"Here comes the princess!" cried Trevisa, springing to his feet. Paul felt his heart beating as it had never beat before when he turned his eyes towards the approaching cavalcade. First came a detachment of Polish uhlans, their burnished lances glittering in the morning sunshine, and the points decorated with black pennons that fluttered in the breeze. The handsome regimentals of this _corps du garde_, the Blue Legion, promptly drew from Paul the remark,-- "Why, their uniform is the same as the Twenty-fourth Kentish!" "A remark previously made by me," observed Trevisa, drily. "You are singularly forgetful, Paul." On came the lancers at a swinging trot, followed by an open landau containing the princess. A moment more and this carriage was abreast of the hotel, and as if fortune were favoring Paul, the vehicle was brought to a sudden stand-still opposite the balcony on which he stood. The equipage was a dainty one, lined with pale blue silk, the arms of Poland gleaming in gold from the polished sable panel. The fine black horses, with coats like shining satin, were decked in silver harness. But Paul saw nothing of this equipage; his eyes were set upon its occupant. There, seated in graceful state, with silken sunshade poised above her head, and responsive to the plaudits of the people by sweet smiles and a courteous bending of her head, was--the youthful and beautiful Barbara! The supreme joy of realizing that she was actually living so affected Paul that for a moment the whole street--Barbara, soldiers, people, buildings--became a confused swimming vision. A sound like the murmur of many waters filled his ears. With difficulty he controlled his first impulse to descend the hotel steps, crying "Barbara! Barbara!" It set his teeth on edge afterwards when he recalled how near he had come to making a fool of himself. No, his first interview with her must not take place in the open street before a wondering, gaping throng. Fearing lest she should glance upwards and recognize him, Paul drew aside behind a screen of aloes that decorated the balcony, and continued to watch. Yes, it was truly Barbara. The convent-fugitive who had strolled with him through the pine-woods of Dalmatia, the Polish maiden whom he had held in his arms had become a real princess with a court, ministers, and an army at her command. The wonderment of it all! And though she had spent nearly a third of her life in a convent, yet there she sat with the air of one born in the purple. It was amazing, nay, charming, to mark the dignity and the ease with which she carried herself in her new state. The landau of the princess had been stopped before the Hôtel de Varsovie in order to enable her to address two pedestrians, who, judging from the respect paid to them by the crowd, were persons of distinction in the little world of Czernova. The first was an elderly, silver-haired man of fine presence, and distinguished by a stately, old-fashioned courtesy.