the frontier in any direction. But the vineyards
were among the finest in Europe. The prince was a widower, and among
his own people was affectionately styled "_der Rotnaesig_," which, I
believe, designates an illuminated proboscis. When he wasn't fishing
for rainbow trout he was sleeping in his cellars. He was often missing
at the monthly reviews, but nobody ever worried; they knew where to
find him. And besides, he might just as well sleep in his cellars as
in his carriage, for he never rode a horse if he could get out of doing
so. He was really good-natured and easy-going, so long as no one
crossed him severely; and you could tell him a joke once and depend
upon his understanding it immediately, which is more than I can say for
the duke.

Years and years ago the prince had had a son; but at the tender age of
three the boy had run away from the castle confines, and no one ever
heard of him again. The enemies of the prince whispered among
themselves that the boy had run away to escape compulsory military
service, but the boy's age precluded this accusation. The prince
advertised, after the fashion of those times, sent out detectives and
notified his various brothers; but his trouble went for nothing. Not
the slightest trace of the boy could be found. So he was mourned for a
season, regretted and then forgotten; the prince adopted the
grape-arbor.

I saw the prince once. I do not blame the Princess Hildegarde for her
rebellion. The prince was not only old; he was fat and ugly, with
little, elephant-like eyes that were always vein-shot, restless and
full of mischief. He might have made a good father, but I have nothing
to prove this. Those bottles of sparkling Moselle which he failed to
dispose of to the American trade he gave to his brother in Barscheit or
drank himself. He was sixty-eight years old.

A nephew, three times removed, was waiting for the day when he should
wabble around in the prince's shoes. He was a lieutenant in the duke's
body-guard, a quick-tempered, heady chap. Well, he never wabbled
around in his uncle's shoes, for he never got the chance.

I hadn't been in Barscheit a week before I heard a great deal about the
princess. She was a famous horsewoman. This made me extremely anxious
to meet her. Yet for nearly six months I never even got so much as a
glimpse of her. Half of the six months she was traveling through
Austria, and the other half she kept out of my way,--not intenti