tongue, "I wish to present you to friends of mine. Prince Pierre
Bukaty," he added, stopping in front of a tall, old man, with bushy,
white hair, and the air of a mediaeval chieftain, "allow me to present
my old friend Cartoner."

The two men shook hands without other greeting than a formal bow. Deulin
still held Cartoner by the sleeve, and gently compelled him to turn
towards a girl who was looking round with bright and eager eyes. She had
a manner full of energy and spirit, and might have been an English girl
of open air and active tastes.

"Princess Wanda," said the Frenchman, "my friend Mr. Cartoner."

The eager eyes came round to Cartoner's face, of which the gravity
seemed suddenly reflected in them.

"He is the best linguist in Europe," said Deulin, in a gay whisper;
"even Polish; he speaks with the tongue of men and of angels."

And he himself spoke in Polish.

Princess Wanda met Cartoner's serious eyes again, and in that place,
where human fates are written, another page of those inscrutable books
was folded over.




V