"And--love?" There was silence momentary, but long enough for the forging of a lie. "Perhaps," she breathed, looking down coquettishly. A great light shone in the Captain's eyes, and the sombre beauty of his face was illumined by a mighty joy. "Princess Gloria," he cried, "I am yours to the death!" CHAPTER SIXTH "WEIN, WEIB, UND GESANG" That evening Mr. and Mrs. Robert Saunders were George Trafford's guests in a private room of the Hôtel Concordia. In the centre of the dining table stood a big silver trophy of considerable value and questionable design. As soon as the soup had been served, Trafford solemnly poured out the contents of a champagne bottle into its capacious depths. He then handed it to Mrs. Saunders. "Felicitations," she said, taking the trophy in both hands, "I drink to St. Liedwi, the patron saint of skaters, coupled with the name of George Trafford, winner of the King's Cup." Saunders was the next to take the prize in his hands. "I drink a health unto their Majesties, King Edward of England and King Karl of Grimland, and to the President of the United States," he said; and then bowing to his host, "Also to another good sportsman, one Nervy Trafford. God bless 'em all!" Trafford received the cup from Saunders, his lips muttered something inaudible, and tossing back his head he drank deep. "What was your toast, Mr. Trafford?" demanded Mrs. Saunders quietly. The winner of the cup shook his head sagely. "That is a secret," he replied. "A secret! But I insist upon knowing," returned the lady. "Tell me, what was your toast?" Trafford hesitated a moment. "I toasted '_Wein, Weib, und Gesang,_'" he announced at length. "Wine, woman, and song!" repeated Mrs. Saunders. "A mere abstract toast, which you would have confessed to at once. Please particularise?" "The 'wine,'" said Trafford, "is the wine of champagne, which we drink to-night, '89 Cliquot. 'Woman,' is Eve in all her aspects and in all countries--Venus victrix, sea-born Aphrodite, Astarte of the Assyrians, Kali of the Hindoos. God bless her! God bless all whom she loves and all who love her!" "And the song?" demanded Saunders. "The song is the one I have heard one hundred and fifty times since I have been here," replied Trafford. "Its title is unknown to me, but the waiters hum it in the passages, the cabmen chant it from their box seats, the street-boys whistle it with variations in the Bahnhofstrasse." "That sounds like the Rothlied," said Saunders. "It is a revolutionary air." "I like it enormously," said Trafford. "Of course you would," said Saunders. "You have the true Grimlander's love of anarchy. But if you wish, we will subsequently adjourn to the Eden Theatre of Varieties in the Karlstrasse. I am told that the Rothlied is being sung there by a beautiful damsel of the aristocratic name of Schmitt."