The next morning a royal messenger came to Count Marlanx. He bore two sealed letters from the princess. One briefly informed him that General Braze was his successor as commander-in-chief of the army of Graustark. He hesitated long before opening the other. It was equally brief and to the point. The Iron Count's teeth came together with a savage snap as he read the signature of the princess at the end. There was no recourse. She had struck for Beverly Calhoun. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. The edict gave him twenty-four hours from the noon of that day. The gray old libertine despatched a messenger for his man of affairs, a lawyer of high standing in Edelweiss. Together they consulted until midnight. Shortly after daybreak the morning following. Count Marlanx was in the train for Vienna, never to set foot on Graustark's soil again. He was banished and his estates confiscated by the government.

The ministry in Edelweiss was not slow to reopen negotiations with Dawsbergen. A proclamation was sent to the prime minister, setting forth the new order of affairs and suggesting the instant suspension of hostile preparations and the restoration of Prince Dantan. Accompanying this proclamation went a dignified message from Dantan, informing his people that he awaited their commands. He was ready to resume the throne that had been so desecrated. It would be his joy to restore Dawsbergen to its once peaceful and prosperous condition. In the meantime the Duke of Mizrox despatched the news to the Princess Volga of Axphain, who was forced to abandon—temporarily, at least—her desperate designs upon Graustark. The capture of Gabriel put an end to her transparent plans.

"But she is bound to break out against us sooner or later and on the slightest provocation," said Yetive.

"I daresay that a friendly alliance between Graustark and Dawsbergen will prove sufficient to check any ambitions she may have along that line," said Ravone significantly. "They are very near to each other now, your highness. Friends should stand together."

Beverly Calhoun was in suspense. Baldos had been sent off to the frontier by Prince Dantan, carrying the message which could be trusted to no other. He accompanied the Graustark ambassadors of peace as Dantan's special agent. He went in the night time and Beverly did not see him. The week which followed his departure was the longest she ever spent. She was troubled in her heart for fear that he might not return, despite the declaration she had made to him in one hysterical moment. It was difficult for her to keep up the show of cheerfulness that was expected of her. Reticence became her strongest characteristic. She persistently refused to be drawn into a discussion of her relations with the absent one. Yetive was piqued by her manner at first, but wisely saw through the mask as time went on. She and Prince Dantan had many quiet and interesting chats concerning Beverly and the erstwhile guard. The prince took Lorry and the princess into his confidence. He told them all there was to tell about his dashing friend and companion.

Beverly and the young Princess Candace became fast and loving friends. The young girl's worship of her brother was beautiful to behold. She huddled close to him on every occasion, and her dark eyes bespoke adoration whenever his name was mentioned in her presence.

"If he doesn't come back pretty soon, I'll pack up and start for home," Beverly said to herself resentfully one day. "Then if he wants to see me he'll have to come all the way to Washington. And I'm not sure that he can do it, either. He's too disgustingly poor."

"Wha's became o' dat Misteh Baldos, Miss Bev'ly?" asked Aunt Fanny in the midst of these sorry cogitations. "Has he tuck hit int' his haid to desert us fo' good? Seems to me he'd oughteh—"

"Now, that will do, Aunt Fanny," reprimanded her mistress sternly. "You are not supposed to know anything about affairs of state. So don't ask."

At last she no longer could curb her impatience and anxiety. She deliberately sought information from Prince Dantan. They were strolling in the park on the seventh day of her inquisition.

"Have you heard from Paul Baldos?" she asked, bravely plunging into deep water.

"He is expected here tomorrow or the next day, Miss Calhoun. I am almost as eager to see him as you are," he replied, with a very pointed smile.

"Almost? Well, yes, I'll confess that I am eager to see him. I never knew I could long for anyone as much as I—Oh, well, there's no use hiding it from you. I couldn't if I tried. I care very much for him. You don't think it sounds silly for me to say such a thing, do you? I've thought a great deal of him ever since the night at the Inn of the Hawk and Raven. In my imagination I have tried to strip you of your princely robes to place them upon him. But he is only Baldos, in spite of it all. He knows that I care for him, and I know that he cares for me. Perhaps he has told you."

"Yes, he has confessed that he loves you, Miss Calhoun, and he laments the fact that his love seems hopeless. Paul wonders in his heart if it would be right in him to ask you to give up all you have of wealth and pleasure to share a humble lot with him."

"I love him. Isn't that enough? There is no wealth so great as that. But," and she pursed her mouth in pathetic despair, "don't you think that you can make a noble or something of him and give him a station in life worthy of his ambitions? He has done so much for you, you know."

"I have nothing that I can give to him, he says. Paul Baldos asks only that he may be my champion until these negotiations are ended. Then he desires to be free to serve whom he will. All that I can do is to let him have his way. He is a freelance and he asks no favors, no help."

"Well, I think he's perfectly ridiculous about it, don't you? And yet, that is the very thing I like in him. I am only wondering how we—I mean, how he is going to live, that's all."

"If I am correctly informed he still has several months to serve in the service for which he enlisted. You alone, I believe, have the power to discharge him before his term expires," said he meaningly.

That night Baldos returned to Edelweiss, ahead of the Graustark delegation which was coming the next day with representatives from Dawsbergen. He brought the most glorious news from the frontier. The Duke of Matz and the leading dignitaries had heard of Gabriel's capture, both through the Bappo boys and through a few of his henchmen who had staggered into camp after the disaster. The news threw the Dawsbergen diplomats into a deplorable state of uncertainty. Even the men high in authority, while not especially depressed over the fall of their sovereign, were in doubt as to what would be the next move in their series of tragedies. Almost to a man they regretted the folly which had drawn them into the net with Gabriel. Baldos reported that the Duke of Matz and a dozen of the most distinguished men in Dawsbergen were on their way to Edelweiss to complete arrangements for peace and to lay their renunciation of Gabriel before Dantan in a neutral court. The people of Dawsbergen had been clamoring long for Dantan's restoration, and Baldos was commissioned to say that his return would be the signal for great rejoicing. He was closeted until after midnight with Dantan and his sister. Lorry and Princess Yetive being called in at the end to hear and approve of the manifesto prepared by the Prince of Dawsbergen. The next morning the word went forth that a great banquet was to be given in the castle that night for Prince Dantan and the approaching noblemen. The prince expected to depart almost immediately thereafter to resume the throne in Serros.

Baldos was wandering through the park early in the morning. His duties rested lightly upon his shoulders, but he was restless and dissatisfied. The longing in his heart urged him to turn his eyes ever and anon toward the balcony and then to the obstinate-looking castle doors. The uniform of a Graustark guard still graced his splendid figure. At last a graceful form was seen coming from the castle toward the cedars. She walked bravely, but aimlessly. That was plain to be seen. It was evident that she was and was not looking for someone. Baldos observed with a thrill of delight that a certain red feather stood up defiantly from the band of her sailor hat. He liked the way her dark-blue walking-skirt swished in harmony with her lithe, firm strides.

She was quite near before he advanced from his place among the trees. He did not expect her to exhibit surprise or confusion and he was not disappointed. She was as cool as a brisk spring morning. He did not offer his hand, but, with a fine smile of contentment, bowed low and with mock servility.

"I report for duty, your highness," he said. She caught the ring of gladness in his voice.

"Then I command you to shake hands with me," she said brightly. "You have been away, I believe?" with a delicious inflection.

"Yes, for a century or more, I'm sure." Constraint fell upon them suddenly. The hour had come for a definite understanding and both were conquered by its importance. For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of diffidence. It came over him as he looked helplessly into the clear, gray, earnest eyes. "I love you for wearing that red feather," he said simply.

"And I loved you for wearing it," she answered, her voice soft and thrilling. He caught his breath joyously.

"Beverly," as he bent over her, "you are my very life, my—"

"Don't, Paul!" she whispered, drawing away with an embarrassed glance about the park. There were people to be seen on all sides. But he had forgotten them. He thought only of the girl who ruled his heart. Seeing the pain in his face, she hastily, even blushingly, said: "It is so public, dear."

He straightened himself with soldierly precision, but his voice trembled as he tried to speak calmly in defiance to his eyes. "There is the grotto—see! It is seclusion itself. Will you come with me? I must tell you all that is in my heart. It will burst if I do not."

Slowly they made their way to the fairy grotto deep in the thicket of trees. It was Yetive's favorite dreaming place. Dark and cool and musical with the rippling of waters, it was an ideal retreat. She dropped upon the rustic bench that stood against the moss-covered wall of boulders. With the gentle reserve of a man who reveres as well as loves, Baldos stood above her. He waited and she understood. How unlike most impatient lovers he was!

"You may sit beside me," she said with a wistful smile of acknowledgment. As he flung himself into the seat, his hand eagerly sought hers, his courtly reserve gone to the winds.

"Beverly, dearest one, you never can know how much I love you," he whispered into her ear. "It is a deathless love, unconquerable, unalterable. It is in my blood to love forever. Listen to me, dear one: I come of a race whose love is hot and enduring. My people from time immemorial have loved as no other people have loved. They have killed and slaughtered for the sake of the glorious passion. Love is the religion of my people. You must, you shall believe me when I say that I will love you better than my soul so long as that soul exists. I loved you the day I met you. It has been worship since that time."

His passion carried her resistlessly away as the great waves sweep the deck of a ship at sea. She was out in the ocean of love, far from all else that was dear to her, far from all harbors save the mysterious one to which his passion was piloting her through a storm of emotion.

"I have longed so to hold you in my arms, Beverly—even when you were a princess and I lay in the hospital at Ganlook, my fevered arms hungered for you. There never has been a moment that my heart has not been reaching out in search of yours. You have glorified me, dearest, by the promise you made a week ago. I know that you will not renounce that precious pledge. It is in your eyes now—the eyes I shall worship to the end of eternity. Tell me, though, with your own lips, your own voice, that you will be my wife, mine to hold forever."

For answer she placed her arms about his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. There were tears in her gray eyes and there was a sob in her throat. He held her close to his breast for an eternity, it seemed to both, neither giving voice to the song their hearts were singing. There was no other world than the fairy grotto.

"Sweetheart, I am asking you to make a great sacrifice," he said at last, his voice hoarse but tender. She looked up into his face serenely. "Can you give up the joys, the wealth, the comforts of that home across the sea to share a lowly cottage with me and my love? Wait, dear,—do not speak until I am through. You must think of what your friends will say. The love and life I offer you now will not be like that which you always have known. It will be poverty and the dregs, not riches and wine. It will be—"

But she placed her hand upon his lips, shaking her head emphatically. The picture he was painting was the same one that she had studied for days and days. Its every shadow was familiar to her, its every unwholesome corner was as plain as day.

"The rest of the world may think what it likes, Paul," she said. "It will make no difference to me. I have awakened from my dream. My dream prince is gone, and I find that it's the real man that I love. What would you have me do? Give you up because you are poor? Or would you have me go up the ladder of fame and prosperity with you, a humble but adoring burden? I know you, dear. You will not always be poor. They may say what they like. I have thought long and well, because I am not a fool. It is the American girl who marries the titled foreigner without love that is a fool. Marrying a poor man is too serious a business to be handled by fools. I have written to my father, telling him that I am going to marry you," she announced. He gasped with unbelief.

"You have—already?" he cried.

"Of course. My mind has been made up for more than a week. I told it to Aunt Fanny last night."

"And she?"

"She almost died, that's all," said she unblushingly. "I was afraid to cable the news to father. He might stop me if he knew it in time. A letter was much smarter."

"You dear, dear little sacrifice," he cried tenderly. "I will give all my life to make you happy."

"I am a soldier's daughter, and I can be a soldier's wife. I have tried hard to give you up, Paul, but I couldn't. You are love's soldier, dear, and it is a—a relief to surrender and have it over with."

They fell to discussing plans for the future. It all went smoothly and airily until he asked her when he should go to Washington to claim her as his wife. She gave him a startled, puzzled look.

"To Washington?" she murmured, turning very cold and weak. "You—you won't have to go to Washington, dear; I'll stay here."

"My dear Beverly, I can afford the trip," he laughed. "I am not an absolute pauper. Besides, it is right and just that your father should give you to me. It is the custom of our land." She was nervous and uncertain.

"But—but, Paul, there are many things to think of," she faltered.

"You mean that your father would not consent?"

"Well,—he—he might be unreasonable," she stammered. "And then there are my brothers, Keith and Dan. They are foolishly interested in me. Dan thinks no one is good enough for me. So does Keith. And father, too, for that matter,—and mother. You see, it's not just as if you were a grand and wealthy nobleman. They may not understand. We are southerners, you know. Some of them have peculiar ideas about—"

"Don't distress yourself so much, dearest," he said with a laugh. "Though I see your position clearly—and it is not an enviable one."

"We can go to Washington just as soon as we are married," she compromised. "Father has a great deal of influence over there. With his help behind you you will soon be a power in the United—" but his hearty laugh checked her eager plotting. "It's nothing to laugh at, Paul," she said.

"I beg your pardon a thousand times. I was thinking of the disappointment I must give you now. I cannot live in the United States—never. My home is here. I am not born for the strife of your land. They have soldiers enough and better than I. It is in the turbulent east that we shall live—you and I." Tears came into her eyes.

"Am I not to—to go back to Washin'ton?" She tried to smile.

"When Prince Dantan says we may, perhaps."

"Oh, he is my friend," she cried in great relief. "I can get any favor I ask of him. Oh, Paul, Paul, I know that my folks will think I'm an awful fool, but I can't help it. I shall let you know that I intend to be a blissful one, at least."

He kissed her time and again, out there in the dark, soft light of the fairy grotto.

"Before we can be married, dearest, I have a journey of some importance to take," he announced, as they arose to leave the bower behind.

"A journey? Where?"

"To Vienna. I have an account to settle with a man who has just taken up his residence there." His hand went to his sword-hilt and his dark eyes gleamed with the fire she loved. "Count Marlanx and I have postponed business to attend to, dearest. Have no fear for me. My sword is honest and I shall bring it back to you myself."

She shuddered and knew that it would be as he said.