“Well,” said the king to me, after the ladies in waiting had withdrawn, “how do you account for this cross being here in my hand, considering it was put into the coffin? You think the vault may have been pillaged? That, I believe, is out of the question. The object of a carnival freak, which could have been perpetrated just as easily in any other dress, is far too slight to make such a horrible offense as the violation of the dead worth while! But I intend to have the vault examined, and beg, my dear baron, that you will attend. For the present, good night.” I spent a dreadful night, torturing my sleepless brain for a solution of the riddle, and being forever haunted by the nun’s dark eyes. It was late when I woke. Some hours after, the coffin was opened in the presence of the king, whose surmise proved correct. The bolts on the coffin were intact. The gold chain was there, safe round the princess’ neck. But the cross was gone. There was not the remotest sign of violence. How I got out of that vault, I do not know. I remember feeling faint, and being supported by two court officials. I am unaware of what happened next. It was the only instance in my life in which my system had so entirely given way. A serious illness was apprehended, but my strong constitution won the day. For a long time my mind was in a precarious state. When I had recovered, the king sent for me. “Are you still a skeptic?” he asked in a grave voice. “No, your Majesty, I am convinced now.” Whereupon the king himself deigned to communicate to me the particulars relating to the golden cross.