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“But is red hair so very peculiar here?” I asked.

“Among the Jews–yes, sire! I mean yes, SIR,” she corrected herself. “You seldom see a red-headed Jew.”

“The Jews!” I repeated in astonishment.

“Of course you know the S’helpburgs are descended directly from Solomon–and have indeed some of his matrimonial peculiarities,” she said, blushing.

I was amazed–but recalled myself. “But why do they call the Duke of Kohlslau Black Michael?” I asked carelessly.

“Because he is nearly black, sir. You see, when the great Prince Rupert went abroad in the old time he visited England, Scotland, and Africa. They say he married an African lady there–and that the Duke is really more in the direct line of succession than Prince Rupert.”

But here the daughter showed me to my room. She blushed, of course, and apologized for not bringing a candle, as she thought my hair was sufficiently illuminating. “But,” she added with another blush, “I do SO like it.”

I replied by giving her something of no value,–a Belgian nickel which wouldn’t pass in Bock, as I had found to my cost. But my hair had evidently attracted attention from others, for on my return to the guest-room a stranger approached me, and in the purest and most precise German–the Court or ‘Olland Hof speech–addressed me:

“Have you the red hair of the fair King or the hair of your father?”

Luckily I was able to reply with the same purity and precision: “I have both the hair of the fair King and my own. But I have not the hair of my father nor of Black Michael, nor of the innkeeper nor the innkeeper’s wife. The red HEIR of the fair King would be a son.”

Possibly this delicate mot on the approaching marriage of the King was lost in the translation, for the stranger strode abruptly away. I learned, however, that the King was actually then in Bock, at the castle a few miles distant, in the woods. I resolved to stroll thither.

It was a fine old mediaeval structure. But as the singular incidents I am about to relate combine the romantic and adventurous atmosphere of the middle ages with all the appliances of modern times, I may briefly state that the castle was lit by electricity, bad fire-escapes on each of the turrets, four lifts, and was fitted up by one of the best West End establishments. The sanitary arrangements were excellent, and the drainage of the most perfect order, as I had reason to know personally later. I was so affected by the peaceful solitude that I lay down under a tree and presently fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices, and, looking up, beheld two men bending over me. One was a grizzled veteran, and the other a younger dandyfied man; both were dressed in shooting suits.

“Never saw such a resemblance before in all my life,” said the elder man. “‘Pon my soul! if the King hadn’t got shaved yesterday because the Princess Flirtia said his beard tickled her, I’d swear it was he!”

I could not help thinking how lucky it was–for this narrative–that the King HAD shaved, otherwise my story would have degenerated into a mere Comedy of Errors. Opening my eyes, I said boldly:

“Now that you are satisfied who I resemble, gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me who you are?”

“Certainly,” said the elder curtly. “I am Spitz–a simple colonel of his Majesty’s, yet, nevertheless, the one man who runs this whole dynasty–and this young gentleman is Fritz, my lieutenant. And you are–?”

“My name is Razorbill–brother to Lord Burleydon,” I replied calmly.

“Good heavens! another of the lot!” he muttered. Then, correcting himself, he said brusquely: “Any relation to that Englishwoman who was so sweet on the old Rupert centuries ago?”

Here, again, I suppose my sister-in-law would have had me knock down the foreign insulter of my English ancestress–but I colored to the roots of my hair, and even farther–with pleasure at this proof of my royal descent! And then a cheery voice was heard calling “Spitz!” and “Fritz!” through the woods.