* *

There was a large crowd outside the palace that night, which was clear
and starry. A troop of cavalry patrolled the fence. Carriage after
carriage rolled in through the gates, coming directly from the opera. It
was eleven o'clock. All the great in the duchy were on hand that night.
Often a cheer rose from the ranks of the outsiders as some popular
general or some famous beauty passed. It was an orderly crowd, jostling
and good-natured, held only by curiosity. Every window in the palace
presented a glowing square of light; and beams crisscrossed the emerald
lawns and died in the arms of the lurking shadows. The gardens were
illuminated besides. It was fairy-land, paid for by those who were not
entitled to enter. Few, however, thought of this inconsistency. A duchy
is a duchy; nothing more need be said.

Carmichael was naturally democratic. To ride a block in a carriage was
to him a waste of time. And he rather liked to shoulder into a press.
With the aid of his cane and a frequent push of the elbow he worked his
way to the gates. And close by the sentry-box he saw Gretchen and her
vintner. Carmichael could not resist stopping a moment. He raised his
hat to Gretchen, to the wonder of those nearest. The vintner would have
gladly disappeared, but the human wall behind made this impossible. But
he was needlessly alarmed. Carmichael only smiled ironically.

"Do you know where the American consulate is?" he asked low, so that
none but Gretchen and the vintner heard.

"Yes," said the vintner, blushing with shame.

"I live above the agency."

"Good! I shall expect to see you in the morning."

But the vintner was determined that he shouldn't. He would be at work in
the royal vineyards on the morrow.

"To-morrow?" repeated Gretchen, to whom this by-play was a blank. "Why
should he wish to see you?"

"Who knows? Let us be going. They are pressing us too close to the
gates."

"Very well," acquiesced Gretchen, somewhat disappointed. She wanted to
see all there was to be seen.

"It is half-after ten," he added, as if to put forward some logical
excuse for leaving at this moment.

A man followed them all the way to the Krumerweg.

Carmichael threw himself eagerly into the gaiety of the dance. Never had
he seen the ball-room so brilliant with color. Among all those there
his was the one somber dress. The white cambric stock and the frill in
his shirt were the only gay touches. It was not his fault: the