Count von Herbeck remained at his desk, his face as inscrutable as ever,
his eyes without expression, and his lips expressing nothing. He
smoothed out a sheet of paper, affixed the state seal, and in a flowing
hand wrote a diplomatic note, considering the proposal of his royal
highness, the prince regent of Jugendheit, on behalf of his nephew, the
king. This he placed in the diplomatic pouch, called for a courier, and
despatched him at once for the frontier.

The duke sought his daughter. She was in the music-room, surrounded by
several of her young women companions, each holding some musical
instrument in her hands. Hildegarde was singing. The duke paused,
shutting his eyes and striving to recall the voice of the mother. When
the voice died away and the young women leaned back in their chairs to
rest, the duke approached. Upon seeing him all rose. With a smile he
dismissed them.

"My child," he began, taking Hildegarde's hand and drawing her toward a
window-seat, "the king of Jugendheit asks for your hand."

"Mine, father?"

"Even so."

"Then I am to marry the king of Jugendheit?" There was little joy in her
voice.

"Ah, we have not gone so far as that. The king, through his uncle, has
simply made a proposal. How would you regard it, knowing what you do of
the past, the years that you lived in comparative penury, amid
hardships, unknown, and almost without name?"