The music had ceased and the crowd was melting towards the open. The girl worthy to be compared to a Roumanian stood almost in the middle of the room talking with pleasing humility to a young man who, even in his peasant’s costume, was plainly the lord of the village. She wore a common blue cotton gown a size too small for her, and a kerchief pinned so tightly about her head that only half an inch of hair brushed flatly backward was visible. But the figure was magnificent; the hands were small, pointed, white; the skin of face and throat had never been exposed to a peasant sun, and the visible hair was red. The girl suddenly raised her eyes, and Fessenden screwed up his own and left the window. So he had seen the Archduchess!--was about to meet her at last! The fountain burst its bonds and flew to his head. His deep, almost passionate love of adventure shook him slightly from head to foot. The color came into his face, and his nostrils quivered. If he could only corner his sister and warn her before she betrayed him by a feminine scream. She was standing just within the door arranging the ribbon at the end of her long plait of hair, which, like many another, had been disordered by the energy of the dance; and the hanging tresses brought forward for reconstruction by herself and several other maidens may possibly have fetched a sigh from lips too soon surrendered. Fessenden entered and placed his back between her face and Ranata. “Now don’t even raise your eyes,” he said rapidly. “I want to be unknown here. I want you to introduce me to her and not tell her who I am.” Fessenden had underestimated his sister’s accomplishments. “I won’t do anything of the sort,” she replied, smoothing her kerchief with steady fingers. “It is just one thing I should never dare to do. The responsibility shall be entirely your own.” “Very well. I can manage it if you do not betray me. What on earth does this mean, anyhow? Are you and she here alone? I don’t see the ghost of a chaperon.” “Our first idea was merely to look on, but we had no sooner arrived at Count Zrinyi’s castle this morning than Sarolta was attacked by the gout--or pretended she was; she is an angel--and ordered us to our rooms. We made Zrinyi borrow clothes from two of his servants--and here we are. I’ve never had so much fun in my life--neither has Ranata.” She looked him over. “You are not a bad imitation,” she admitted. “So many of them are fair, and luckily they all wear their hats. Pull your brim a little lower; your eyes are hopelessly American. Of course you’ll fall in love with her--I’ve seen it coming for years; but don’t propose on the spot and spoil all our fun.” “What do you take me for?” and Fessenden left her to an admiring peasant and sought his host. “That girl is very pretty,” he said discontentedly, “but I can’t dance with a girl so much shorter than myself; I am always swinging her off her feet. Will you introduce me to the other Austrian--or Roumanian, did you say?”