Grumbach spread out on the bed the contents of the bundle.

“Look at these and tell me what you see, Captain.”

Carmichael inspected the little yellow shoes.  He turned them over and over in his hand.  He shook out the folds of the little cloak, and the locket fell on the bed.

“When did you get this?” he cried excitedly.  “It is her highness’!”

“So it is, Captain; but I have carried it about me all these years.”

“What?”

“Yes, Captain.  Count von Herbeck is a great statesman, but he made a terrible mistake this time.  Listen.  As sure as we are in this room together, I believe that she whom we call the princess is not the daughter of the grand duke.”

Carmichael sat down on the edge of the bed, numb and without any clear idea where he was.  From the stony look on his face, Grumbach might have carried the head of Medusa in his hand.  The blood beat into his head with many strange noises.  But by and by the world became clearer and brighter till all things took on the rosal tint of dawn.  Free!  If she was not a princess, she was free, free!

The duke allowed the quartet to remain standing for some time.  He strode up and down before them, his eyes straining at the floor, his hands behind his back.  He was in fatigue-dress, and only the star of Ehrenstein glittered on his breast.  He was never without this order.  All at once he whirled round, and as a sailor plunges the lead into the sea, so he plumbed the very deeps of their eyes as if he would see beforehand what strange things were at work in their souls.  “I do not recognize any of these persons,” he said to Carmichael.

“Your highness does not recognize me, then?” asked the clock-mender.

“Come closer,” commanded the duke.  The clock-mender obeyed.  “Take off those spectacles.”  The duke scanned the features, and over his own came the dawn of recollection.  “Your eyes, your nose—­Arnsberg, here and alive?  Oh, this is too good to be true!” The duke reached out toward the bell, but Carmichael interposed.

“Your highness will remember,” he warned.

“Ha!  So you have trapped me blindly?  I begin to understand.  Who is this fellow Grumbach?  Did I offer immunity to him?”

“I am Hans Breunner, Highness, and I ask for nothing.”

“Breunner?  Breunner?  Hans Breunner, brother of Hermann, and you put yourself into my hands?” The tone developed into a suppressed roar.  The duke took hold of Hans by the shoulders and drew him close.  “You dog!  So you ask for nothing?  It shall be given to you.  To-morrow morning I shall have you shot!  Hans Breunner!  God is good to me this night!  Thanks, Herr Carmichael, a thousand thanks!  And I need not ask who that damnable scoundrel is who has the black face and heart of a Gipsy.  When I recollect what I have suffered at your hands!  If only the late king were here, my joy would be complete!”