Markgrafin says--sthere to-day you see him, Albrecht Wohlgemuth Furst
von Eppenwelzen! But no sculptor can have cast him in bronze--not copied
him and cast him in a time of seven days! And we say sthis:--Has
she given a secret order to a sculptor--you understand me, sirs,
commission--where, how, has he sthe likeness copied? Or did he come to
our speisesaal of our lake-palace disguised? Oh! but to see, to copy, to
model, to cast in bronze, to travel betwixt Berlin and Sarkeld in a time
of seven days? No! so-oh! we guess, we guess, we are in exhaustion. And
to-day is like an eagle we have sent an arrow to shoot and know not if
he will come down. For shall we see our ancestor on horseback? It will
be a not-scribable joy! Or not? So we guess, we are worried. At near
eleven o'clock a cannon fires, sthe tent is lifted, and we see; but I am
impatient wid my breaths for de gun to go.'

I said it would be a fine sight.

'For strangers, yes; you should be of de palace to know what a fine
sight! sthe finest! And you are for Sarkeld? You have friends in
Sarkeld?'

'My father is in Sarkeld, mademoiselle. I am told he is at the palace.'

'Indeed; and he is English, your fater?'

'Yes. I have not seen him for years; I have come to find him.'

'Indeed; it is for love of him, your fater, sir, you come, and not speak
German?'

I signified that it was so.

'She stroked her pony's neck musing.

'Because, of love is not much in de family in England, it is said,' she
remarked very shyly, and in recovering her self-possession asked the
name of my father.

'His name, mademoiselle, is Mr. Richmond.'

'Mr. Richmond?'

'Mr. Richmond Roy.'

She sprang in her saddle.

'You are son to Mr. Richmond Roy? Oh! it is wonderful.'

'Mademoiselle, then you have seen him lately?'

'Yes, yes! I have seen him. I have heard of his beautiful child, his
son; and you it is?'

She studied my countenance a moment.

'Tell me, is he well?' mademoiselle, is he quite well?'

'Oh, yes,' she answered, and broke into smiles of merriment, and then
seemed to bite her underlip. 'He is our fun-maker. He must always be
well. I owe to him some of my English. You are his son? you were for
Sarkeld? You will see him up at our Bella Vista. Quick, let us run.'

She put her pony to a canter up the brown path between the fir-trees,
crying that she should take our breath; but we were tight runners, and
I, though my heart beat wildly, was full of fire to reach t