The castle of the prince of Doppelkinn rested in the very heart of the

celebrated vineyards. Like all German castles I ever saw or heard of,

it was a relic of the Middle Ages, with many a crumbling, useless tower

and battlement. It stood on the south side of a rugged hill which was

gashed by a narrow but turbulent stream, in which lurked the rainbow

trout that lured the lazy man from his labors afield. (And who among

us shall cast a stone at the lazy man? Not I!) If you are fortunate

enough to run about Europe next year, as like as not you will be

mailing home the "Doppelkinn" post-card.

More than once I have wandered about the castle's interior, cavernous

and musty, strolled through its galleries of ancient armor, searched

its dungeon-keeps, or loitered to soliloquize in the gloomy judgment

chamber. How time wars upon custom! In olden times they created pain;

now they strive to subdue it.

I might go into a detailed history of the Doppelkinns, only it would be

absurd and unnecessary, since it would be inappreciable under the name

of Doppelkinn, which happens to be, as doubtless you have already

surmised, a name of mine own invention. I could likewise tell you how

the ancient dukes of Barscheit fought off the insidious flattery of

Napoleon, only it is a far interest, and Barscheit is simply a

characteristic, not a name. Some day I may again seek a diplomatic

mission, and what government would have for its representative a teller

of tales out of school?

It was, then, to continue the fortunes and misfortunes of Max

Scharfenstein, close to midnight when the cavalcade crossed the old

moat-bridge, which hadn't moved on its hinges within a hundred years.

They were not entering by the formal way, which was a flower-bedded,

terraced road. It was the rear entrance. The iron doors swung outward

with a plaintive moaning, like that of a man roused out of his sleep,

and Max found himself in an ancient guard-room, now used as a kind of

secondary stable. The men dismounted.

"This way, Herr Ellis," said the colonel, with a mocking bow. He

pointed toward a broad stone staircase.

"All I ask," said Max, "is a fair chance to explain my presence here."

"All in due time. Forward! The prince is waiting, and his temper may

not be as smooth as usual."

With two troopers in front of him and two behind, Max climbed the steps

readily enough. They wouldn't dare kill him, whatever they did. He

tried to imagine himself the hero of some Scott or Dumas tale, with a

grim cardinal somewhere above, and oubliettes and torture chambers

besetting his path. But the absurdity of his imagination, so

thoroughly Americanized, evoked a ringing laughter. The troopers eyed

him curiously. He might laugh later, but it was scarcely probable. A

tramp through a dark corridor and they came to the west wing of the

castle. It was here that the old prince lived, comfortably and

luxuriously enough, you may take my word for it.




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