Chapter: The grand duke stamped back and forth with a rumble as of distant
thunder. He would search the very deeps of this matter. He was of a
patient mold, but this was the final straw. He would have his revenge if
it upset the whole continent. They would play with him, eh? Well, they
had loosed the lion this time. He had sent his valet to summon her
highness and Herbeck.

"And tell them to put everything else aside."

He kneaded the note in his hand powerfully. It was anonymous, but it
spoke clearly like truth. It had been left with one of the sentries, who
declared that a small boy had delivered it. The sender remained
undiscoverable.

His highness had just that hour returned from the military field. He was
tired; and it was not the psychological moment for a thing like this to
turn up. Had he not opposed it for months? And now, having surrendered
against his better judgment, this gratuitous affront was offered him! It
was damnable. He smote the offending note. He would soon find out
whether it was true or not. Then he flung the thing violently to the
floor. But he realized that this burst of fury would not translate the
muddle, so he stooped and recovered the missive. He laughed, but the
laughter had a grim Homeric sound. War! Nothing less. He was prepared
for it. Twenty thousand troops were now in the valley, and there were
twenty thousand reserves. What Franz Josef of Austria or William of
Prussia said did not amount to the snap of his two fingers. To avenge
himself of the wrongs so long endured of Jugendheit, to wipe out the
score with blood! Did they think that he was in his dotage, to offer an
insult of this magnitude? They should see, aye, that they should! It did
not matter that the news reached him through subterranean channels or by
treachery; there was truth here, and that sufficed.

"Enter!" he cried, as some one knocked on the door.

Herbeck came in, as calm, as imperturbable as ever.

"Your highness sent for me?"

"I did. Why the devil couldn't you have left well enough alone? Read
this!" flinging the note down on his desk.

Herbeck picked it up and worked out the creases. When he had read to the
final word, his hand, even as the duke's, closed spasmodically over the
stiff paper.

"Well?" The query tingled with rage.

The answer on the chancellor's lips was not uttered. Hildegarde came in.
She blew a kiss at her father, who caught the hand and drew her toward
him. He embraced her and kissed her brow.

"What is it, father?"

Herbeck waited.

"Read," said the duke.

As the last word left Herbeck's lips, she slipped from her father's arms
and looked with pity at the chancellor.

"What do you think of this, Hildegarde?"

"Why, father, I think it is the very best thing in the world," dryly.

"An insult like this?" The duke grew rigid. "You accept it calmly, in
this fashion?"

"Shall I weep and tear my hair over a boy I have never seen? No, thank
you. I was about to make known to you this very evening that I had
reconsidered the offer. I shall never marry his majesty."

"A fine time!" The duke's hand trembled. "Why, in God's name, did you
not refuse when the overtures were first made? The truth, Herbeck, the
whole truth; for there is something more than this."

Herbeck, in few words and without evasion, explained the situation.

"Your Highness, the regent is really not to blame, for his majesty had
given him free rein in the matter; and his royal highness, working as I
have been for the best interests of the two countries, never dreamed
that the king would rebel. All my heart and all my mind have been
working toward this end, toward a greater peace and prosperity. The king
has been generous enough to leave the publicity in our hands; that is to
say, he agrees to accept the humiliation of being rejected by her serene
highness."

"That is very generous of him!" said the duke sarcastically. "Send for
Ducwitz."

"Ducwitz, your Highness?" cried the chancellor, chilled.

"Immediately!"

"Father!"

"Must I give an order twice?"

"Your Highness, if you call Ducwitz I shall surrender my portfolio to
you." The chancellor spoke without anger, quietly but firmly.

"Do so. There are others to take up your work." The duke, for the
moment, had thrown reason to the winds. Revenge, the clamor of revenge,
was all the voice he heard.

The chancellor bowed, turned to leave the room, when Hildegarde flew to
the duke's side and snatched at his sleeve.

"Father, you are mad!"

"At least I am master in Ehrenstein. Herbeck, you will have the kindness
to summon General Ducwitz."

"Your Highness," replied Herbeck, "I have worked long and faithfully in
your service. I can not recollect that I ever asked one personal favor.
But I do so now. Do not send for Ducwitz to-night. See him in the
morning. This is no time for haste. You will throw the army into
Jugendheit, and there will follow a bloody war. For I have to inform you
that the prince regent, recognizing the false position he is in, has
taken the ram by the horns. His troops are already bivouacked on the
other side of the pass. This I learned to-day. He will not strike first;
he will wait for you."

"I will have my revenge!" stubbornly.

"Father, listen to me. _I_ am the affronted person; _I_, I alone, have
the right to say what shall be done in the matter. And I say to you if
you do these cruel things, dismiss his excellency and bring war and
death to Ehrenstein, I will never forgive you, never, never! You are
wrong, wrong, and I, your daughter, tell you so frankly. Leave it to me.
There will be neither war nor humiliation."

As the duke gazed at her the wrath gathering in his throat receded and
his admiration grew. His daughter! She was a princess, indeed, as she
stood there, fearless, resolute, beautiful. And her very beauty gave
recurrence to his wrath. A fool of a king he was, a fool of a king!

"My dear child," he said, "I have suffered too much at the hands of
Jugendheit. It was my daughter the first time; it is my honor now,"
proudly.

"Will it balance war and devastation?" the girl asked quietly. "Is it
not pride rather than honor? The prince regent made a pardonable
blunder. Do not you, my father, make an unpardonable one. The king is
without blame, for you appeal to his imagination as a man who deeply
wronged his father. I harbor no ill-feeling against him or his uncle,
because I look at the matter from an impersonal point of view; it was
for the good of the state. This blunder can be undone; therefore it is
not wise to double it, to make it irreparable."

"A Portia to the judgment!" said the chancellor, his eye kindling. "Let
it all rest upon my shoulders. I alone am to blame. It was I who first
suggested the alliance. We all have dreams, active or passive, futile or
purposeful. My ambition was to bring about a real and lasting peace.
Your Highness, I have failed signally. There is nothing to do now but to
appoint my successor." All the chancellor's force and immobility of
countenance gave way, and he looked the broken man.

Notwithstanding that he was generally hasty, the duke was a just man. In
his heart of hearts he understood. He offered his hand, with half a
smile; and when he smiled he was a handsome old man.

"You are bidding me farewell, your Highness?" said Herbeck.

"No, Count. I would not let you go for half my duchy. What should I do
without your solid common sense? No; remain; we are both of us too old
to quarrel. Even a duke may be a fool sometimes."

Herbeck laid his cold hand upon the duke's. Then he went over to her
highness and kissed her hand gratefully, for it was truly at her feet
the wreath of victory lay.

"Highness," he said softly, "you are the fairest, finest princess in the
world, and you shall marry when you will."

"And where?"

"I would that I could make it so. But there is a penalty for being
placed so high. We can not change this unwritten law."

"Heaven did not write it," she replied.

"No, my daughter," said the duke. "Man is at the bottom of all the kinks
and twists in this short life; not Heaven. But Herbeck is right; you
shall marry _when_ you will."

She sprang into his arms and kissed him. It was, however, a traitorous
kiss; for she was saying in her heart that now she would never marry.
Herbeck's eyes wandered to the portrait over the fireplace. It was the
girl's mother.

The knock of the valet was again heard.

"Your Highness, there is a young woman, a peasant, who desires to speak
to her serene highness."

"Where is she?" asked the duke.

"She is outside, your Highness."

"What! She enters the palace without any more trouble than this?"

"By my orders, father," said Hildegarde, who gathered that this
privileged visitor must be Gretchen of the Krumerweg. "Admit her."

"Truly we are becoming socialists," said the duke, appealing to Herbeck,
who replied with his usual grim smile.

Gretchen was ushered in. Her throat was a little full as she recognized
the three most important persons in the grand duchy. Outwardly she was
composed. She made a curtsy to which the duke replied with his most
formal bow of state. The sparkle of amusement was in his eyes.

"The little goose-girl!" he said half-audibly.

"Yes, Highness." Gretchen's face was serious and her eyes were mournful.
She carried an envelope in her hand tightly.

"Come to me, Gretchen," said the princess.

"What is it?"

Gretchen's eyes roamed undecidedly from the duke to Herbeck.

"She is dead, Highness, and I found this letter under her pillow."

It was Herbeck's hand that took the envelope. But he did not open it at
once.

"Dead?" Hildegarde's eyes filled.

"Who is dead?" demanded the duke.

"Emma Schultz, father. Oh, I know you will forgive me for this
deception. She has been in Dreiberg for a month, dying, and I have often
stolen out to see her." She let her tears fall unrestrained.

The duke stared at the rug. Presently he said: "Let her be buried in
consecrated ground. Wrong or right, that chapter is closed, my child,
and I am glad you made her last moments happy. It was like you. It was
like your mother. What is in the letter, Herbeck?"

Herbeck was a strong man; he was always far removed from tears; but
there was a mist over the usual clarity of his vision. He ripped down
the flap. It was only a simple note to her serene highness, begging her
to give the enclosed banknotes to one Gretchen who lived in the
Krumerweg. The notes represented a thousand crowns.

"Take them, little goose-girl," said the duke; "your ship has come in.
This will be your dowry."

An icy shiver ran up and down Gretchen's spine, a shiver of wonder,
delight, terror. A thousand crowns! A fortune!

"Hold out your hand," requested Herbeck. One by one he laid the notes on
the goose-girl's hand. "This is only a just reward for being kind and
gentle to the unfortunate."

"And I shall add to it another thousand," said Hildegarde. "Give them to
me, father."

In all, this fortune amounted to little more than four hundred dollars;
but to Gretchen, frugal and thrifty, to whom a single crown was a large
sum, to her it represented wealth. She was now the richest girl in the
lower town. Dreams of kaleidoscopic variety flew through her head.
Little there was, however, of jewels and gowns. This vast sum would be
the buffer between her and hunger while she pursued the one great
ambition of her life--music. She tried to speak, to thank them, but her
voice was gone. Tears sprang into her eyes. She had the power to do no
more than weep.

The duke was the first to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.

"Count, has it not occurred to you that we stand in the presence of two
very beautiful young women?"

Herbeck scrutinized Gretchen with care; then he compared her with the
princess. The duke was right. The goose-girl was not a whit the inferior
of the princess. And the thing which struck him with most force was
that, while each possessed a beauty individual to herself, it was not
opposite, but strangely alike.

The goose-girl had returned to her gloomy Krumerweg, the princess had
gone to her apartments, and Herbeck to his cabinet. The duke was alone.
For a long period he stood before the portrait of his wife. The beauties
of his courtship trooped past him; for God had given to the grand duke
of Ehrenstein that which He denies most of us, high or low, a perfect
love.

"Always, always, dear heart," he whispered; "in this life and in the
life to come. To love, what is the sickle of death?"

He passed on to his secretary and opened a drawer. He laid a small
bundle on the desk and untied the string. One by one he ranged the
articles; two little yellow shoes, a little cloak trimmed with ermine.
There had been a locket, but that was now worn by her highness.

 Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. It's pouring the next day when Ani wakes up, and continues all day. She's not sure what time it is, so she gets dressed and makes her way to the food hall. There, people are gathered, snacking, chatting, and playing cards. Tomorrow is market day, which means she's been in Bayern one month and she's still just a goose girl. Thinking about her lot in life makes her think about being a princess. Yesterday she acted like a princess--in boldness--with Geric, and she realizes she can't do that anymore. As she thinks of the guard, she gets excited and a little nervous. Hmm... are we sensing a bit of a crush? Ani brushes this thought aside and goes to hang out with Enna. When Ani asks why everyone just stays inside instead of going into the city, Enna tells her that forest folk and city folk don't really mix. In the city, when boys become men they have to take a big test with a javelin to prove they are really men--it's called receiving their rites--and then they become knights. No such test is available to forest folk like them. Enna thinks this is unfair, but then she says she doesn't really know much since she's just a nobody. Ani tells her not to talk about herself that way, though, and assures her that being Enna is being somebody, and that she has just as much right to an opinion as anybody else. The girls keep chatting, and Enna tells Ani a secret: she's always thought fire can talk, but that's weird isn't it? Not at all, as far as Ani's concerned--in fact she herself has heard of wind talking too. When Enna asks her about this, Ani describes a story her aunt used to tell--Razo chimes in too, and pretty soon everyone is listening. The story goes like this: Wild horses used to run as fast as the wind. They would only stop to gobble up gold they saw on the ground, and then they would keep running at a wild pace. One day, a maid saw the horses and played music for them as they ran--it was so beautiful. Each horse would stop for gold, chew it up, and then become the wind as it galloped off so fast. Everyday the same thing happened, and the girl got in trouble for spending time playing music and watching horses instead of helping in the fields like she as supposed to. But she didn't care. Then there was no more gold. The horses no longer stopped and the girl was heartbroken, until she realized her hair was the color of gold too--so she chopped it off and put it in the ground where the horses stopped for gold, but none of them cared. Finally the last horse stopped, looked her straight in the face, and then ate her golden mane. She was never seen again because she became the wind too, just like the horses. A hush falls on the crowd--no one is really sure what the story means, but everyone thinks it's beautiful. Conrad isn't so sure about all this, though, and he doesn't like the attention Ani is getting from her goose talking and storytelling. After she heads back home, Ani thinks about her new life. Sure, she's not ruling the nation like she thought she would be, but she's in charge of fifty geese and can tell a story to a bunch of captivated listeners. Can a queen do that?

