In the clear light of retrospection he now saw how impossible
it was for her to have been the princess. Every act, every word, every
look should have told him the truth. Every flaw in her masquerading now
presented itself to him and he was compelled to laugh at his own
simplicity. Caution, after all, was the largest component part of his
makeup; the craftiness of the hunted was deeply rooted in his being. He
saw a very serious side to the adventure. Stretching himself upon the
cot in the corner of the room he gave himself over to plotting,
planning, thinking.
In the midst of his thoughts a sudden light burst in upon him. His eyes
gleamed with a new fire, his heart leaped with new animation, his blood
ran warm again. Leaping to his feet he ran to the window to re-read the
note from old Franz. Then he settled back and laughed with a fervor that
cleared the brain of a thousand vague misgivings.
"She is Miss Calhoun, an American going to be a guest at the
castle,"--not the princess, but _Miss_ Calhoun. Once more the
memory of the clear gray eyes leaped into life; again he saw her asleep
in the coach on the road from Ganlook; again he recalled the fervent
throbs his guilty heart had felt as he looked upon this fair creature,
at one time the supposed treasure of another man. Now she was Miss
Calhoun, and her gray eyes, her entrancing smile, her wondrous vivacity
were not for one man alone.
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