Prince Robin of Graustark was as good-looking a chap as one would see
in a week's journey. Little would one suspect him of being the
descendant of a long and distinguished line of princes, save for the
unmistakeable though indefinable something in his eye that exacted
rather than invited the homage of his fellow man. His laugh was a
free and merry one, his spirits as effervescent as wine, his manner
blithe and boyish; yet beneath all this fair and guileless exposition
of carelessness lay the sober integrity of caste. It looked out
through the steady, unswerving eyes, even when they twinkled with
mirth; it met the gaze of the world with a serene imperiousness that
gave way before no mortal influence; it told without boastfulness a
story of centuries. For he was the son of a princess royal, and the
blood of ten score rulers of men had come down to him as a heritage
of strength.

His mother, the beautiful, gracious and lamented Yetive, set all
royal circles by the ears when she married the American, Lorry, back
in the nineties. A special act of the ministry had legalised this
union and the son of the American was not deprived of his right to
succeed to the throne which his forebears had occupied for centuries.
From his mother he had inherited the right of kings, from his father
the spirit of freedom; from his mother the power of majesty, from his
father the power to see beyond that majesty. When little more than a
babe in arms he was orphaned and the affairs of state fell upon the
shoulders of three loyal and devoted men who served as regents until
he became of age.

Wisely they served both him and the people through the years that