all the property of high well-born Grafs and very honourable
Freiherrs. Most of them had been the scene of celebrated tournaments;
several of them had witnessed the gorgeous marriages of Holy Roman
Emperors; and every one of them was provided with some choice and
selected first-class murders. Ghosts could be arranged for or not,
as desired; and armorial bearings could be thrown in with the moat
for a moderate extra remuneration.

The two we liked best of all these tempting piles were Schloss
Planta and Schloss Lebenstein. We drove past both, and even I
myself, I confess, was distinctly taken with them. (Besides, when
a big purchase like this is on the stocks, a poor beggar of a
secretary has always a chance of exerting his influence and earning
for himself some modest commission.) Schloss Planta was the most
striking externally, I should say, with its Rhine-like towers, and
its great gnarled ivy-stems, that looked as if they antedated the
House of Hapsburg; but Lebenstein was said to be better preserved
within, and more fitted in every way for modern occupation. Its
staircase has been photographed by 7000 amateurs.

We got tickets to view. The invaluable Cesarine procured them for
us. Armed with these, we drove off one fine afternoon, meaning to
go to Planta, by Cesarine's recommendation. Half-way there, however,
we changed our minds, as it was such a lovely day, and went on up
the long, slow hill to Lebenstein. I must say the drive through the
grounds was simply charming. The castle stands perched (say rather
poised, like St. Michael the archangel in Italian pictures) on a
solitary stack or crag of rock, looking down on every side upon
its own rich vineyards. Chestnuts line the glens; the valley of
the Etsch spreads below like a picture.

The vineyards alone make a splendid estate, by the way; they produce
a delicious red wine, which is exported to Bordeaux, and there
bottled and sold as a vintage claret under the name of Chateau
Monnivet. Charles revelled in the idea of growing his own wines.

"Here we could sit," he cried to Amelia, "in the most literal sense,
under our own vine and fig-tree. Delicious retirement! For my part,
I'm sick and tired of the hubbub of Threadneedle Street."

We knocked at the door--for there was really no bell, but a
ponderous, old-fashioned, wrought-iron knocker. So deliciously
mediaeval! The late Graf von Lebenstein had recently died, we
knew; and his son, the present Count, a youn