They crossed the Strasse and traversed the walk at the side of
the palace enclosures. The Englishman aimlessly trailed his cane
along the green pickets of the fence till they ended in a stone
arch which rose high over the driveway. The gates were open, and
coming toward the two wanderers as they stood at the curb rolled
the royal barouche, on each side of which rode a mounted
cuirassier, sashed and helmeted. The Englishman, however, had
observed nothing; he was lost in some dream.

"Look, Herr!" cried Johann, rousing the other by a pull at the
sleeve. "Look!" Socialist though he claimed to be, Johann
touched his cap.

In the barouche, leaning back among the black velvet cushions,
her face mellowed by the shade of a small parasol, was a young
woman of nineteen or twenty, as beautiful as a da Vinci freshly
conceived. The Englishman saw a pair of grave dark eyes which,
in the passing, met his and held them. He caught his breath.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That is her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Alexia."

Afterward the Englishman remembered seeing a white dog lying on
the opposite seat.