said the General. "We must display no
haste, and he will smooth the way through the customs."

"I suppose you don't want me to ask any questions?" laughed Alec.

"Better not. Do you still adhere to your program of last night?"

"Absolutely."

Stampoff took off his hat, pointed through the window, and said quietly,
"There, then, God willing, is your Majesty's future capital. I wish to
congratulate your Majesty on your first sight of it."

Beyond a level stretch of meadowland rose the spires and domes and
minarets of a white city. The sun, not long risen, gilded its graceful
contours and threw the rest of a wondrous picture into shadow so sharp
that the whole exquisite vista might have been an intaglio cut in the
sapphire of the sky. The Danube, a broad streak of silver, blended with
the blue Tave to frame a glimpse of fairyland. For one thrilling moment
Alec forgot its bloodstained history and looked only on the fair domain
spread before his eyes. Then the black girders and crude latticework of
a bridge shut out the entrancing spectacle, and he was conscious that
Stampoff had caught his hand and was pressing it to his lips.

The gallant old Serb meant well, for he was a patriot to the core; but
his impulsive action grated. Perhaps it was better so. Alec, bred in a
society that treated such demonstrations with scant respect, was
suddenly recalled to earth, and the business that lay before him seemed
to be more in keeping with the modern directness of the railway bridge
than with daydreams founded on a picturesque vision of Delgratz.

The city, too, lost its glamour when seen from those backdoor suburbs
that every railway in every land appears to regard as the only natural
avenue of approach to busy communities. The line turned sharply along
the right bank of the Tave and ran past tobacco factories, breweries,
powder mills, scattered hovels, and unkempt streets. Here was no sun,
but plenty of bare whitewash. Even Alec, accustomed to the singularly
ugly etchings of Paris viewed from its chief railways, was completely
disillusioned by these drab adumbrations of commerce and squalor. The
Tave was no longer blue, but dull brown with the mud of recent rain. Not
even the inhabitants were attractive. They were not garbed as Serbs, but
wore ungainly costumes that might have passed unnoticed in the Bowery.
He was irresistibly reminded of the stage, with its sharp contrasts
between the two sides of the footlights, and in the