gone. Tears sprang into her eyes. She had the power to do no
more than weep.

The duke was the first to relieve the awkwardness of the moment.

"Count, has it not occurred to you that we stand in the presence of two
very beautiful young women?"

Herbeck scrutinized Gretchen with care; then he compared her with the
princess. The duke was right. The goose-girl was not a whit the inferior
of the princess. And the thing which struck him with most force was
that, while each possessed a beauty individual to herself, it was not
opposite, but strangely alike.

The goose-girl had returned to her gloomy Krumerweg, the princess had
gone to her apartments, and Herbeck to his cabinet. The duke was alone.
For a long period he stood before the portrait of his wife. The beauties
of his courtship trooped past him; for God had given to the grand duke
of Ehrenstein that which He denies most of us, high or low, a perfect
love.

"Always, always, dear heart," he whispered; "in this life and in the
life to come. To love, what is the sickle of death?"

He passed on to his secretary and opened a drawer. He laid a small
bundle on the desk and untied the string. One by one he ranged the
articles; two little yellow shoes, a little cloak trimmed with ermine.
There had been a locket, but that was now worn by her highness.

CHAPTER XI

THE SOCIALISTS

Hermann Breunner lived in the granite lodge, just within the eastern
gates of the royal gardens. He was a widower and shared the ample lodge
with the undergardeners and their families. He lived with them, but
signally apart. They gave him as much respect as if he had been the duke
himself. He was a lonely, taciturn man, deeply concerned with his work,
and a botanical student of no mean order. No comrade helped him pass
away an evening in the chimney-corner, pipe in hand and good cheer in
the mug. This isolation was not accidental, it was Hermann's own
selection. He was a man of brooding moods, and there was no laughter in
his withered heart, though the false sound of it crossed his lips at
infrequent intervals.

He adjusted his heavy spectacles and held the note slantingly toward
the candle. A note or a letter was a singular event in Hermann's life.
Not that he looked forward with eagerness to receive them, but that
there was no one existing who cared enough about him to write. This note
left by the porter of the Grand Hotel moved him with surprise. It
requested that he present hims