A vision of the castle, as he had known it once or twice in the old, far-off days, rose before him. He saw again the leagues of flat marshland which surrounded it, the reedy river crawling by its walls, the grey alders shivering in the wind, and the wheeling of lonely plovers. He saw the sad towers, the cold, undecorated rooms, the windows looking out upon the lifeless waste of road. The road! the livid unfruitful highway, upon which, for hours at a time, it had been said, dry burning eyes had been set, despairing for the mercy, the deliverance, which never came! For thirty-two years! God in heaven! while the frost of age slowly settled on the beautiful eyes, the deep black hair, the breaking heart! With a writhe, as of physical suffering, the old man turned from his window. “The life was dull at Schloss Ahlden?” he said. “Dull, sire.” The correct, impassive attitude of the Captain maddened while it half cowed him. For a minute he held his breath--only to release it in a sudden question, unexpected, astounding: “In your eyes, soldier, _she_ was innocent?” Von Gastein started under the shock--and recovered himself. “During the twenty-five years, sire, I had the privilege of attending on her the Princess of Ahlden did not fail weekly to take the Sacrament, and on each occasion to avow her innocence before the altar.” The King stared, then mumbled from loud to low. “They will avow it,” he began, and broke off quickly. Some words reported to him, as having been uttered by her to one seeking to bring about a reconciliation before his enthronement, recurred to his mind: “If I am guilty, I am not worthy to be your Queen; if I am innocent, your King is not worthy to be my husband.” A casuistry, feminine, non-committing--hedging, in the true sporting sense. He hardened. This fate had not after all seemed so merciless to one so guilty. “She had liberty,” he said, as if appealing to his own conscience. The Captain made a frigid reverence, acquiescing in the enormous lie. “I say, she had liberty,” repeated the King--“permission to drive abroad.” “For six miles, sire, back and forth,” answered the soldier, as if he accounted himself addressed: “for six miles west, to the old stone bridge on the Hayden road. So much and no more. At the bridge the escort turned her. On fine days she would drive herself--fast and faster, till the stones spun from the wheels. She would seem to madden for freedom, to outstrip her misery. Many times she would traverse the distance, the lady-in-waiting sitting, the troop spurring at her side; and at the stone bridge it would be always the same. ‘No further?’ ‘No further, madam.’ ‘Ah! but death will release me!’” He stopped, conscious of his own emotion. He had served the lovely sorrow so long that its tragedy had become part of himself. “I crave your Majesty’s forgiveness,” he muttered in a broken voice. The King spoke up harshly: “She was limited to that road by necessity.” “During life, sire.”