r the compliment of turning her back upon
her. The Duke plied his guest with food and wine, declaring that ambrosia
and nectar were better fitted for her; he toasted her; he praised her; he
exhausted his knowledge of mythology in her honour, calling her
Melpomene, the tragic Muse, for had she not made men weep with her song
that very night? Song, did he say? nay, hymn it was! She was Polyhymnia,
singer of sublimity. He named her Philomele, and desired the lute of
Orpheus that he might play an accompaniment to her wondrous singing. He
asked her in which enchanted ocean she had lived. 'Mademoiselle Sirene,
lurer of men's souls,' he called her.

Wilhelmine spoke little in answer to all this, but she acted her part
well, smiling at him with glistening eyes. Indeed, she found no
difficulty herein, for her heart had played a cleverer trick than ever
her brain had devised--she was falling in love with Eberhard Ludwig of
Wirtemberg. When supper was over the Duke rose, and, in defiance of
etiquette, desired Stafforth to accompany Madame de Geyling, while he
himself led Mademoiselle de Graevenitz from the banqueting-hall. They
passed on to the terrace, above the outer colonnade of the Lusthaus, and
stood together looking down on the garden, and the strains from the
instruments of the musicians hidden in the bowers floated up to them.

'I hardly dare propose it, Mademoiselle,' said the Duke after some
moments' silence, 'but the garden is very fair to-night; would you honour
me by accepting my arm and taking a short stroll towards the fountain?
Only a few minutes, the night is so beautiful--come and look at the stars
with me!'

She hesitated; but the man's face was so noble, so open. Why not?
'Monseigneur, I know not,' she whispered.

'Mademoiselle, I entreat. If you knew how I hate these crowded rooms. I
am a soldier, and I love the memory of those nights encamped in the open,
when I left my tent and wandered alone beneath the stars. Forstner--you
know Forstner? No? Well--a good friend, yet always at my elbow with
rebukes and etiquette! Well--old Forstner used to chide me, saying it was
not fitting for a reigning Duke to wander alone "like a ridiculous
poet-fellow philandering with the stars," as he called it. Ah!
Mademoiselle, will you leave the Duke here on the balcony, and come and
look at the stars with the ridiculous poet-fellow? will you?'

Who could resist him, this man with the pleading eyes and deep, strong
voice? An