I was led down by Joubert and given into the charge of Gretel. Breakfast was laid for Eloise and me in the same boudoir where we had supped the night before, but lo, and behold! when we reached the room another child was there as well as Eloise. A boy of my own age. A charming little figure dressed in the uniform of a Pomeranian grenadier. "This is Carl!" cried Eloise, pulling the little grenadier forward by the hand. "This is Toto, Carl. I forgot his other name. No matter. I am hungry. Gretel, I pray you let us have breakfast." Carl was dark; and he met me without smiling, and took my hand without grasping it properly, and looked at me, not directly, but in a veiled manner curious in a child so young. Carl repelled me, and yet attracted me. When I contrast his face with the portrait in the picture-gallery of the schloss, I can see now, with the eye of memory, the awful likeness between him and the dead and gone Margaret von Lichtenberg, just as I can see the likeness between myself and Philippe de Saluce. The "family likeness"--that mysterious fact in life before which science is dumb--never was more manifest; but what made the thing more curious, more deeply involved in mystery, was the fact that under the same roof, hundreds of years after the old tragedy of long ago, the facsimiles of the two actors should meet as children fresh to the world. As for me this morning, I saw nothing in Carl von Lichtenberg but a little boy of my own age, somewhat fantastically dressed. The half-terror, the extraordinary sensation that the picture of Margaret von Lichtenberg had called up in my mind the night before, had expended itself and vanished, leaving me incapable of further psychic perception. Everything was commonplace again as the bread-and-butter that Gretel was cutting for us at the side-table. The schloss was so vast, so solidly constructed, that no sound came to us from the other guests. After breakfast, when we were running down a corridor making for the garden, and led by Eloise, a gentleman stopped us, and spoke a few words of greeting, and passed on. "That was the King," said Eloise. "He is leaving to-morrow--he and Graf von Bismarck. We, too, are leaving the day after." "You, too?" I cried, my childish heart recalling the lovely Countess Feliciani, who had been clean forgotten for twelve hours or more. "Yes," said Eloise. "And there's mamma. Come along. See, she is with those ladies by the fountain." We had broken into the garden, a wonderful and beautiful garden, with shaven lawns and clipped yew-trees, terraces, dim vistas cypress-roofed, and, far away down one of these alleys a sight to fascinate the heart of any child, the figure of a great stone man running. He was dressed in green lichen, lent him by the years; he held a spear in his hand, and he seemed in the act of hurling it at the game he was pursuing there beyond the cypress-trees at the edge of the singing pines.