baskets."

"That is good. But I know many a one who can pick their twelve. And you
are to be married when the vintage is done? You will make a fine wife,
Gretchen."

"And he, a fine husband."

"And you will bring him a dowry, too. But his own people; what does he
say of them?"

"He has no parents; only an uncle, who doesn't count. We shall live with
grandmother and pay her rent."

"And you are wearing a new dress," admiringly.

Gretchen preened herself. Hans dropped the lid of his stein and pushed
it away. His heart always warmed at the sight of this goose-girl. So she
had a dowry and was going to be married? He felt of his wallet, and a
kindly thought came into being. He counted down the small change for the
beer, slid back his chair, and sauntered to the bar. Gretchen recognized
him, and the recognition brought a smile to her face.

"Good day to you, Herr," was her greeting.

"When is the wedding?"

Gretchen blushed.

"I should like to come to it."

"You will be welcome, Herr."

"And may I bring along a little present?"

"If it so please you. I must be going," she added to Fraeu Bauer.

"May I walk along with you?" asked Hans.

"If you wish," diffidently.

So Grumbach walked with her to the Krumerweg, and he asked her many
questions, and some of her answers surprised him.

"Never knew father or mother?"

"No, Herr. I am only a foundling who fell into kind hands. This is where
I live."

"And if I should ask to come in?"

"But I shall be too busy to talk. This is bread-day," evasively.

"I promise to sit very quiet in a chair."

Her laughter rippled; she was always close to that expression. "You are
a funny man. Come in, then; but mind, you will be dusty with flour when
you leave."

"I will undertake that risk," he replied, with a seriousness not in tune
with the comedy of the situation.

Into the kitchen she led him. She was moved with curiosity. Why should
any man wish to see a woman knead bread?

"Sit there, Herr." And she pointed to a stool at the left of the table.
The sunlight came in through the window, and an aureola appeared above
her beautiful head. "Have you never seen a woman knead flour?"

"Not for many years," said Hans, thinking of his mother.

Gretchen deliberately rolled up her sleeves and began work.

There are three things which human growth never changes: the lines in
the hand, the shape of the ear, and scars. The head grows, and the
general features enlarge to their predestined mold, but these three
things remain. Upon Gretchen's left arm, otherwise perfection, there was
a white scar, rough and uneven, more like an ancient burn than anything
else. Grumbach's eyes rested upon the scar and became fixed.

"Where did you get that?" he asked. He spoke with a strange calm.

"The scar? I do not remember. Grandmother says that when I was little I
must have been burned."

"_Gott!_"

"What did you say, Herr?"

"Nothing. You can't remember? Think!" tensely now.

"What's all this nonsense about?" she cried, with a nervous laugh. "It's
only a scar."

She went on with the kneading. She patted the dough into four squares.
These she placed on the oven-stove. She wiped her hands on a cloth for
that purpose, and sighed contentedly.

"There! It's a fine mystery, isn't it?"

"Yes." But Grumbach was shaking as with ague.

"What is the matter, Herr?" with concern.

"I grow dizzy like this sometimes. It doesn't amount to anything."

Gretchen turned down her sleeves. "You must go now, for I have other
work."

"And so have I, Gretchen."

He gained the street, but how he never knew. He floated. Objects near at
hand were shadowy and unusual. A great calm suddenly winged down upon
him, and the world became clear, clear as his purpose, his courage, his
duty. They might shoot or hang him, as they saw fit; this would not
deter him. It might be truthfully said that he blundered back to the
Grand Hotel. He must lay the whole matter before Carmichael. There lay
his one hope. Carmichael should be his ambassador. But, God in Heaven,
where should he begin? How?

The Gipsy, standing in the center of the walk, did not see Grumbach, for
he was looking toward the palaces, a kind of whimsical mockery in his
dark eyes. Grumbach, even more oblivious, crashed into him.

Grumbach stammered an apology, and the other replied in his peculiar
dialect that no harm had been done. The jar, however, had roused Hans
out of his tragic musings. There was a glint of yellow in the Gipsy's
eye, a flaw in the iris. Hans gave a cry.

"You? I find you at this moment, of all others?"

The Gipsy retreated. "I do not know you. It is a mistake."

"But I know you," whispered Hans. "And you will know me when I tell you
that I am the gardener's boy you ruined some sixteen years ago!"

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

completion: It's finally time for Ani, Finn, and Talone to leave, and Gilsa hugs them good-bye. When they reach the city, Ani takes Talone to where she stayed as a goose girl, and once there, she discovers that Enna has already filled the rest of the gang in on the deets. Ani's a princess, and the crown-stealing imposter in the palace is a murderess. They've got a man on the inside--Tatto--who will deliver an anonymous message to the king saying Selia's an imposter, to lay the groundwork for Ani. The workers are all off for the royal wedding, which takes place in two days; Ani's got a tight deadline for exposing Selia for who she really is. Conrad apologizes to Ani for ratting her out. He didn't know the truth about who she was, so he told the foreign guards that she was laying low as a goose girl, and Ani knows he meant no harm, so she forgives him right away. While everyone's catching up, Ani notices that Finn and Enna seem to be getting cozy with one another and he likes the attention from her. There's no time to investigate this further though, because they've got to go stop the royal wedding and bring down the imposter-princess. Razo, Conrad, Enna, Finn, and some others are all ready to go--Ani's shocked that they'd risk their necks for her, while Talone's ready with the plan. First stop? The palace. The only problem is, when they arrive, the king is not there. Tatto fills them in on his whereabouts: he's gone north to Lake Meginhard for the royal wedding. While at the palace, Ani decides to make a pit stop for the right costume. She can't claim to be a princess dressed as a goose girl, so she takes one of her dresses from Kildenree from Selia's closet. Ha. Ishta comes in and wants to fight, and Talone insists upon being to the one to take him--for honor's sake. The two men strike at one another, but Talone is too quick, and Ishta is too angry. After Ishta dies, Talone tells Ani he'd rather not kill people, but it has to be done sometimes. There's no time to stop and talk, though, and Talone and Ani race off, heading for Lake Meginhard.