"You will be sorry for this, dumbhead," growled the prince, scowling
fiercely. "Yes," added Ludra, with a hateful grin, "we shall meet
again, dear landlord, and you will be sorry."

Their host bowed and said nothing.

Some weeks later the princely automobile came to the door of the
chateau. The forester brought up word that the Prince Barenberg
and the Count Ludra were below with a message from headquarters;
the commandant wished the baron to come there immediately; the
automobile was sent to bring him. He made ready to go. His wife
and his servant tried hard to dissuade him: it was late, almost
dark, and very cold--not likely the commandant had sent for him--it
might be all a trick of those officers--they were hateful men--they
would play some cruel prank for revenge. But the old man was
obstinate in his resolve; he must do what was required of him, he
must not even run the risk of slighting the commandant's wishes;
after all, no great harm could come to him.

When he reached the steps he saw the count in the front seat, beside
the chauffeur, grinning; and the prince's harsh voice, made soft
as possible, called from the shadowy interior of the car:

"Come in, baron. The general has sent for you in a hurry. We will
take you like lightning. How fine your beeches look against the
sky. What?"

The old man stepped into the dusky car. It rolled down the long
aisle, between the smooth gray columns, beneath the fan-tracery of
the low arches, out on to the stony highway. Thus the tree-lover