t and the track smooth.
Much of it led through woodland and along a brawling stream. The
horses were of the sort that delight the soul--I doubt if there were
six better saddlers in the whole Kingdom of Valeria. I know there were
no prettier women, and, I think, no happier men.

We passed many people--mainly country-men--and they all knew the
Princess and loved her--bless her!--if their greetings went for aught.
Me, they eyed with frank curiosity; and, more than once, I caught the
drift of their comments.

"A pretty pair," said one, as Dehra and I drew near, our horses on a
walk.

"It's a pity he has a wife," the other answered. And Dehra frowned.

"They match up well," said a fellow, as we paused a moment at a spring
beside a small road house.

I glanced at Dehra; and got a smile in return.

"That they do. He does not look like a foreigner," was the answer.

"He is Dalberg on the outside, anyway," said a third.

"Then, he is Dalberg inside, too--it starts there, with them," said the
first.

And so it went, until we reached the Inn of the Twisted Pines.

It was an old log and plaster building; of many gables and small
windows; standing back a trifle from the road, with a high-walled yard
on all four sides. I had taken the precaution, that morning, to
dispatch an orderly to apprise the landlord of our coming; and every
human being about the place was drawn up within the enclosure to greet
us. Old Boniface met us at the gateway and held my stirrup as I
dismounted.

"My poor house has had no such honor," he said, "since the time the
Great Henry stopped for breakfast on his return from the Titian War."

"Well, my good man," said I, "you doubtless don't recollect the Great
Henry's visit, but, if your supper is what we hope for, I promise you
we will honor it as highly as he did that breakfast."

"Your Highness shall be served this instant."

"Give us half an hour and a place to get rid of this dust," said I.

I fancy the Inn had been changed but little since old Henry's day; and
the big room, where our table was spread, certainly not at all. The
oak floor was bare and worn into ruts and ridges--the great beam
rafters overhead were chocolate color from smoke and age--the huge
fireplace and the wall above it were black as a half-burnt back log.
But the food! My mouth waters now at the thought of it. No crazy
French concoctions of frothy indigestibleness; but good, sweet
cooking--the supper one gets a