As the slate roof of the little railway station became visible through the trees Basil suddenly turned to Ireland. “I don’t know how long I will be away,” he said, as if talking to an equal and a friend. “You know, Ireland, that Piotr is going to stay at Plenhöel with the Marquis and Mademoiselle during my absence.” “I do, Highness.” “Very well. You will probably be called upon to act as riding-master to him, just as you were years ago to the ‘Gamin.’” “I hope I will, Highness,” said Ireland, happily. “This being so, you will need to know the time of day to a minute. With a wild youngster like Piotr it will be necessary, I am certain.” Ireland permitted himself a smile; wondering, though, why each time that the Prince pronounced his son’s name there occurred so startling a hardening of his voice. “Now,” continued Basil, “this is a reliable timekeeper.” He passed both reins into his right hand, and with the left jerked from his waistcoat pocket his own chronometer by Juergeson--a priceless gem of its kind--and held it out, chain and all, to the astounded man beside him. “Oh, but--but Your Highness! This is Your Highness’s own watch--there’s a crown on it!” “I know,” Basil smiled. “It is not meant to be a tip, Ireland; merely a souvenir from one horseman to another.” The fast trotter in the shafts was just rounding the angle of the station yard. Basil gave the reins to Ireland and jumped out. Far down the line the shrill whistle of the express was cutting the breeze like an arrow. “Good-bye, Ireland,” Basil said, leaning across to shake hands, and suddenly Ireland, recovering from his joyful surprise, saw that the Prince’s eyes were moist. “Good-bye ... and take care of her!” He was gone inside the little building, all alone like the most ordinary of the mortals. A minute later the _piqueux_, through the row of oak-trees that stood between, glimpsed his tall figure passing down the platform; then the train breathed itself to a second’s stop at the waving of the flag, Basil stepped to the _marche-pied_ of a Pullman, and with a last wave to him disappeared. CHAPTER XXI Moonglade, a pale and forthright splendor, deeping The mountain shadows on the river-flow, Across the sullen flood’s resistless creeping-- Across the years, the wreckage and the weeping, You stand, so let them go! Moonglade, O Moonglade, that my heart doth fill, Causeway to Avalon unchanging still, I know, that pass by thee, The “bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea!”