The lights of the city presently vanished, and the long journey began, through the great clefts in the mountains, over gorges, across rivers, along wide valleys, and into the mountains again; a journey of nearly seventy hours. At each stop Carmichael got out, and every time he returned Hans could read disappointment on his face. Still he said nothing. He was an admirable comrade.
By the aid of certain small briberies on the train and in Paris Carmichael gathered, bit by bit, that the destination of the woman he loved was America. But never once did he set eyes upon her till she and her father mounted the gang-plank to the vessel which was to carry them across the wide Atlantic. The change in Herbeck was pitiable. His face had aged twenty years in these sixty odd hours. His clothes, the same he had worn that ever-memorable night, hung loosely about his gaunt frame, and there was a vacancy in his eyes which was eloquent of mental collapse. The girl quietly and tenderly guided him to the deck and thence to his stateroom. Carmichael abided his time.
A French newspaper contained a full account of Herbeck's coup and his subsequent flight. It also recounted the excitement of the following day, the appearance of Gretchen on the steps of the palace, and the great shouting of the people as they acclaimed her the queen of Jugendheit.
The second day out Carmichael's first opportunity came. He discovered Herbeck and his daughter leaning against the rail. He watched them uneasily, wondering how he might approach without startling her. At last he keyed up his courage.
"Good morning, your Highness," he stammered, and inwardly cursed his stupidity.
At the sound of his voice she turned, and there was no mistaking the gladness in her eyes.
"Mr. Carmichael?"
"Yes. I was surprised to learn that you were taking the same boat as myself."
How clumsy he was! she thought. For she had known his every move since the train drew out of Dreiberg.
"Father, here is our friend, Herr Carmichael."
"Carmichael?" said Herbeck slowly.. "Ah, yes. Good morning."
And Carmichael instantly comprehended that his name recalled nothing to the other man's remembrance.
"You are returning to America?" she asked.
"For good, perhaps. To tell the truth, I ran away, deserted my post, though technically I have already resigned. But America has been calling me for some days. You have never been to sea before?"
"No; it is all marvelous and strange to me."
"Let us walk, my child," said Herbeck.
"You will excuse me, Mr. Carmichael?" she said. Never more the rides in the fair mornings. Never more the beautiful gardens, the music, the galloping of soldiers who drew their sabers whenever they passed her. Never more any of these things.