So they found their way to Vienna, which was as near home as they dared to venture, and determined to spend a little time in a well-earned vacation from the task of Prince-hunting. Their steps were guided to the famous beer garden by a very pleasant acquaintance they had made in the Austrian pleasure city; and there they rested, well content with a cool drink and a friendly chat. And while they rested, there came on the scene a Major Laabe, to whom they were introduced by their Viennese friend, who was a smooth-spoken individual of slightly Jewish appearance. Major Laabe was an individual of quite another type, a dashing Austrian cavalry officer who knew everybody and everything. He was sympathetic to the travel-worn Bulgars, and over a bottle or two of wine they confided to him their mission, and its lack of result. It was then that the Major sprang to his feet and slapped his deerskin riding breeches of spotless white in pure amazement and joy. “Why,” he cried, “I know the very man you want; and by a strange coincidence he is here on this very spot. He is Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, grandson of Louis Philippe of France, and cousin of every crowned head in Europe. He is a prime favourite of both the Emperor of Austria and the Czar of Russia. And, my boys, don’t say I told you so, but he is as rich as Crœsus.” Grekoff, Galtcheff, and Stoiloff—such were the names of the three simple Bulgars—looked at one another with glistening eyes. It seemed too good to be true. “Come along with me,” urged the genial Major, “and be presented to him. He’s just in here,” and he led the way to the billiard-room. There the eyes of the three men from Sofia fell upon a tall young man of twenty-six, who with a billiard cue in his hand, was walking round the table with a gait that was curious in its mincing affectation. He was clad in the uniform of an Austrian sub-lieutenant, and was really quite a beautiful thing in the way of princes. His face was remarkable for its length, and for the cruel hook that marked the prominent nose. The eyes were bright with intelligence, the lips thin and set tight. And in his right eye he wore a monocle with a gilt rim, a rarer embellishment to a young man in those days than in these. As they watched him he posed for the shot—a difficult cannon—and made it with infinite skill and appearance of ease. Then moving to take his place for another shot, he let the monocle fall from his eye and turned and faced them squarely. But even then they noticed that he did not look at them. Introductions were made, and soon the five men were seated at a table by a quiet bar, with opened bottles before them. In less than half an hour the three Bulgarians were offering this young exquisite the post which all the young princes of Europe had refused in quick succession, and he was staring at them through his monocle with a regard in which shyness and impudence were blended.