“Your Highness,” said Von Arnsberg quietly, “all I have left in the world are these two withered hands, and may God cut them off if they ever wronged you in any act.  I am innocent.  Those letters purported to have been written by me were forgeries.  I could not prove this, so I have been outlawed, with the sentence of death over my head.  But to-night I shall leave this palace a free man, and you shall ask pardon for the wrong you have done me.”

There was no fear in the voice; there was nothing but confidence.  The duke glared at the speaker somberly, recalling what Herbeck had often said.

“What you say still remains to be proved.  Now, what is at the bottom of all this?” was the demand.  “You men have not obtained this interview for the sake of affirming your innocence.  Herr Carmichael, here, declared to me on honor that you were in possession of a great secret.  Out with it, without any more useless recrimination.”

Hans replied not in words but in actions.  He crossed the room to the duke’s desk and spread out his treasures under the flickering candlelight.  The duke, with a cry of terror, sprang toward the secret drawer.  His first thought was that the shoes and cloak, upon which only his eyes ever rested now, had been stolen.  He straightened.  Nothing was missing.  He glanced from face to face, from the articles on the desk to those in the drawer.  He was overwhelmed.  But he steadied himself; it was no moment for physical weakness.  Slowly, ignoring every one, he came back to the desk and fingered the locket.  Just then it was exceedingly quiet in the room, save that each man heard the quick breathing of his neighbor.  The duke opened the locket, looked long and steadfastly at the portrait, and shut it.  Then he went to the drawer again and returned with the counterparts.  He laid them side by side.  The likeness was perfect in all details.

“Carmichael,” he said, “will you please help me?  My eyes are growing old.  Do I see these things, or do I not?  And if I do, which is mine, and what does this signify?” The tremor in his voice was audible.

Grumbach answered.  “This, Highness.  I took these from the little princess with my own hands.  They have never been out of my keeping.  Those you have I know nothing about.”

The duke rubbed his eyes.  “My daughter?”

“The Princess Hildegarde is not your daughter, Highness,” said Hans solemnly.

“Gott!” The duke smote the desk in despair, a despair which wrung the hearts of those who witnessed it.  “Herbeck!  I must send for Herbeck!”

“Not yet, Highness; later,” Grumbach said.

“But if not Hildegarde—­I believe I must be growing mad!”

“Patience, your Highness!” said Carmichael.

“Patience!” wearily.  “You say patience when my heart is dying inside my breast?  Patience?  Who, then, is this woman I have called my child?”

“God knows, Highness!” Hans stood bowed before this parental agony.