round a
rugged oak. And the other? She was nothing to me. I had never seen
her. My wife spirited her away when it was night and dark. I took the
proofs of her existence as a punishment to my wife, who, without them,
would never dare to return to this country again. Herr, when a man
loads you with ignominy and contempt and ridicule for something you are
not to blame, what do you seek? Revenge. The Prince tried to crush
this lonely child of his. It was I who brought her up. It was I who
taught her to say her prayers. It was I who made her what she is
to-day, a noble woman, with a soul as spotless as yonder snowdrift.
That was my revenge."

"Who are you?" I cried. For this innkeeper's affection and eloquence
seemed out of place.

"Who am I?" The smile which lit his face was wistful and sad. "The
law of man disavows me--the bar sinister. In the eyes of God, who is
accountable for our being, I am Gretchen's uncle, her father's brother."

"You?" I was astounded.

"And who knows of this?"

"The King, the Prince--and you."

I thrust a hand toward him. "You are a man."

"Wait. Swear to God that Her Highness shall never know."

"On my honor."

Then he accepted my clasp and looked straight into my eyes.

"And all this to you?"

"I love her."

"And she?"

"It is mutual. Do you suppose she would have put her life before mine
if not? She knew that the lieutenant would have killed me."

"Ach! It never occurred to me in that light. I understood it to be a
frolic of hers. Will you make her happy?"

"If an honest man's love can do it," said I. "Now, get on your hat and
coat. You must go to the capital with me. The King would send for you
in any case. The next train leaves at five, and to save Gretchen,
these proofs must be in the Chancellor's hands to-morrow morning."

"Yes, my presence will be necessary. Perhaps I have committed a crime;
who knows?" His head fell in meditation. "Herr, and this other
sister, has she been happy?"

"Happier than ever Gretchen."

He had the sleigh brought around. Stahlberg was to ride my horse back
to the village and return with the sleigh. We climbed into the seat,
there was a crunching of snow, a jangle of bells, and we were gliding
over the white highway. As I lay back among the robes, I tried to
imagine that it was a dream, that I was still in New York, grinding
away in my den, and not enacting one of the principal roles in a court
drama; that I