"Well, I will not stay you. Rather I will say, Good luck to you! You deserve to succeed. I make no doubt that I shall be able to send you from Stuttgart a squadron or two of Prince Louis of Baden’s horse, and if you and they can annihilate this pestilent band of outlaws you will do a service to the Emperor—a service that I shall take care is not forgotten. Time is pressing; my valet shall give you the suit I wore yesterday; I shall not need to trouble your man to lend me his in exchange, as I have another with me—a plain costume that will tell no tales. Ma foi! I could wish that for the next twelve hours he were Eugene of Savoy and I—what is his name?" "Max Berens, Monsieur." "Write his name, Lieutenant; if he were a courtier he would doubtless be content with the bare honour of filling my clothes for the nonce, but being a sensible man he will prefer a more tangible recompense. I shall see to it. Well, you have woke me from sleep, Monsieur; now I will ask you to leave me while I dress. And as we must be secret about this disguise, lest there be spies in the town, I shall not see you again until I meet you, as I hope to do, in my lord Marlborough’s camp. Send your man here; I will take care that he is treated with the deference becoming his rank. Ha! ha! it is an excellent joke." Harry went away delighted with the readiness with which the prince had entered into the spirit of his scheme. It was full of danger; he was under no illusion as to that; but this lent an additional zest to the adventure; he had thought out his plan carefully, and reckoned on finding an invaluable coadjutor in the landlord. At five o’clock, in the cool of a fine morning, the prince’s gilded coach drew up at the door of the Rathhaus, with fifteen dragoons in full riding trim. A carpet was spread from the entrance across the path to the coach, and one of the town officials stood in waiting to show the great man to his seat. By and by a figure in cocked hat, full wig, laced coat, and corslet came out with a fair counterfeit of Eugene’s active gait; he gave a somewhat stiff acknowledgment of the salutes of the soldiers and the respectful obeisance of the local magnates and the crowd of interested townspeople, and stepped quickly into the coach. Harry followed him. The door was shut, the word given to the two postilions, and amid the cheers of all Urach the vehicle rattled over the stones, out at the gate, into the open highway. No one but the principals in the little drama, and the fifteen picked men of the escort, knew that the man to whom they had just shown such deference was not Eugene of Savoy, a prince of a sovereign house, but Max Berens, the simple son of a shoemaker.