“Aye,” muttered the Countess, “we were dragged upstairs and cast into a coach, and no one there ever saw us again nor spoke our names.” “They drove us through the night to Schloss Ahlden … thirty-two years ago.” The Princess paced up and down the hearth. “I have thought of so many things–if he would have been different, if he had ever loved me–it was the hate of fourteen years vented then–if Philip von Königsmarck cursed me when he saw he was trapped.” She drew a deep breath and put her pallid fingers to her pallid face. “I kissed him again,” she said, “when all was over—” With a fumbling gesture Madame von Arlestein groped for her sewing. “Why do we rip up this?” she asked. “I have never been kissed since,” added Sophia Dorothea, unheeding. The Countess pointed a skinny finger at the clock. “We have never been so late before. Get to your bed, Highness.” “Not to-night–never since by man, woman nor child–stay with me to-night.” “Why should I stay? I want my sleep.” “Who could sleep to-night? Hark at the rain.” She moved to the upright press in the corner and opened the doors, showing a gulf of shadow. As she stood there with one hand on either wing of the door, she looked like one peering with calmly curious eyes beyond the portals of the tomb. “Why did we recall it all to-night?” whimpered Madame von Arlestein. “I have lost my needle and the thread is entangled.” She pulled discontentedly at her sewing. Sophia Dorothea stepped into the press and sought among the clothes. “What are you doing?” asked Madame von Arlestein peevishly. The Princess stepped out of the press with a dress across her arm. A dress of faded white brocade embroidered with wreaths of blue roses and a petticoat gleaming dully with tarnished gold thread. “_Der Herr Jesus!_” cried the Countess. The Princess closed the press; then she threw off her gown and stood a wraith-like figure in her white shift. With a ghastly look she put on the brocade, which rustled drearily as if it groaned at being drawn from its tomb. She laced it across the bosom with the pink cord, she spread out the skirts, she shook the yellow lace into place. With a steady step she crossed the room to the bed. “In the firelight, in the firelight, like this, eh, Annette?” “What has happened to you?” quavered the old woman. “I do not know,” answered the Princess. “I feel strange to-night, almost as if hope had come once more; almost as if I should never see the flats and the road and the Aller again; almost as if I should never count the plovers again nor drive three miles forth, three miles back along the Hayden road; almost as if Philip von Königsmarck were near.” “It is the wind,” said the Countess. The storm wailed and shuddered without, and splash, splash fell the rain from the leads. “It brings the ghosts,” she added. She peered at the clock. “_Mein Gott!_ It is–_twenty minutes after one_. You should be in bed,” she added.