It was the saddest season of the year; but all seasons were sad at Schloss Ahlden. Spring and summer brought little change, save that the monotony of damp cold was changed for the monotony of dusty heat. The Schloss had gloomy towers and careless unadorned rooms; the scanty furniture was old and worn; the servants were old, too, and had a repressed silent air. There were not many of these servants; there were a great number of guards, changed frequently; they were always glad to go–six months seemed a long time at Schloss Ahlden. The nearest town was Osnabrück, and that was many miles away. There was nothing beautiful nor interesting in all the melancholy country. It seemed strange that any one should have built a castle in a spot so barren and dreary; it seemed as if he who built must have done so knowing that one day it would be used as a prison. A woman had been confined here for thirty-two years; her husband was a King, her son would be a King, she was by her own birth a Princess and by right Queen of England, a country she had never seen. For thirty-two years she had seen nothing but the cold, dull rooms, the barren Hayden road, the flats, the river, the alders and the plovers. For thirty-two years she had driven three miles forth, three miles back along that empty road, stopping always at the turnpike, setting forth and returning at the same hour. When she had been brought to Schloss Ahlden she was gorgeous–a brilliant woman, very young, vivacious, sparkling, beautiful, full of wit and spirit, of courage and daring. She had defied them all, defied even the perpetual imprisonment to which she was condemned. Something would happen, she said. Nothing had happened. She sat now, a woman older than age, a woman who had never bloomed and faded, who had been frozen in her immature loveliness, chilled by creeping monotony in face and heart, and looked out at the light fading from the road and from the river Aller. The road was dead; never had it responded to her passionate watching; no help had ever come along its dusty length; no messenger spurring to say, “Your husband repents; he bids you come back,” or “Your husband is a King now; his people insist that you share his throne,” or “Your husband is dead, and your son sets you free!” Nothing ever happened. With unbroken regularity her guard was changed. Such servants as could not endure the life left; others came. These were all the sole incidents in the life at Schloss Ahlden. There were no letters, no messages, no visitors. Once her son, after a fierce quarrel with his father, made a desperate attempt to get to her, but she never knew of it, and soon the Prince was reconciled with the King and made no effort to come again.