Nervy Trafford--comfortably covered by a warm rug, seated in an open sleigh next to a young lady of exalted birth, romantic temperament, and unimpeachable comeliness--was almost a happy man. It was not that he had fallen in love at first sight, that he had found swift consolation for his recent disappointment in a rapidly-engendered passion for the fascinating claimant to the throne of Grimland, that he was capable of offering any woman the fine spiritual worship he had accorded to the adorable Angela Knox; but to his temperament admiration came easily--and he had dined well. He had been the auditor of a wildly exciting song, had made the acquaintance of the inimitable singer, and because there was wine and music in his blood, and much beauty by his side, the nightmare of his past depression vanished into the biting air, and his pulses stirred to a Hit of amazing exhilaration. "By Jove!" he exclaimed to himself, stealing a side glance at his companion's bewitching profile, "Saunders is right--life is too valuable an asset to fling away in a moment's madness. There is a beauty of the body and a beauty of the soul, and if the two are perfectly combined in only one woman in the universe, is that any reason why I should not admire a tip-tilted nose or a curved mouth when Fate puts them within a hand's breadth of my own scrubby cheek?" "Do you know Weidenbruck, Herr Trafford?" the Princess broke in on his silent philosophising. "Little beyond the Hôtel Concordia," he replied. "Where are we now?" "The Domkircheplatz. That is the Cathedral." They were crossing a big open space, well lit, planted with trees, and adorned in its centre by a big group of statuary. To their right was a huge gothic building--a high ridged intricate structure of red sandstone--with a tangle of fretted pinnacles and flying buttresses, and a couple of lofty towers that stood out black against the starry heaven. "A fine building!" commented the American. "That is where I am going to be crowned," said the Princess, and she laughed a fine, free, silvery laugh that thrilled her companion with admiration. "That's the right spirit," he said gaily; "and what's this depressing-looking place in front of us?" "That's where I shall probably be confined," was the cheerful retort. The building in question occupied the entire side of the square, and was as gloomy as it was vast. It was a plain rectangular structure totally devoid of ornament, and constructed of enormous blocks of rough hewn stone; irregularly spaced windows broke its sombre front with narrow slits and iron gratings, and a high-pitched roof of ruddy tiles crowned the grim precipice of enduring masonry. "That's the Strafeburg," concluded the Princess, "the Bastille of Weidenbruck!" "I see myself rescuing you from that topmost window," ventured Trafford. The Princess turned half round and looked at him curiously.