d it
disturbed him.

"First, I should like to know--" he began.

"Later, later!" cried the baron. "The gates are but a dozen rods away.
To your room first; the rest will follow."

"The only clothes I have with me are on my back," said Maurice.

"We shall arrange that. Your guard-hussar uniform has been reserved for
you, at the suggestion of the Colonel."

And Maurice grew more and more disturbed.

"Were they courteous to you on the road?"

"Yes. But--"

"Patience! Here we are at the rear gates."

Maurice found it impossible to draw back; three troopers blocked the
rear, the baron and another rode at his sides, and four more were in
advance. The rear gates swung open, and the little troop passed into
the chateau confines. Maurice snatched a glimpse of the front lawns
and terraces. The trees and walls were hung with Chinese lanterns;
gay uniforms and shimmering gowns flitted across his vision. Somewhere
within the chateau an orchestra was playing the overture from "Linda
di Chamounix." Indeed, with all these brave officers, old men in black
bedecked with ribbons, handsome women in a brilliant sparkle of jewels,
it had the semblance of a gay court. It was altogether a different scene
from that which was called the court of Bleiberg. There was no restraint
here; all was laughter, music, dancing, and wines. The women were young,
the men were young; old age stood at one side and looked on. And the
charming Voiture-verse of a countess, Maurice was determined to seek
her first of all. He vaguely wondered how Fitzgerald would carry himself
throughout the ordeal.

The troopers dismounted in the courtyard.

"I'm a trifle too stiff to dance," Maurice innocently acknowledged.

The baron laughed. "You will have to take luck with me in the
stable-barrack; the chateau is filled. The armory has been turned into a
ballroom, and the guard out of it."

"Lead on!" said Maurice.

At the entrance to the guardroom, which occupied the left wing of the
stables, stood a Lieutenant of the hussars.

"This is Monsieur Carewe," said the baron, "who will occupy a corner in
the guardroom."

"Ah! Monsieur Carewe," waving his hand cavalierly; "happy to see you
again."

Maurice was growing weary of his name.

"Enter," said the baron, opening the door.

Maurice entered, but not without suspicion. However, he was in a hurry
to mingle with the gay assembly in the chateau. But that body was doomed
to proceed without the honor or the