Prince and pauper
strike hands for the love of the land, while outside the great,
heartless world goes rumbling on without a thought of the rare little
principality among the eastern mountains.
In point of area, Graustark is but a mite in the great galaxy of
nations. Glancing over the map of the world, one is almost sure to miss
the infinitesimal patch of green that marks its location. One could not
be blamed if he regarded the spot as a typographical or topographical
illusion. Yet the people of this quaint little land hold in their hearts
a love and a confidence that is not surpassed by any of the lordly
monarchs who measure their patriotism by miles and millions. The
Graustarkians are a sturdy, courageous race. From the faraway century
when they fought themselves clear of the Tartar yoke, to this very hour,
they have been warriors of might and valor. The boundaries of their tiny
domain were kept inviolate for hundreds of years, and but one victorious
foe had come down to lay siege to Edelweiss, the capital. Axphain, a
powerful principality in the north, had conquered Graustark in the
latter part of the nineteenth century, but only after a bitter war in
which starvation and famine proved far more destructive than the arms of
the victors. The treaty of peace and the indemnity that fell to the lot
of vanquished Graustark have been discoursed upon at length in at least
one history.
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