I had expected a mortified smirk and simper at this, when the worthy daughter of some forester or huntsman discovered her mistake. Instead, I saw the golden head and blue frock bend in a graceful and highly decorous courtesy. “I beg my Lord of Regenstein’s pardon,” she said, with a grave simplicity that disarmed any reply. “If he will persist in wandering in our wood in a dark dress with a blue hat and an eagle’s feather, he will remember that although such costume may be excellent for Italy, it is in exactly such a garb as we are taught is worn by the Master Devil, especially as your lordship has a little black mustache and a smooth chin.” By this time I had the offending hat off, and was sweeping the feather against my knees, for I was not wholly lacking in wits. “And who may be the gracious lady I have the honor to address?” I asked. “Ilsa of the Harz; Ilsa von Blankenburg, who claims your Lordship’s service.” Another courtesy; out went a small white hand, and I bowed low whilst I kissed it. Peasant maiden! All the noble pride and dignity of a Cleopatra was in her bearing when I stood before her, and explained, as I might, my unmannerly intrusion. And then as I strove to find elegant words, suddenly I saw a marvellous change come over her beauty. The dignity all vanished to the winds. Before me was standing an arch, golden-haired, bright-cheeked girl who was laughing in pure music at my confusion. “Graf von Regenstein,--and I have called you the Master Devil, and adjured you as the fiend! Oh, blessed Mother, was there ever confusion like to that!” Her laughter went on and on, until I fell to laughing too, and then we both laughed,--the best way to cement a friendship. And after a little, I hardly know how or why, I was walking along that path through the forest, with Gräfin Ilsa chattering at my elbow as freely as to her own brother. She seemed a mere child to me as I looked and listened, yet I could not forget that long flash of noble dignity at our first encounter. And how much she had to tell! Yes, she was the only daughter of the Graf von Blankenburg. They had returned only two days since from Halberstadt. At their schloss they had been filled by the servants with stories of the new lord of Regenstein, of his Italian clothes, Italian servants, and Italian accent. It had rained since their coming, otherwise her father would surely have sent over to offer hospitality. Her brother Moritz I would rejoice to see. He had served in the southern wars and had been clear to Rome, and once had actually seen the Holy Father. Had I also seen the Holy Father? Yes? Several times? And actually conversed with him? Oh! How sinful she had been; how could I, how could the saints, forgive her? To have mistaken a pious Christian gentleman fresh from the Apostolic benison for the author of lies? Of course I could not fail to be an exceeding good man, having lived in the veritable atmosphere of saintliness surrounding the Lord Pope.