A Crowned Queen: The Romance of a Minister of State
Date: 2021-09-17T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Political fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; British -- Foreign countries -- Fiction; Kings and rulers -- Fiction

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Title: A Crowned Queen: The Romance of a Minister of State

Author: Sydney C. Grier

Release date: September 17, 2021 [eBook #66325]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CROWNED QUEEN: THE ROMANCE OF A MINISTER OF STATE ***

A CROWNED QUEEN

THE ROMANCE OF A MINISTER OF STATE

By
SYDNEY C. GRIER
AUTHOR OF
‘AN UNCROWNED KING,’ ‘IN FURTHEST IND,’ ETC.

(Second in the Balkan Series)

THIRD IMPRESSION

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MCMVII
All Rights reserved

CONTENTS.

I. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY

II. IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH

III. THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS

IV. AN AMATEUR DIPLOMATIST

V. HEAVILY HANDICAPPED

VI. A DAUGHTER’S DUTY

VII. TWO KINGS OF BRENTFORD

VIII. A FAMILY COMPACT

IX. “WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN”

X. A NEW RELATIONSHIP

XI. WAYFARING

XII. METAMORPHOSES

XIII. IN THE GREENWOOD

XIV. THE JUDENHETZE

XV. “WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD”

XVI. THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD

XVII. “THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR”

XVIII. FRIENDLY INTERVENTION

XIX. A LITTLE TOO FAR

XX. IN QUEST OF THE WHEREWITHAL

XXI. PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE

XXII. THE EDUCATION QUESTION

XXIII. IN SIGHT OF THE GOAL

XXIV. A COMBAT À OUTRANCE

XXV. TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS

A CROWNED QUEEN.

CHAPTER I.
AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY.

The carriage from Llandiarmid Castle had been waiting for a quarter of an hour at the little country station, and the horses were beginning to toss their heads and paw the ground restlessly, to the great scandal of the coachman.

“This ’ere train of yours is late again, Mr Prodger,” he grumbled to the station-master, who was combining business with pleasure by perusing a grimy copy of a Welsh newspaper at the same time that he kept an eye on the porter who was engaged in weeding the platform flower-beds. Mr Prodger took up the challenge promptly.

“I wass sooner believe you do be early nor the train late, Mr Wright,” he responded. “’Deed and I wass.”

“Me early!” was the wrathful answer; “when ’er ladyship come round to the stables ’erself, and tell me to ’urry, because there wasn’t but barely time to meet the train, the notice was that short! No, Mr Prodger, it’s my belief as there’s been a haccident somewhere on this bloomin’ line, and a nice tale I’ll ’ave to go back and tell the Markiss and my lady.”

“There goes the signals,” put in the footman. “The train’ll be ’ere in a minute.”

“Iss, sure,” said the station-master, “the train do be oll right. She wass not have you for driver, Mr Wright, see you?”

Chuckling over this Parthian shot, Mr Prodger retired to his own domains, and Wright turned upon the footman, who had interfered so unwarrantably in the discussion.

“What are you a-doin’ of ’ere, Robert? Why ain’t you on the platform waitin’ to take ’is lordship’s things?”

“I ain’t never seen ’is lordship,” pleaded Robert. “I was waitin’ to arst you what ’e was like.”

“Oh, yes, there’s so many passengers stops ’ere,” returned his superior, with a terrific sneer. “’E’ll be lost in the crowd, ’e will.”

“But do ’e favour the Markiss?” persisted the footman.

“Well, they both ’as fair ’air and blue eyes, if you go for to call that a likeness. But you look out for a under-sized gentleman, with a ’aughty voice, and a slave-driver kind of a way with ’im. That’s Lord Cyril.”

With this graphic description to guide him, Robert ventured upon the platform, and succeeded in identifying the traveller of whom he was in search. Wright’s lips settled themselves into a peculiarly grim smile when his subordinate returned escorting a small fair man enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat—a garment which excited the somewhat derisive wonder of the loiterers around. They touched their caps as Lord Cyril passed, it is true—it was an attention they were bound to pay to the brother of “the Markiss,” but behind his back they asked one another with ill-concealed grins whether “oll the chentlemen wass wear ladies’ clooks in the furrin parts he did come from?” If Lord Cyril noticed their amusement, he heeded it no more than did the stolid German valet who followed with his bag, and it was with a pleasant smile that he looked up at Wright.

“Glad to see you again, Wright. You look as fit as ever. So you are coachman now, are you?”

“Yes, my lord—this five year.”

“Your shadow has not grown less, I see?” remarked Lord Cyril lazily.

“Well, my lord, we ain’t none of us no younger nor we used to be,” was the somewhat aggressive answer, for Wright had caught sight of a faint smile on Robert’s face. Discipline must be maintained, even in social intercourse of this kind, and the coachman bethought himself hastily of his duties. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but ’er ladyship bid me tell you as she ’ad some ladies comin’ as she couldn’t put off, and ’is lordship and Lady Philippa was gone out ridin’ before your telegram come, so she ’oped you wouldn’t take it unkind not bein’ met by none of the family.”

“Not at all. I quite understand,” said the visitor cheerfully, with his foot on the carriage-step. “It’s a pleasure to see your friendly face again, Wright. I must come and have a talk with you about old times in the harness-room one of these days.”

“Much honnered, my lord, I’m sure,” was Wright’s response, but his face betrayed small appreciation of the prospective pleasure. Robert looked at him with some timidity as he climbed to his place, and it was not until they were fairly on the road to the Castle that the question he was burning to ask escaped the footman’s lips.

“I say, Mr Wright, was that true as they was all sayin’ in the servants’-’all the night I come—about the Markiss ’avin’ been a king once, somewhere in furrin parts, I mean?”

“It’s as true as you’re settin’ there,” responded Wright solemnly, “that seven year back or thereabouts ’is lordship was as much a king as Queen Victorier is queen.” This was stretching the truth a little, but Wright paused to allow the information to sink in before he added, “I was ’is Majesty’s—I mean ’is lordship’s—’ead groom then, so I know.”

“You ain’t jokin’?” asked the bewildered Robert.

“Jokin’? Look ’ere, my lad—you ’ave cool cheek enough for the job—you ask ’is lordship ’imself whether ’e wasn’t King of Thracia for three months, and if ’e didn’t set on a throne and ’ave all the swells a-bowin’ down to ’im. ’E might ’ave married a real Princess if ’e’d liked, but she were a bad lot, and ’e knew it. Oh, there ain’t no doubt about ’is ’avin’ been King, though you mayn’t choose to believe it.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ for to contradick you, Mr Wright,” said Robert penitently. “And did Lord Cyril take on the kingdom after ’im?”

Wright snorted. “No; Lord Cyril ain’t never been King, nor won’t be,” he said. “’E was in Thracia with the Markiss, and made ’imself useful about the place—sort of general ’andy man, as you might say. Then when me and the Markiss gave up the job and come ’ome, ’e stayed on and done the same sort of business for the new King—Hotter George ’is name is.”

“But why did ’is lordship give up the job?” asked Robert, deeply interested. Wright looked mysterious.

“That were about the time as ’is lordship got married, my lad; and when there’s a lady concerned it ain’t for you nor yet for me to say why or wherefore in such a case.” This explanation did not explain much, and the impression it was calculated to convey was not by any means the correct one; but wild horses could not have dragged from Wright the confession that Lord Caerleon had left his Balkan kingdom as a prisoner, dethroned by a counterrevolution to that which had resulted in his being offered the crown. While Robert was meditating on his oracular utterance, Wright was looking ahead, and, just in time to prevent a further question which was trembling on the footman’s lips, he exclaimed—

“Why, there’s ’is lordship and Lady Phil comin’ along! You get down and ask Lord Cyril if ’e’d like to stop for them, Robert. They’ll be up with us before we get past the lodge.”

Robert obeyed, and Lord Cyril ordered him at once to wait. Stepping out of the carriage, the visitor stood watching the approaching riders, a tall man on a large chestnut horse, and a fair-haired little girl on a Shetland pony. They quickened their pace when they saw him.

“Why, Cyril, old man!” cried Lord Caerleon, “how did you get here? I thought we were not to expect you for a month or so yet?”

“I was able to get off earlier, after all. I’ll explain presently. Just now I should like to be introduced to my niece.”

“That won’t take very long. Phil, this is your uncle Cyril.”

“Do you think I’m like father, Uncle Cyril?” inquired Lady Philippa breathlessly, after bestowing a kiss on her newly found relative.

“His very image,” responded her uncle.

“Oh, I am so glad. Usk is just like mother, and it’s so much nicer to be different. Nurse is always saying we shall grow out of it, but I don’t believe we ever shall.”

“Let us walk up to the house together, Cyril,” said Lord Caerleon. “I want to ask you any number of things. Robert can lead my horse. Phil, you might ride on and tell your mother we are all right, in case she should be worrying about us.”

“Oh yes, we mustn’t let mother get worried,” said Philippa sedately, trotting her pony through the lodge-gate as she spoke.

“Has Nadia started nerves?” asked Cyril of his brother.

“Not exactly, but she gets fearfully anxious about the children and me when we are out of her sight. She does her best to hide it, but even Phil has found it out, as you see. Do you know that when that child was thrown one day when she was out riding with me, she mounted again and we rode on to Aberkerran to get her head plastered up by the doctor there, rather than frighten her mother by coming in with blood on her face? Plucky, wasn’t it?”

“Phil is a chip of the old block, I see. You look pretty flourishing, Caerleon. Any regrets for the lost kingdom?”

“None!” responded Caerleon emphatically. “If I only knew that you were safely out of it too, I should feel perfectly happy.”

“Then Otto Georg would abdicate, which would be a European calamity.”

“He certainly keeps you with him most persistently. I don’t know how he made up his mind to let you take a holiday now.”

“Well, the fact is—this mustn’t be mentioned, of course—that the domestic horizon at the Palace has been somewhat clouded of late years, and I have often thought it might conduce to peace and happiness if I took myself off for a little while; but Otto Georg has never consented to let me go before.”

“Yes, I was afraid from what the papers said that you two didn’t exactly hit it off with the Queen and her relations. What’s all the fuss about?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we have a smoke to-night. We’re too close to the Castle now.”

“Yes, and there’s Nadia waiting for us on the steps,” said Caerleon, quickening his pace.

“So she is. Why, Caerleon, your wife looks younger than when you married her! And though I never used to be able to see it, she is certainly wonderfully handsome.”

“Thanks,” said Caerleon drily. “I knew that all along.”

It seemed almost incredible to Cyril that the queenly woman who came down the steps to meet him could ever have been the girl against whose marriage with his brother he had once waged a bitter and by no means scrupulous war. Nadia Caerleon would never be one of those who take life easily; but she had lost the half-startled, half-suspicious look which had set Cyril against her at the beginning of their acquaintance, and to her natural dignity there was now added something of the repose and assurance of manner which mark the grande dame.

“I was so sorry not to be able to meet you, Cyril,” she said, as she shook hands with him, “but the Needlework Guild were holding a committee meeting here, and I could not forsake them.”

“Certainly not,” said Cyril. “I know of old that if there are two courses before you, you always make a point of choosing the one you like least.”

“I see that you have not changed at all in these seven years,” she said, smiling, as she led the way into the hall.

“Perhaps not,” said Cyril in his own mind, “but you have; or you would have hastened to assure me that I was much mistaken, and that you preferred the committee meeting.”

“You won’t be long, Carlino?” Nadia was saying to her husband. “I told the children that they might have tea with us in the hall, and they will be down very soon.”

Almost before Caerleon and Cyril had laid aside their hats and coats, the children were upon them, Philippa looking very demure in her pink dress, and holding the hand of her brother, who was a year younger than herself. Yet that the interval which had elapsed since her father had sent her on in advance had not been altogether devoted to personal adornment was evidenced when she looked up from her cake and remarked—

“What a funny man your servant is, Uncle Cyril!”

“Oh, you have discovered the taciturn Dietrich, then?” said Cyril.

“Oh yes,” put in Usk. “We went to see him unpacking your things. Nurse came to see him too, because he is a foreigner.”

“You must be rather hard up for sights here, I should imagine. Well, did you find him communicative?”

“I don’t know what that word means, Uncle Cyril.”

“Could you get him to talk to you?”

“Not very much,” said Philippa thoughtfully. “We wanted him to tell us why you had a different kind of crown on your brushes and things from what father has, and he said it was because you were a different kind of gentleman. And we knew that before.”

“Dietrich is always cautious,” said Cyril; “but his most useful characteristic is his extreme truthfulness.”

“Gratifying, no doubt,” said Caerleon; “but in what way useful?”

“Because he is the most stolid person I know. Every one who sees him jumps to the conclusion that no one could possibly be as stupid as Dietrich looks, and hence, when he tells the exact truth about my movements, they always suspect him of trying to put them off the scent for some reason or other, and they go off in the wrong direction, which is sometimes a very good thing for me.”

“Why?” asked Usk, gazing at his uncle with astonished grey eyes which were exactly like his mother’s.

“Because I don’t particularly want them to follow me about everywhere, that’s all.”

The two children meditated upon this answer for a minute or two, and then, apparently failing to arrive at any satisfactory solution, gave it up, and dragged their father to the side-table to show him a picture in one of the illustrated papers. Cyril looked after them with a smile.

“It strikes one as queer that if things had fallen out differently that little fellow would be Crown Prince of Thracia to-day, instead of Otto Georg’s son,” he remarked to his sister-in-law.

“Yes,” said Nadia, with a slight shiver. “Tell me,” she added suddenly, “do you think Carlino looks well—happy?”

“Couldn’t look better or happier, I should say,” was the reassuring answer.

“It is not about the kingdom—I know he is glad to have got rid of that—but do you think he looks like other Englishmen in his position?”

“Yes, exactly; only perhaps rather more thoroughly contented than most of them. But why do you ask?”

“It is because I am always afraid that I keep him back from the things he would naturally like to do. When he brought me here first, whenever the ladies of the neighbourhood came to call, and did not find everything just as they expected, they always said to me, ‘Oh, you are a foreigner, Lady Caerleon. Of course you would not understand.’ And I have always tried to understand, but I can’t make myself really English, and it is a comfort to know that you think I have not done him harm.”

Her face was so anxious that Cyril felt inclined to tease her by inventing some imaginary alteration in Caerleon for which to blame her, but he resisted the temptation, and remarked—

“I don’t wonder at your having felt strange at first, but no one would call you a foreigner now. You seem to have taken to your new country much more kindly than the Queen of Thracia has to hers.”

“Ah, your Queen!” said Nadia. “I wanted to ask you about her. Is she very beautiful? One cannot trust the papers.”

“Well, she has dark hair, which looks copper-coloured in the sun, and very peculiar eyes. They may be either brown or green or grey, and I have seen them appear quite blue. As for being beautiful, she might possibly be pretty if she looked pleasant, but since her marriage I have never seen her anything but decidedly cross.”

“Oh, then she is not happy, poor thing!” said Nadia pityingly. “And every one said it was a love-match!”

“Surely you didn’t believe that stereotyped lie? You must have noticed that the papers trot it out whenever a royal wedding is announced. It is simply put in as a sort of salve to the consciences of the readers. If they were told there was a ghastly tragedy going on behind all the pageantry they are admiring, it might make them feel uncomfortable for a moment, and therefore they jump joyfully at the notion that an unfortunate child of sixteen is madly in love with a blasé and unromantic German just upon fifty!”

“But you are the King’s friend, are you not? Was the poor Queen really married at sixteen?”

“She was seventeen about a month after her marriage. She is not twenty-two yet. Yes, I am the King’s friend, and I have no particular reason to like the Queen; but for all that, I can see that their marriage was a hideous mistake. It’s quite clear to any one that she is not happy, but I own that my pity is chiefly for Otto Georg. He was driven into it as much as she was; but he is not such a picturesque figure, and therefore he gets no sympathy.”

“And yet you helped to bring this marriage about!” said Nadia, looking at him in astonishment. Before he could answer, he felt a light touch on his arm, and found Philippa beside him.

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, father says if you aren’t tired we might have a game in the picture-gallery. Please, please, don’t be tired!”

“I am afraid you are bringing up your daughter to be a tyrant, Nadia,” said Cyril, as he rose, perhaps not altogether sorry to break off the conversation at this point, and no more was said on the subject of Balkan politics or of the domestic troubles of the Court of Bellaviste until the two brothers settled themselves in Caerleon’s den for a talk late at night.

“Then you like your present berth well enough to stick to it still?” said Caerleon suddenly, without leading up to the subject in any way.

“Most certainly I do; or at any rate I am not quite such a cad as to chuck it and leave poor old Otto Georg to face things alone. The first two years I was at Bellaviste we were like brothers. Everything went swimmingly, and it might be doing so still if that old owl Drakovics had not got it into his sapient head that it was time seriously to set about securing the succession to the throne.”

“But the King’s marriage was talked of from the very first,” objected Caerleon, ignoring his brother’s disrespectful reference to the great Thracian Prime Minister.

“Yes; but so long as it was only talk it didn’t matter. When Otto Georg became nervous about it, I used to comfort him with the reflection that threatened men live long. But when I caught Drakovics one day with a lot of photographs of unmarried princesses spread out on the table in front of him, I knew that he meant business.”

“And you promptly demanded to have a finger in the pie?”

“I don’t know about demanding, but I had one, naturally. It happened just then that Drakovics was nursing a grudge against the Three Powers. He was supposed to have looked with a friendly eye on the agitation which was being fomented against Roumi rule in the territory of Rhodope, and Hercynia had stirred up Pannonia and Magnagrecia to put pressure on him to disavow it. Therefore he had an idea that it would be a good thing—convey a salutary warning and so on—to score off the Three Powers by marrying Otto Georg to a princess whose sympathies were somewhat Scythian, without being dangerously so. The only difficulty was to find the lady. The most suitable of the rival beauties appeared to be the Princess Ernestine of Weldart, but he was afraid that the fortunes of her father’s family were altogether bound up with those of Scythia.”

“And then came your innings?”

“Well, I did happen to remark that the lady’s mother, who was originally a Hercynian princess, aunt or cousin or something of the Emperor, had been for years on bad terms with her husband, and would undoubtedly have brought up her daughter as a German rather than a Slav. That was one of the many useful pieces of information I picked up in that fortnight which you and I spent at Schloss Herzensruh. The Queen of Mœsia is a sister of the Prince of Weldart, you remember?”

“I really don’t; I had other things to think of at that time. You seem to have these wretched Germans at your fingers’ ends.”

“It’s my business, you see. Well, that settled matters. I undertook to bring Otto Georg up to the scratch, while Drakovics managed the necessary ceremonial details. And you know what the end was—a big wedding at Molzau, with two Emperors present and a Grand-Duke to represent the third, and royal and serene highnesses without number.”

“I know that you got into some sort of trouble on the occasion which I never could make out.”

“Not exactly trouble—just a little bother. The fact was that I found myself a fish out of water in that gorgeous company. Otto Georg insisted on my accompanying him, and tried to get me a precedence to which, being merely his secretary, I was certainly not entitled. You know the awful fuss those smaller Courts make about things of the kind. Then the Weldarts treated me with marked coldness—I have to thank the Queen of Mœsia for that, I believe—and it spread to the Hercynian people. Their attendants imitated their behaviour, and when I resented that sort of second-hand contumely, one of the Hercynian officers sent me a challenge. If I am a bit of a dab at anything, it is at fencing, as you know, and I was not surprised when I wounded him. Every one else was, though, and Sigismund of Hercynia was nearly wild on hearing that one of his officers had been beaten in sword-play by a civilian. The rest of the Hercynians got together and laid a little plot, the principal feature of which was that they should all challenge me in turn, so as to make pretty sure of finishing me off at last. Somehow it got to Otto Georg’s ears—he must have felt suspicious about my absence on the day of the duel, for we had to settle matters at a decent distance from the Court and from the festivities, and then I imagine he questioned Dietrich, who had guessed the whole affair, and disapproved of it vigorously;—and he laid it before his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Pannonia. They put their heads together and devised a plan, which they sprang on the illustrious assemblage. Otto Georg took a leaf out of the books of the Scythian Court, and invented a new portfolio for me as Minister of the Household, and the Emperor—I don’t know how he managed it—created me a Count. That settled the question of precedence for the future.”

“I am sorry you should have discarded your own English title for a Pannonian Countship,” said Caerleon.

“It is only when I am abroad. I should never dream of sporting a foreign title at home; but the courtesy designation caused endless difficulties over there, although the Germans have so many of them.”

“And after that all went merrily?”

“Well, we heard no more of the duels. But there is a black mark down against my name in Sigismund of Hercynia’s books, and when we got back to Thracia there was the piper to pay in quite a different matter. Drakovics always persists that it was my fault; but I never professed to be either a thought-reader or a prophet, and how in the world was I to guess that as soon as the wedding festivities were over, the Princess of Weldart would definitely break with her husband, and come and quarter herself upon us at Bellaviste? She said that she had kept up appearances hitherto for her daughter’s sake, but that it wasn’t necessary any longer, now that Princess Ernestine was safely married. Even granting that, Otto Georg and I couldn’t quite see why we were to be victimised instead of the Prince of Weldart; but there she was, and we had to make the best of her. She is a terrific woman—ought to have been abbess of some convent, or perhaps the head of a band of canonesses, as she is a Lutheran. At any rate, she did away with the slight hope there was that the marriage might turn out a success. The little Queen had been in abject terror of her husband at first, but she seemed to be beginning to believe that he meant to be kind to her, and then her mother arrived. It was unfortunate, too, that she arrived with a strong prejudice against your humble servant—derived from the Queen of Mœsia, of course. I should have thought that I was too lowly an individual to be honoured with such persistent enmity; but she persuaded Queen Ernestine that I was Otto Georg’s evil genius, and made her frantically jealous of my influence over him. She did not care a straw for him herself, and let him know it; but she could not bear to see that he made a friend of me.”

“But surely,” suggested Caerleon, “in such a delicate matter, the obvious thing was for you to retire?”

“That was how it struck me; but as often as I broached the subject, Otto Georg swore that if I forsook him he would abdicate. He said that Thracia would be intolerable if he was left to the tender mercies of the Queen and her mother on one side and Drakovics on the other. So I stayed on, and the Palace has been divided between two opposing parties ever since. I don’t mean to say that it’s all the Queen’s fault. Otto Georg is neither a saint nor an angel, and he has declared more than once that his wife must take the first steps in the most unmistakable way if he is ever to be reconciled with her again. She won’t do that; but once or twice she has seemed to soften a little, and I believe he might have gone in and won if it hadn’t been for that pig-headed obstinacy of his. I daren’t say much to him, for it’s a ticklish thing interfering between man and wife at the best of times; but I believe a workable compromise might have been arranged on the basis of his getting rid of me, and the Queen’s getting rid of her mother.”

“But surely the Princess is not at Bellaviste now?”

“No; she went too far when she began to interfere with Drakovics. Some time ago she took it into her head that Milénovics, our Public Works Minister, had insulted her by not turning up at a visit of inspection she made to the bridge of boats which is being constructed across the river above Bellaviste. She hadn’t given him any notice, but that didn’t signify. At any rate, she demanded of Otto Georg that he should be dismissed. I went to see Drakovics about it on the King’s behalf, and I can tell you that old man was ‘riz’ to some purpose. He refused to send any message through me, and went to the King at once with an ultimatum—either the Princess must go or the Ministry would. Otto Georg was quite satisfied to get rid of his mother-in-law; but we should have found the Queen and her mother very hard to persuade if the Powers had not stepped in. Pannonia knew that there was a good deal of discontent in Thracia already, owing to the number of Germans who have been imported to fill various offices, and that if Drakovics went, another revolution was only a matter of time. So she gave a gentle hint to Hercynia, and Sigismund brought pretty strong pressure to bear upon his aunt. He sent her an invitation to visit his Court, which was virtually a command, and she had to go. Of course she and the Queen put it all down to me, but I really can’t plead guilty in this case. One must not risk needless revolutions with a young dynasty like this of Otto Georg’s. By the bye, Caerleon, do you ever have any communication with that precious father-in-law of yours?”

“I can’t say that I have,” returned Caerleon, with some constraint in his tone. The fugitive Irish rebel of 1848, who was spending his old age as a spy in the employ of Scythia, was not a relative of whom he could reasonably be expected to be proud.

“He doesn’t apply to you for money? I had an idea—you have no house in town, and you don’t make much show here—that he might be living upon you all this time.”

“Oh no, quite the contrary. I wrote to him soon after we were married, suggesting, as delicately as I could, that he should accept a suitable income from me, and retire from the Scythian service. Nadia was extremely anxious that he should have the chance of leading a decent life for his few remaining years. But my letter was returned—not unopened, but unanswered—and since then we have heard no more of him.”

“Then he is at his old tricks again—I thought so. He has been in Thracia for some time, avowedly drinking the waters at Tatarjé. I told you that there was a good deal of discontent about, and no doubt he is doing his best to suck some advantage out of it for his employers. But I don’t believe that any section of the people would join in a plot the object of which was merely to restore Scythian supremacy, though it would not surprise me if there was another revolution the first day that they found any one to rally round. If you came to Thracia, now——”

“But how is it that the O’Malachy ventures to set foot in the country? I should have thought Drakovics would have had something to say to that.”

“Oh, he was included in the amnesty in honour of the birth of the Crown Prince. I wanted to except him, but Drakovics was particularly anxious not to give any offence to Scythia just then, and chose to think that he had probably reformed. I knew there wasn’t much chance of his having done that unless he had a comfortable livelihood secured to him, and you say you have not been permitted to be his banker.”

“No, my savings were intended for quite another purpose. Look here, Cyril, I want you to chuck this Thracian job, and settle down at home, or go abroad in the Diplomatic Service, if you prefer it. I can’t bear your being mixed up with all this shady political business, and Nadia fully agrees with me. It’s not easy to put by much in these bad times, but we have never quite lived up to our income, and I can let you have ten or fifteen thousand pounds to start on to-morrow, if you’ll only become an Englishman again instead of a hybrid cosmopolitan.”

“Do you really think me capable of sponging on you in this way?”

“Well, let us call it a loan, then. It’s all the same to me.”

“With the certainty that neither principal nor interest would ever be repaid? No, old man. I’m awfully obliged both to you and Nadia, but I won’t take your money. You will need it all in a few years, when the children’s education has to be thought of. And besides, I am spoilt for England by this time. After the life I have led these eight years, do you seriously imagine I could take a subordinate post, even in Diplomacy? You know that a good appointment would be just about as accessible as the moon to me.”

“I thought of your standing for the Aberkerran Division.”

“And getting in, of course; and spending how many years as a private member?”

“Nonsense, Cyril! With your experience, you would be a man to be reckoned with by any Government. We should see you Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in no time.”

“Under-Secretary? And with that pompous old brute the Duke spoiling everything I had on hand, and taking the credit of anything that succeeded in spite of him? Thanks, Caerleon; the House of Commons is all very well in its own little way, but it’s not big enough for me.”

“But what are you aiming at?”

“At having a hand on the reins, that’s all—but then, Europe is the coach. There’s not much show about my ambitions, but a remarkable amount of solid reality. I don’t ask for the things other people covet—money or love or pleasure—but I must be behind the scenes and pull the wires. It doesn’t matter to me whether my power is recognised by the man in the street or not, so long as I know that I have it, and can make the puppets dance.”

“And Otto Georg?” asked Caerleon drily.

“Otto Georg is a puppet for whom I have a foolish weakness. To give him and the silly little Queen a chance of composing their differences, I have sacrificed myself so far as to quit the stage for three months, in spite of his entreaties and my own better judgment. For his sake I hope he won’t command my return before the time is up, but for my own I trust he will.”

“Then you will take care of Uncle Cyril, Phil, and amuse him?”

“Oh yes, mother,” and Philippa climbed into the carriage for another kiss. “I’m going to take him all round, and explain everything.”

“Poor Uncle Cyril!” said Caerleon. “Haven’t you forgotten that he knew his way about the place a good many years before you were born, Phil?”

“Oh dear!” gasped Philippa in dismay, as she returned to the doorstep. “Did you really, Uncle Cyril?”

“I’m afraid I did once, but very likely I have forgotten half of it. We’ll see which of us remembers the stories best.”

This was a proposal entirely to Philippa’s taste, and she led her obedient uncle away as soon as the carriage had driven off. To her great distress, however, his reminiscences proved invariably to be incorrect, and frequently also to be humorous in character, a trait which jarred on her sense of fitness.

“I don’t believe you were really here when you were a little boy, Uncle Cyril,” she remarked at last, as he found her a comfortable seat on the safest portion of the wall of the ruined Abbey.

“But your father was, and we were always together until he went to school.”

“Then I can’t think,” meditatively, “why it is that you aren’t the least little bit like father. Father is so splendid and good.”

“And I am not good? Poor me!”

“I——I didn’t mean that exactly, Uncle Cyril. I meant perhaps you were good in a different way—perhaps it’s a London way. Nurse always says London is a very wicked place.”

“Thank you again, Phil! Or am I to understand that you are labouring to express the difference between the Absolute and the Relative?”

“Oh no, you don’t understand one bit. It is like the children where nurse was last, when she lived at General Clarendon’s. His grandchildren were so dreadfully good you can’t think! They never quarrelled, or did anything they liked, or wanted to do anything they were told not to, or forgot to come to have their hands washed and put on clean pinafores. Well, one day when nurse had been telling us a lot about them, Usk said all at once, ‘I don’t believe they were always as good as that. I expect you’ll tell the children where you go next how good we were.’ Wasn’t it dreadful? And nurse was so angry! She put on her spectacles and looked at Usk and said, ‘Well, my lord, at any rate I’ll take my oath that never in all my experience did I know a young gentleman stand up to me before and call me a liar to my face.’”

“We seem to be wandering a little from the point of the argument,” suggested Cyril mildly.

“Oh, but don’t you see it shows—no, I don’t mean that—I can’t think what I meant—— Oh, Uncle Cyril, there’s a telegraph-boy! Let us race and catch him before he gets to the house.”

Before Cyril could even rise from his seat, she was at the foot of the wall and running across the park at a pace which the boy, who was lounging comfortably along the drive, and displaying his interest in the natural objects on either side to the extent of throwing stones at them, made no attempt to excel or even to emulate. When Cyril came up, Philippa was in possession of the telegram, and was ordering the boy to go on to the Castle and get some bread and cheese and lemonade from the cook.

“That was a nice boy,” she remarked with much gratification, as the boy departed. “He touched his cap, and said, ‘Thank you, my lady.’ Sometimes they just race off without saying anything. But mother says we mustn’t be cross, because they haven’t had any one to teach them better.”

“As the boy is going up to the house after all, he might as well have taken the telegram,” observed her uncle.

“Oh, but Usk and I always get father’s telegrams and give them to him. Besides, it’s for you.”

“For me? Give it me at once, Phil.”

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, but you must pay the postman!” cried Philippa, in bitter reproach, holding the missive behind her. “Father always does. It’s one kiss for each letter, and two for a paper, and three for a telegram.”

Cyril made the required payment, rather perfunctorily, it must be confessed, and tore open the envelope. His face changed as he read the message, and he crumpled the paper in his hand, and thrust it into his pocket.

“Come, Phil,” he said, “we must go back to the Castle, and tell the ingenuous Teuton to pack up my things.”

“Oh, that means Dietrich!” cried Philippa delightedly. “You do call him such funny names, Uncle Cyril. But is it from the House? Father lets Usk and me have his telegrams to play post-office with when he has done with them, and they always say, ‘Division comes on to-morrow night. Expect you by morning mail.’ Is yours that kind?”

“Not quite,” said Cyril, walking on so fast that the child could scarcely keep pace with him, “but it brings me my marching orders, Phil. I must start for Thracia to-night.”

CHAPTER II.
IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH.

“Why, Cyril, what’s the matter?” cried Caerleon, as he jumped out of the carriage to find his brother standing on the doorstep, equipped for a journey. Cyril answered by another question.

“Can you let me have the dogcart to drive into Aberkerran at once? I must catch the mail to-night for town, and get the Flushing boat in the morning.”

“But are you going back to Thracia so soon?” asked Nadia in astonishment. “Have they sent for you?”

“Yes; I have had a telegram. The King is dangerously ill, and wants me. I have sent Dietrich on with the luggage, Caerleon; but I thought that if I just stayed to say good-bye to you all, the dogcart would take me into Aberkerran in time to save the train.”

“I’ll drive you myself,” said Caerleon. “Send round the dogcart at once, Wright,” he added to the coachman.

“But have you really been able to get everything packed?” asked Nadia. “Can’t we help you at all?”

“Oh, mother, I helped!” cried Philippa. “Uncle Cyril got his things out, and I folded them up, and Dietrich put them in. They’re all done, and Uncle Cyril said I was a great help.”

Clearly there was nothing left to do, and Philippa relieved the tension of the situation by spinning round wildly on one foot, while her father changed his coat, and her uncle, dissembling his impatience admirably, thanked his sister-in-law for her hospitality. There was little time for farewells when the dogcart came round; but the children did their best to make up for this by standing at the door and waving their hands until the traveller was out of sight. When he was at length released from looking back and answering their signals, Cyril turned to his brother.

“We shall do it all right at this pace, old man.”

“Yes; the roads are capital this evening. Have you any idea as to what’s wrong with Otto Georg?”

“I should fear it is an old trouble from which he has suffered more than once. It began with some injury he received in the Franco-Prussian war, and they say that each time it recurs there is less hope of his getting over it.”

“Was the telegram from the Queen?”

“You don’t imagine she would send for me, even though he was dying? No; it is from his valet.”

“How are things settled in case anything happens to him?”

“By the Constitution the Queen is appointed regent, until the Crown Prince is sixteen. She loses the position if she remarries, and her second husband is debarred from holding any public office whatever in the kingdom. Of course the provision was intended to prevent her marrying a foreign prince and investing him with sovereign power.”

“Of course; very good idea. I’m glad the Constitution recognises the Queen’s rights so far as it does. One would have thought Drakovics might kick against taking orders from a woman.”

“Well, naturally he never expected anything of this kind to happen, at any rate so soon. The Constitution had to contain provisions in view of all emergencies, and he borrowed from somewhere or other what seemed the most equitable and prudent course in such a case. But if things go badly with Otto Georg, I am afraid we have hard times before us.”

“In view of the Queen’s youth and inexperience, you mean?”

“Not that merely. The worst thing is that she is so desperately unpopular.”

“Unpopular? A pretty woman, who has given the Thracians an heir to the throne?”

“That is the sole redeeming feature about her, and she has spoiled the effect of it by insisting that the child shall be brought up as a Lutheran. When Drakovics first thought of her as a wife for the King, his hope was that, being partly of Scythian blood, she would be willing to acquiesce in her children’s growing up in the Orthodox Church. But he had to give it up, for she insisted on a special protective clause in the marriage-contract. Otto Georg didn’t care a rap about it either way, and I daresay she wouldn’t have thought of the matter if her mother had not put her up to it.”

“But you don’t blame the unfortunate girl for wishing her children to be of the same faith as herself?” asked Caerleon warmly.

“I don’t blame her, if she feels strongly on the subject; but I do say that it’s a pity, for such a concession would have conciliated the people and attached them to the dynasty more than anything. Then the Queen shares in the unpopularity of her mother, who considered the Thracians a set of savages when she came among them, and let them see it. Together they have done their best to make the Court a third-rate copy of the minor German ones. The national costume, which is distinctly fetching, and very dear to the people, was tabooed altogether, and the use of the Thracian language frowned upon. No one need expect to enjoy the Queen’s favour, or rather the Princess’s, for that was more important, unless they got their clothes from Vienna, and their conversation from Berlin. The mountain chiefs wouldn’t stand it. They didn’t want to learn German, and the new etiquette disgusted them, and they were very angry at the slights cast upon their nationality. The result is that they never come near the Court unless they are absolutely obliged.”

“The Queen must be mad,” said Caerleon. “She is alienating the very men who keep Otto Georg on the throne.”

“Just so; and she has alienated the lower classes long ago by her lack of the bourgeois virtues. They see that she and Otto Georg don’t get on, and they put it all down to her. Then, at the time of the marriage, some wiseacre made researches into the Weldart family history, and put it about that some remote ancestress of Princess Ernestine’s had at one time or another been a Jewess. Our people detest the Jews, as you know, and now that the Queen is unpopular, their favourite nickname for her is ‘the Jewess.’”

“The poor little woman seems to have a fine stock of blunders and other crimes to live down,” said Caerleon meditatively. “Can’t say I think your prospects in Thracia are roseate, Cyril; but I daresay there’s good stuff in her, and trouble may bring it out. After all, you must acknowledge that she has had rather a bad time of it since her marriage.”

“Her own fault altogether. She should have accepted her destiny like a sensible girl, and Otto Georg would have made her an excellent husband. Princesses are born merely to be married to foreign potentates, and feelings don’t come into the matter at all. Hearts are almost as much of a nuisance in politics as consciences are. Both have a detestable habit of upsetting a statesman’s calculations.”

“Stuff!” said Caerleon. “Wait until it’s your turn.”

“I have escaped it a good long time at present. I don’t think, Caerleon, that you ever yet saw me rush into a foolish thing blindfold, and I have no intention whatever of walking into one with my eyes open. If I ever fall in love, it will be in such a quarter as to advance my material interests very largely.”

“All right; we shall see. I shall be satisfied if it only brings you home from Thracia. But in any case you know that there is always a welcome for you at Llandiarmid.”

“Thanks, old man. I’m sorry I can’t say the same to you about Thracia. The farther you keep from Bellaviste for the present the wiser it will be for your own sake, and the better I shall be pleased.”

They were rattling down Aberkerran High Street as Cyril said this, and as the dogcart drew up outside the station the impassive Dietrich advanced to meet his master.

“Excellency,” he said, with a military salute, for he had served in the Hercynian army, and could not succeed in emancipating himself from the methods of address thus learned, “the train is on the point of departure, and although I have warned the officials that it must not start without your lordship, they are swearing that they will not delay it longer for the Queen Victoria herself.”

“Then I haven’t a moment!” cried Cyril, breaking into the valet’s deliberate German phrases. “Good-bye, Caerleon; give my love to Nadia and the children. I’ll come back soon, and finish my visit properly.”

He grasped his brother’s hand, and rushed into the station, followed by Dietrich, who had already secured his ticket, reaching the platform just in time to enter a carriage as the train was moving off. Settling himself comfortably in a corner seat, he tried hard to banish thought and devote himself to his cigar; but even the best-trained mind will sometimes revolt against a policy of abstraction, and Cyril’s was by no means proof against the excitement of the crisis which he foresaw to be imminent. From the evening papers, which he obtained as the train approached London, he learned that King Otto Georg had been thrown from his horse during a review, and that the fall had brought on a return of the old malady. A specialist had been summoned from Vienna, and M. Drakovics was in constant attendance at the Palace, since a change for the worse in the King’s condition might occur at any moment. On reaching London, Cyril received a telegram from M. Drakovics himself, which had been addressed in the first instance to Llandiarmid, and was forwarded thence by Caerleon, mentioning merely the fact of the King’s illness, and entreating him to hasten back to Thracia. Since he was already travelling as fast as express trains could carry him, he was unable to make any further effort in this direction; and although he found a certain amount of satisfaction during the earlier stages of his journey in planning to save time by means of short cuts and curtailed halts, this resource was exhausted before very long. He was conscious of a disinclination, very unusual with him, to distract his thoughts by reading, or by entering into conversation with his fellow-passengers, and he found himself, therefore, reduced to considering in all possible lights a prospect which was far from being a pleasing one. The papers, Belgian, German, and Austrian, which he obtained in the course of his journey, all told the same tale, that the King was still alive, but could not be expected to recover, while his sufferings were so great that he was kept almost continuously under the influence of opiates. The future looked very black, and Cyril could not decide whether it was blacker in his own case or in that of the kingdom. When the Queen found herself in possession of the reins of power, there was little hope that she would accept the assistance either of M. Drakovics or of himself in the duties of government, and he began to wonder whether it would not be the more dignified course to resign office immediately on the King’s death, instead of waiting to be dismissed. But if Thracia were deprived at once of King and Premier, and handed over to the tender mercies of an incapable and unpopular regent, she would scarcely succeed in weathering the political storm which would ensue, and another revolution would mean almost certainly the outbreak of a European war. To forsake his post now was not to be thought of.

“Otto Georg may have been able to leave some message for me,” said Cyril to himself, as he left the train at Bellaviste, “giving an idea of his views under the circumstances; but if he hasn’t, I’ll stick to office for his sake until I’m turned out, and try to keep baby Michael on the throne. We are bound to fail, I suppose, and I shall risk my reputation as a statesman, but one must be ready to run some risks for a friend.”

Learning from the railway officials, who greeted him respectfully, that the King was still living, he drove straight to the Palace, intending to go to his own rooms and don his Ministerial uniform at once, so as to be ready in case of a summons to the sick-room. Passing along the corridor, however, he found himself suddenly face to face with the little Crown Prince and his English nurse. Mrs Jones was a sister of Wright, the Llandiarmid coachman, although she had enjoyed greater educational advantages, and she owed her position to the recommendation of Lady Caerleon, for which reason she regarded Cyril with marked favour and deference, while waging a chronic warfare with the other officials belonging to the Palace. On this occasion she stopped him to inquire after the health of the family at Llandiarmid, while the little Prince, his face still wet with tears, made unavailing efforts to climb into his arms.

“It is the Herr Graf!” he cried, in his baby German, burying his face in Cyril’s fur cuff. “Come and play wild beasts, Herr Graf. Papa is ill, and can’t walk about, but you can put that fur thing over your head, and roar.”

“Not now, Prinzchen,” said Cyril, dexterously disencumbering himself of the coat, in which Prince Michael proceeded immediately to envelop his own small person. “We might disturb the poor papa.”

“Bless his little heart!” said Mrs Jones, wiping her eyes; “how should he understand that his poor pa is struck for death?”

“The King is dying, then,” asked Cyril anxiously.

“I wouldn’t go for to speak not positively, my lord, which ain’t my place; but if ever I see death written upon a gentleman’s face, I see it upon the King’s just now. And there wasn’t scarcely a dry eye in the room, to see this pore lamb a-strokin’ his father’s forehead, and cryin’ because he wasn’t able to play with him.”

“Has Count Mortimer arrived yet?” asked another voice, and the King’s valet, mounting the stairs, uttered an exclamation of relief as he caught sight of Cyril. “His Majesty begged that your Excellency would come to him as soon as you reached the Palace,” he added.

“I will merely change my clothes, and wait upon his Majesty in a few minutes,” said Cyril, turning into a side-corridor, but the man stopped him.

“His Majesty entreated that you would lose no time, but come to him at once, Excellency. His Excellency the Premier is not in attendance upon his Majesty at this moment.”

“I see,” said Cyril. “I will come.”

Before he could do more than make a hasty attempt to remove from his attire some portion of the dust of his long journey, they were in the King’s anteroom, and pausing before the inner door, he had a momentary glimpse of the doctors gathered round the bed on which his friend lay. The Queen was sitting beside her husband, the stony pallor of her tired young face thrown into relief by the rich brocade of the curtains behind her, and Cyril wondered whether it was merely a sense of duty, or the workings of a late remorse, which kept her at her post.

“Will your Majesty graciously drink this?” one of the doctors was saying, as he held a glass to the King’s lips; “it will ease the pain.”

“Narcotics again!” groaned the dying man wearily, “and I have told you that I wish to keep my brain clear for the present. I think I heard some one come in. Has Count Mortimer arrived yet?”

“His Excellency is here, sir,” said one of the attendants.

“Then tell him to come to me at once. And leave the room, all of you. I will not take the dose at present, doctor.”

“Your Majesty will permit me to remain with you?” asked the Vienna doctor, noticing the sudden strength in the King’s voice, and anticipating a reaction.

“In the anteroom, doctor, if you please. I wish to be alone with Count Mortimer. What! must I command twice?”

“You certainly need not command twice,” said the Queen, rising from her seat with tears of mortification in her eyes, and following the discomfited doctors. “I regret to have trespassed upon the privacy of your Majesty and Count Mortimer.”

“Stay, madame!” cried the King. “Ernestine, remain where you are, I entreat you. You must know with what anxiety I have watched for Count Mortimer’s arrival; surely you cannot object to my making known to him in your presence my dying wishes?”

“Forgive me,” said the Queen, returning to her place, her voice softening. “I thought you wished me to leave you. It was a mistake.”

“It has all been a series of mistakes, I fear,” said the King, laying his hand on that of his wife. “I have not made you happy, Nestchen.”

“I wish I had been a better wife to you,” the Queen whispered painfully, and Cyril bent forward to examine with extreme care some minute detail of the painting he had been contemplating since his entrance into the room.

“It was not your fault,” the King went on. “You should be a child still—and now I must leave you to guard our son’s throne for him. You are very young—very inexperienced—to undertake such a heavy charge.”

“Don’t let that trouble you,” she said, trying to comfort him. “Is he not my son? His kingdom must be my constant care.”

“But how will you take care of it, poor child? What do you know of pitting Pannonia against Hercynia, and playing them both off against Scythia and Neustria? Can you hide your personal feelings under a veil of official friendliness? Why, Nestchen, you will be at enmity with half Europe in a week!”

“I will do my best,” she said in a low voice; “and there is M. Drakovics to help——”

“Drakovics lives for Thracia. The country is safe enough under his guardianship; but he would sacrifice Michael and his interests without a moment’s compunction if he thought another form of government would be more for the benefit of the kingdom.”

“But what are we to do, then?” asked the Queen, with keen anxiety in her voice.

“I cannot tell, unless you will accept as an adviser the man who has been a friend and counsellor to me since I first came to Thracia.”

“You mean Count Mortimer?” asked the Queen, with a gasp.

“I mean my friend Mortimer, to whose honour I could leave you and the child without a fear. But if you will not trust him, Ernestine, I cannot ask him to expose himself to insult by remaining here.”

“I—I will listen to his advice,” she said at last.

“But will you take it when it is given? I cannot die happy unless you and Michael are confided to his care. I should know then that you were safe as long as he was—and there is no man in Europe who is more successful in getting out of difficulties,” and the King laughed faintly as he gazed at his wife. She had released herself from his grasp, and her hands were clasped on her breast as though she were forcing down the feelings which rose within her. Cyril could read in her tear-filled eyes the story of her contest with herself. “You have come between my husband and me,” they seemed to say to him; “you have tried to turn his heart against me,—and now he expects me to trust you.” Unjust as the silent accusation was, the Queen’s agony forbade him to defend himself, and he stood mute, while she, with quivering lips and heaving breast, struggled to speak.

“Can I trust you?” burst from her at last, as her glance met his.

“Before God you can,” he answered. “Bad I may be, but I am not the man to deceive a dying friend, or to injure that friend’s wife and child.”

“Otto, I will trust him,” said the Queen hoarsely, laying her hand in her husband’s. He held it out to Cyril, who stooped and kissed it. He felt her draw back suddenly with an involuntary shudder as his fingers touched hers, then her hand lay cold and nerveless in his. She might overlook the past, but she was not likely to forget it.

“You have removed my chief anxiety, Mortimer,” said the dying King, grasping Cyril’s hand feebly. “I know now that you will watch over my boy and advise his mother, and that so far as it is in your power, you will be his friend as you have been mine.”

“I will,” said Cyril.

“I will thank you with my dying breath,” said the King, with fresh vigour. “You have outdone to-day all your previous kindness to me. Faithful friend that you have been, I can never reward you—all that I can do is to load you with fresh burdens. But I am keeping you standing here, although you are overcome with fatigue. We grow inconsiderate when our friends serve us too well. Go and rest, Mortimer. Send those doctors back as you pass through the anteroom, and they shall try whether they can ease this wretched pain a little. I am tired as well as you. We will both rest, and I will send for you when I wake.”

“Auf wiedersehen, sir!” said Cyril, touching the King’s hand with his lips. He bowed to the Queen as he went out, but she took no notice of him. When he entered, he had seen her give a little start of contemptuous disgust at the sight of his tweed suit and travel-stained appearance, but now she was sitting with her dark eyes staring into the distance, and her hands lying loosely clasped on her lap. Her face was that of a proud woman whose pride had been utterly and forcibly broken, and who was wondering dumbly what further blows fate could have in store for her.

“What can one do with her?” he asked himself in despair. “She will never forgive the humiliation of to-day.”

He passed out, giving the King’s message to the doctors as he went, and they returned into the sick-room, much incensed by their long exclusion. Cyril went on to his own rooms, where Dietrich had prepared a meal for him, and where he took a bath and donned his uniform, so as to be ready in case of a sudden summons from the King. He had intended to sit up and read; but he was worn out by the hurry and anxiety of his long journey, and lay down on a couch for a few minutes’ sleep. The sleep lasted for some hours instead of a few minutes, and Cyril only woke to find M. Drakovics standing beside him with a lugubrious face.

“How is the King?” he asked, starting up.

“The King is well,” was the answer; “but his name is Michael.”

“Otto Georg dead!—and I was never summoned?”

“He was not conscious at the end. When he passed away he was still under the influence of the opiate. I hear you saw him?”

“Yes; he had several charges to give me. I am glad I arrived in time. But here is the beginning of our troubles, Drakovics, since little Michael is King and the Queen is regent.”

“And not only that. See here. This is from our agent in the duchy of Lucernebourg.” He handed Cyril a telegram, partly written in cipher, but easily read by any one who knew the secret.

“‘The Princess of Weldart was ordered last week by her physicians to spend the winter in the South of France. She bade farewell two days ago to the Hercynian Imperial family, and arrived here yesterday en route for the Riviera; but instead of continuing her journey thither, left almost immediately for Switzerland. I discovered through one of her attendants that she is travelling incognito to Thracia by way of Switzerland and Vienna.’”

“Then we shall have her here—how soon?” asked Cyril.

“The telegram was despatched yesterday, but for some reason or other only reached Bellaviste this morning. I was here, and it was not delivered to me until I returned to my office. I should say that she would arrive on the frontier early to-morrow morning.”

“She must be met,” said Cyril, standing up. “I had better go, I suppose. There is a fearful amount to arrange, of course; but I can put things in train before I start, and anything is better than allowing her to begin with a moral victory.”

“You think that she will gain a further grievance if she is permitted to reach the capital unescorted?”

“I don’t care about that, but I can see that she thinks she will catch us napping. A little object-lesson at once will make our task easier in future.”

“Good,” said M. Drakovics; “but you cannot go alone. A military escort would be out of the question under the mournful circumstances, and also in view of the fact that the Princess is travelling incognito. One of the ladies must go, of course, but we cannot trouble the Queen to choose her. You had better apply to Baroness von Hilfenstein.”

“I shall take Stefanovics, and the Baroness had better send Madame Stefanovics as the lady-in-waiting. Then she can watch for a good opportunity for telling the Queen of the arrangements.”

Baroness von Hilfenstein, the Queen’s mistress of the robes, was a lady of vast experience and great resolution, but the news which Cyril had to communicate struck her as little less than appalling. She knew something already of the difficulties by which the Ministers would find themselves confronted under the new régime, and she foresaw that these would be intensified tenfold by the arrival of the Queen’s mother. The Baroness was herself a native of Weldart, and felt towards the Princess not merely the dislike entertained by the subjects of the smaller German States towards the Hercynian Imperial house, but also a lively disgust and contempt of a more personal nature, as for a woman who had taken all Europe into her confidence in her domestic squabbles, thus causing a fierce light, which it could ill bear, to beat upon the throne of Weldart. In spite of her dislike, however, she acquiesced heartily in Cyril’s proposal as to the expediency of greeting the Princess with such ceremonial observances as would be best calculated to disarm her hostility, and requested Madame Stefanovics, the wife of the Grand Chamberlain, to hold herself in readiness to proceed to the frontier that evening in company with her husband and Count Mortimer. In the meantime, she obtained the Queen’s assent to the arrangements, together with a letter to her mother, of which Cyril was to be the bearer, and armed with which he joined his travelling companions when the hour came for their departure. Their special train accomplished the journey to the frontier station of Witska in good time, and they reached their destination some two hours before the Princess’s train was due. Madame Stefanovics was made comfortable in the waiting-room for a short rest, with all the rugs belonging to the party, while her husband and Cyril walked up and down the platform in the twilight, keeping a bright look-out for the train and smoking busily to keep themselves warm.

So convinced were the two watchers that the Princess would outwit them if she could, that they did not dare to rest, lest she should become aware of their presence and contrive to slip past without giving them a chance of joining her party; and they felt it wise to keep a strict watch on the telegraph office, lest an attempt should be made to send her a message which might enable her to give orders that the train should pass through the station without stopping. But their efforts were crowned with success, and after all their anxious forebodings it was with a grim satisfaction that they beheld the astonishment of the Princess’s equerry, whom they confronted suddenly when he was preparing to stretch his legs by a hurried walk up and down while the train waited.

“What in the world are you doing here?” he asked, with difficulty composing his face into a decorously mournful expression. “We are incog., you know.”

“I know you would like to be,” said Cyril, “but you are not. Is her Highness awake yet?” glancing towards the Princess’s saloon.

“Sure to be. You had better come and be presented, I suppose. Don’t blame me if her Highness is not exactly pleased to see you.”

They went towards the royal saloon, but the Princess was ready for them. As they approached, the door was flung open, and she appeared on the step.

“Are you here to stop me, Count?” she demanded of Cyril. “If that is your intention, let me tell you that no power on earth will keep a mother from her daughter’s side at such a time of sorrow.”

“On the contrary, madame,” said Cyril, bowing, “I am here to greet your Royal Highness in the Queen’s name, and to hand you a letter from her Majesty,” and he presented it as he spoke.

“I think I scored there,” he said to himself, when the Princess had accepted the letter, and invited Madame Stefanovics into the saloon with her, leaving the chamberlain and Cyril to travel with the equerry, “and it’s always well to begin a war with a small victory; but if I had the honour of the personal acquaintance of an Anarchist or two, I fear some accident would have happened to this train between Lucernebourg and Witska.”

CHAPTER III.
THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS.

The whole of the next fortnight was occupied by the mournful and protracted ceremonies accompanying the funeral of King Otto Georg. Cyril and M. Drakovics lived in a perpetual whirl. The royal and noble personages who came from the different Courts of Europe to represent their respective sovereigns on the occasion must be received, lodged, and entertained, and the deputations of country people and citizens of provincial towns must find their duties mapped out and a programme arranged for them. There were jealousies, and disputes about precedence, and squabbles between grandees of different nationalities to be settled or concealed, just as though the illustrious throng had come together with the view of deciding the social status of its various members, and not to deplore the fact that the sceptre of Thracia had passed into the uncertain grasp of a child of three.

All was over at length. The crowds of peasants who thronged into Bellaviste had taken their last look at the face of Otto Georg as he lay in state in the cathedral, and the splendid coffin had been conveyed to the vaults in which the bodies of the first two Kings of Thracia, Alexander Franza the Patriot, and his son Peter I., were already resting. The royal and noble personages were taking their leave, escorted to the station or to the frontier by military officers or Court officials according to their degree, and the country-people were returning to their villages, full of vague memories of vast crowds surging along the steep streets and into the cathedral, of black draperies everywhere, of great wax candles and much holy water, and of the dead King lying cold and still on the tall catafalque with its velvet hangings.

The two Ministers on whom had rested the chief anxiety and responsibility for the whole ceremonial were now able to take time to breathe once more, and to turn their thoughts to political matters, which had not stood still in other countries, in spite of the Truce of God in Thracia itself. Since the day of the King’s death, they had been compelled to act entirely on their own judgment, for no opportunity of seeing the Queen had been vouchsafed to them. It was true that she and her mother, shrouded from head to foot in long veils of crape, had taken part in some of the ceremonies connected with the funeral; but if the Ministers ventured to approach the royal apartments with the view of obtaining an audience, they were always received either by the Princess of Weldart or by Baroness von Hilfenstein, who procured the Queen’s signature to documents which were absolutely indispensable, and consulted her as to alterations in the programme drawn up and submitted by Cyril. It was not to be expected that this seclusion could be maintained now that the funeral ceremonies were over, and Cyril and M. Drakovics accepted with satisfaction an intimation that the Queen would receive them on the following morning.

“This is a critical moment,” said the Premier to his colleague, as they stood waiting in the room which had served as the late King’s study. “The whole future history of Thracia may be said to depend upon the course of this interview.”

“That sounds terrifically solemn,” returned Cyril, with the levity which M. Drakovics always found very trying in him. “What has precipitated matters to such an extent this morning?”

“It will be necessary,” said M. Drakovics slowly, “to make the Queen understand that in spite of her position as regent, the country is to be governed by the advice of her Ministers.”

“Which means you,” said Cyril. “But doesn’t it strike you that you are showing your hand a little too plainly? Surely an announcement of that kind is likely to make the Queen look out for a more complaisant set of Ministers?”

“I think not,” said M. Drakovics. “The Queen will not—I might say cannot—dismiss me. I am indispensable.”

“It must be very gratifying for you to feel assured of that; but suppose the Queen decides to try the experiment?”

“In that case,” replied the Premier darkly, “I should still do my best—within certain limits, of course—to preserve the throne to Otto Georg’s son, but there would inevitably be a change in the regency.”

“And in ceasing to be Premier you would merely become regent?”

“I do not say so. I remark simply that Thracia would part with a dozen queens before seeing me dismissed. No; the Queen can do me no harm, but unless she understands that fact at once, she may give me a good deal of trouble. Therefore she must be made to understand it.”

“You never pretended to be a knight-errant, did you?” asked Cyril lazily. “A business-like statesman with somewhat oriental ideas about women—that’s more like you, isn’t it?”

M. Drakovics glanced sharply at his subordinate; but the entrance of the Queen at the moment prevented his offering any answer to the question. Ernestine looked very small and pale in her deep mourning, with the heavy crape veil, which it was de rigueur for her to wear, falling to the ground behind her. Her aspect stirred in Cyril something of indignation, a very unwonted feeling with him, against M. Drakovics, who could talk so calmly of bullying this poor little woman into submission to himself. But this was not a time for indulging in sentiment, and as the Queen and M. Drakovics plunged into the neglected business of the past fortnight, he began to hope that the interview might end without any actual awkwardness. But when the Queen had given the necessary authorisation to the steps which the Premier had been obliged to take, and the list of matters to be discussed at the meeting of the Privy Council on the morrow had been agreed to, and it was Cyril’s turn to present his report and request directions for the future, M. Drakovics seized his opportunity.

“Her Highness will remain with your Majesty for the present?” he asked suddenly, when Cyril was detailing the arrangements made in connection with the visit of the Princess of Weldart. The Queen’s face flushed.

“My mother is good enough to promise to stay here with me until her physicians refuse to allow her to remain longer,” she replied, with a touch of defiance in her tone. “Is there anything extraordinary in that?”

“What could be more natural, madame?”

“My mother is endangering her own health by coming to Thracia at this season,” the Queen went on warmly; “but she refuses to forsake me in my bereavement.”

“Her Royal Highness’s visit is entirely of a personal and private character, madame, if I may presume to ask?”

“Entirely. May I inquire your reason for asking?”

“It is immaterial, madame. Your Majesty’s statement is altogether satisfactory.”

“I must insist on your answering me, monsieur.” The Queen’s tone was imperious, and her eyes shone angrily.

“Since your Majesty insists—If her Royal Highness’s visit were of a political character, I should be compelled to entreat your Majesty to seek another Premier.”

“What! you threaten me, M. le Ministre?”

“Pardon me, madame. I spoke only by your Majesty’s command.”

This was undeniably true, and the Queen turned again to her papers with a good deal of impatience. Presently she looked up once more—

“I believe, monsieur, that my husband intrusted to his valet a letter addressed to you, engaging your care for his son?”

“It is true that his Majesty honoured me so far, madame.”

“I regret that his Majesty did not see fit to ask me to hand it to you. I can assure you I should not have destroyed it.”

“Little fool!” thought Cyril. “If she is trying to irritate Drakovics by a display of petulance, she ought to know that nothing could please him better.” But the Premier was equal to the occasion.

“Madame,” he said, in the tone of one who deals gently with a froward child, “I could not have valued such a proof of his Majesty’s confidence more highly than I do; but my pleasure in it would have been enhanced had I received it from your hands.”

The Queen crimsoned again under the ironical compliment, and M. Drakovics heightened its effect by humbly asking permission to retire, leaving Cyril to finish his business with her. When the door had closed behind the Premier, Cyril took a bold step—

“If your Majesty would allow me to offer a word of advice——”

“You would say, ‘Do not quarrel with M. Drakovics,’” put in the Queen quickly. “Is not that so?”

“I see that there is no need for me to volunteer advice, madame.”

“But tell me, why does he hate my mother so much?”

“Will not your Majesty make some allowance for the natural anxiety of a Minister who sees his country threatened on all sides by insidious foes? Our only hope of preserving Thracia as an independent kingdom lies in our maintaining an equilibrium in the influence of the Powers surrounding us. If we allow one to gain an advantage, we not only encourage that Power to further encroachments, but we stimulate the opposing Powers to demand similar advantages. Not to refer too particularly to past difficulties, need I do more than remind your Majesty that in the past her Royal Highness has not exactly proved herself a successful politician, as we in Thracia consider it? M. Drakovics is doubtless afraid that in the kindness of her heart the Princess might possibly be induced to use her influence with your Majesty in favour of the commercial concessions, say, which Pannonia is now seeking to obtain, and this would complicate his task very much. Of course, the case I have suggested is merely an illustration.”

“Then what is your advice on this point, Count?”

“It is neither brilliant nor particularly agreeable, madame—simply to take no step, enter into no agreement, without the knowledge and hearty assent of your responsible Ministers,—that is to say, of M. Drakovics.”

“Ah, you are the friend of M. Drakovics?”

“I was the friend of your husband, madame, and I promised him to do my best for his son.”

Her face cleared. “Ah, that is it,” she said. “I must not risk Michael’s kingdom for my caprice, nor even to please my mother. You are right to remind me of this, Count. If my child were to lose a single village, or the smallest fraction of the power which he ought to possess in Europe, through any measure of mine, I could never forgive myself. I could not face him when he grew up.”

“His Majesty is to be congratulated on possessing so conscientious a guardian of his interests, madame.”

“But it is not only that. It is not merely a question of preserving the kingdom for him, but of fitting him for the kingdom. During this last dreadful fortnight I have become very anxious about his education. Do you not think he ought to be taught something?”

“For his sake and yours, madame, I trust your Majesty will not teach him to dislike his advisers,” said Cyril drily.

“I think that if he learns that from any one, it will be from the advisers themselves,” said the Queen, an angry flush rising to her forehead; but as Cyril merely bowed in answer to the taunt, her face changed. “I am doing you an injustice, Count. You are thinking of what my husband said that day. But it was not fair.”

As she guessed, Cyril’s thoughts had gone back, like her own, to a day shortly before his visit to England, when Otto Georg and he, catching sight of the little Prince marching solemnly up and down the terrace in charge of Mrs Jones, had sallied out and carried off the child in triumph to the King’s study, where they indulged in a glorious romp. When the fun was at its height the Queen had entered, and without taking any notice of her husband or of Cyril, had led away Prince Michael to his nurse, telling him in her iciest voice that it was the hour for his walk, and that she never allowed it to be interfered with. As she reached the door, dragging with her the unwilling child, puzzled to find himself scolded for what his father had done, the King’s wrath blazed forth—

“Take care, madame! The child is in your hands for the present, but in a year or two it will be a different matter. You had better not teach him to hate his father, for I might return the compliment.”

Cyril could recall now the way in which the Queen had departed without deigning to reply, her head held a little higher as she passed through the door, while Otto Georg, angry that he had forgotten himself so far as to use threats to his wife in the presence of a third party, relieved his feelings by a burst of hearty vituperation as soon as she was out of hearing. This had happened only two months ago.

“His Majesty spoke in a moment of irritation, madame.”

“Naturally; but should I have been likely to teach the child to hate his father? If he perceived that we were not—not on good terms, that I could not help, but the other——”

“Your Majesty wished to say something about the King’s education?”

“Yes,” said the Queen, returning hastily from her attempt at self-justification, “it was an idea of my mother’s. No; she has not been taking part in politics—it is quite a domestic matter. We both feel that the King ought to begin to learn something, and I had looked forward to teaching him myself; but my mother thinks I should not have time to give him regular lessons, and I suppose that is quite true. She suggests that I should appoint as his governess a certain Fräulein von Staubach, who has been lectrice to my aunt the Queen of Mœsia until quite lately. She is a very highly cultivated and excellent woman, besides being very fond of children—But do you know her?”

“And a bitter enemy of Drakovics’s and of mine!” Cyril had added mentally to the list of Fräulein von Staubach’s good qualities. He had no difficulty in fathoming the Princess’s motives when he remembered an occasion on which Fräulein von Staubach had been a passive, if not an active, participant in carrying out a practical joke of which he had been the victim. The mystification had had important political consequences, and Cyril nourished feelings which were the reverse of friendly towards all those who had taken part in it—feelings which he had no doubt were fully reciprocated. But it was unnecessary to explain all this to the Queen.

“I had the honour of meeting the lady some years ago, when I spent a short time in Mœsia, madame,” he answered.

“Ah, then you must know how suitable a person she is for the post. She is devoted to my aunt and to our house, and that is what I want. I could not bear that any one should come between my boy and me.”

“A most natural sentiment, madame.”

“Then you will try and bring M. Drakovics to see it in the same light? Of course, under present circumstances, he will expect to be consulted. But I may depend upon you to smooth the way?”

“So that is what all this frankness comes to!” was Cyril’s mental exclamation. “I might have guessed that she wanted me to do her a favour. Why didn’t the little schemer try some of her wiles upon poor old Otto Georg instead of slanging him? It would have made things pleasanter even if it meant nothing. I will do my utmost to further your Majesty’s wishes,” he said aloud.

“But you are not satisfied,” said the Queen mournfully. “You think I am devising some plot against yourself and your dear friend M. Drakovics. Cannot you understand that my boy is everything to me? If we were parted—if he were turned against me—it would kill me.”

Cyril was saved the embarrassment of a reply by a violent fumbling at the door. At a sign from the Queen he opened it, and admitted the little King, who ran up to his mother with a headless tin soldier in one hand and a picture-book in the other.

“Little mother, there’s no one to play with me,” he wailed, dropping his toys and climbing into her lap. She gathered him up in her arms, and looked across him at Cyril.

“He is all I have left,” she said reproachfully, “and I am all that he has. You see that he cannot do without me. I rely on you to help me in appointing Fräulein von Staubach. She will not try to separate him from me. You were his father’s friend.”

With another assurance of his full intention of furthering her wishes, Cyril took his departure, laughing silently at the effective tableau which had crowned so opportunely the Queen’s argument.

“Either she is a different creature since Otto Georg’s death,” he said to himself, “or she is the finest actress I know. She used to be simply a jealous wife; at her husband’s death-bed she was a heroine of tragedy; and now she is nothing but a scheming little woman, who hasn’t art enough to conceal the fact that she is a schemer. What a creature of moods she must be! I could have sworn that she would never forgive me that death-bed reconciliation; but though it is disappointing, artistically speaking, that she has stepped down from her tragic pedestal, it will make her much easier to work with if only the phase lasts. But it really is much less interesting. Can it possibly be all acting? Was she merely wearing a mask to-day? But no, it was too clumsy. The transition from hatred to friendliness was not gradual enough to be artistic. No! I see what it is. The Princess, finding her daughter in a state of hot indignation against me on her arrival, has talked at me industriously for the fortnight. At first the Queen agreed with her, then she got bored, and lastly she became indignant. She determined to prove her mother in the wrong by converting the enemy into a friend. If she could succeed, it would justify her for being so weak as to promise she would trust me. Ah, Madame la Princesse! you have done me a service you little intended, simply through not seeing when you had said enough. And as for you, Queen Ernestine, I shall know how to manage you in future. When you are intending to play a very deep game, you shouldn’t show your cards quite so openly.”

But in spite of Cyril’s lack of illusions, the picture of the Queen as he had last seen her recurred to him. Her dark eyes looked tearfully at him over the child’s golden curls and white frock, and her reproachful voice said, “He is all that I have left.” He could only succeed in banishing the impression from his mind by assuring himself that she had arranged for the little King’s appearance at the moment, with a view to the effect to be produced on himself, and even then it was apt to return to him unbidden. This was especially the case one afternoon about a week later, when, looking in at the Premier’s office, he found M. Drakovics sitting idle, gazing into futurity with knitted brows and folded arms.

“Sorry to see that you have something on your mind, monsieur!” was the irreverent greeting which roused the Premier from his brown study. He sat up suddenly, and tried to look as though the shot had not told.

“You are wiser than I am, Count. I am not aware that there is anything special on my mind at present.”

“No?” asked Cyril, with a note of concern in his voice. “And yet such sudden lapses of memory as this are a bad sign, surely?” and he met M. Drakovics’s frown with a gaze of bland unconsciousness.

“Allow me to remind you, Count,” said the Premier severely, “that you have not now his late Majesty to deal with. Wit and humour—even the most brilliant jokes—are wasted upon me.”

“But not in this case, when the jokes are your own?” was the prompt reply. “Surely you can’t imagine that I should venture to joke with you?”

M. Drakovics gave up the attempt at concealment. “I will not deny,” he said slowly, “that my mind has been much exercised of late by certain remarks which fell from Prince Soudaroff when he paid me his farewell visit.”

“Ah, now we are coming to it!” said Cyril to himself. A good deal of comment had been excited in the political world by the fact that the Emperor of Scythia had selected as his representative at the funeral of King Otto Georg a diplomatist of such European celebrity as Prince Soudaroff, and the opinion had been freely expressed that some change of policy was in the air. “Were the Prince’s remarks of a reassuring character?” he asked aloud.

“Very much so, on one condition. Prince Soudaroff emphasised the goodwill by which his master was actuated towards Thracia, and mentioned, casually, that that goodwill might be testified in a substantial form if only an Orthodox prince sat on the Thracian throne.”

“So that’s it, is it? Very pretty, of course; but it can’t be done.”

“That is your opinion, then?”

“Most certainly it is, if you mean to ask me whether the Queen will ever consent to King Michael’s conversion to the Orthodox faith.”

“And yet,” pursued M. Drakovics, “why should it be impossible? A change which would be humiliating or even disgraceful in the case of a grown-up man, such as our late King, or—or your brother, would be quite simple and natural in the case of a child. He knows nothing as yet of religion, and it means merely that he would be brought up in one form of faith instead of another. Popa instead of pastor, that is all.”

“And Bellaviste vaut bien une messe?” said Cyril. “When do you intend to lay your views before the Queen?”

“I do not intend to broach the matter to her unless I can do so with some prospect of success. What is your opinion?”

“That you will see her Majesty shaking the dust of Thracia from her feet, and retiring to Germany with her son, before she will compromise his spiritual welfare by such a step.”

“You forget that I am a member of the Orthodox Church, Count.”

“True, monsieur. I had forgotten that you were anything but a statesman.”

“You flatter me. But consider the enormous advantages to be gained by the sacrifice. The cost is ludicrously small. Could we not convince her Majesty by means of an object-lesson?”

“By some one else’s conversion, I suppose? Will you try the British Minister or Lady Stratford to begin with?”

“We will start nearer home, I think. An excellent impression would be produced by your reception into the Orthodox Church, my dear Count.”

“And what sort of impression on the Queen?” was Cyril’s mental comment. “This is a little dodge to get me shunted out of your way, my good Drakovics.” Aloud he replied, “You do me too much honour, monsieur; I really cannot pretend to be a personage of so much importance as you kindly hint. Besides, my creed is too valuable for me to sacrifice it merely as an object-lesson. Who knows whether I may not be able to barter it for a crown some day?”

M. Drakovics bit his bushy grey moustache angrily, for the hit galled him. “We will turn to considerations of policy rather than of commerce, Count, if you please. Surely you cannot be blind to the advantages of such an event as the King’s conversion?”

“I see that you would be exhibited to all Europe as implicitly following the dictation of Scythia, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“Not at all,” said the Premier quickly. “To have a king of their own faith is the great desire of the Thracians. They would rally round the throne to an extraordinary degree if the conversion took place. It would be simply and wholly in response to their wishes, and the Queen would gain enormously in popularity.”

“Quite so,” said Cyril. “Explain that to Pannonia and Hercynia, and see how they will look at it. Sigismund of Hercynia might be brought to acquiesce if he were allowed to exhibit his powers as a theologian by conducting the conversion himself, but otherwise he is more likely to preach a crusade against you. Do you really believe that they would not see the finger of Scythia in the event?”

“I suppose you are right. Nevertheless——”

“And Queen Ernestine would pose as a Christian martyr for the benefit of all Europe. She would take her stand on the marriage settlement, as she has every right to do, and all the men with the faintest spark of chivalry about them, and all women with children of their own, would adopt her cause.” He spoke strongly, with a vivid recollection of the picture which he persuaded himself had been devised for his benefit. “Statecraft is a good thing, my dear Drakovics, but sentiment occasionally goes one better.”

“You are right; I give up the plan. For a week I have been trying to find a way of working it out, but I feared it would prove insuperable. Happily I had not adopted it as one of my measures.”

“Or you would have felt bound to carry it out by fair means or foul? You broached it to no one, I suppose?”

“To no one. I disregarded studiously Prince Soudaroff’s remarks during our interview, in order to gain time for thought.”

“Ah, he expected that, of course. He may be trusted to have said nothing to any one else, you think?”

“He paid private visits to no one but the Metropolitan, besides myself, and he would scarcely enter upon the subject with him.”

“I wish we could be sure of that, for the Metropolitan is just the sort of weak man to be persuaded into believing that he has a mission to bring the conversion about. However, it’s quite certain that we can’t arrest him on suspicion, although I shouldn’t wonder if we have to do it after he has preached to-morrow. It would be his business to try to stir the people’s curiosity by vague hints, and he is fanatic enough to rejoice in running the risk. One would do one’s best to secure his silence beforehand, if one didn’t know that it would be the safest way of setting him talking. If only Prince Soudaroff had been a Catholic or a Mohammedan, and had not paid him more than a formal visit!”

“One could prohibit the Metropolitan from preaching to-morrow.”

“And convince him that there’s something in the wind if Prince Soudaroff said nothing to him, and give him a glorious handle against us if he has been tampered with. He is yearning already for an opportunity of denouncing us as oppressors of the Church, and I believe he and his clergy are the hottest pro-Scythians in Thracia.”

“Then you would do nothing?”

“Far from it. Hope for the best, and keep the police ready for action.”

And with this shameless parody of the Puritan leader’s charge to his troops Cyril took his leave. The misgivings which assailed him caused him to take a very unusual step on the morrow, which happened to be the festival of a holy man of local celebrity, known as St Gabriel of Tatarjé. St Gabriel was supposed to have been martyred by the Roumis about the end of the fourteenth century (the chronology of his life and times was somewhat uncertain), and the traditions of the country required that on the anniversary of his death the Metropolitan should preach a sermon in his honour at the cathedral of Bellaviste. On this occasion Cyril was one of those who attended the service. He had no wish to obtrude his presence on the Thracian portion of the congregation, and as a good many foreigners, either tourists or members of the various legations, had seized the opportunity of witnessing informally the solemn pageantry of the Greek saint’s-day celebration, he was able to obtain a place behind one of the pillars without attracting attention. The earlier portion of the service passed off quietly; but when the Metropolitan began his sermon Cyril perceived at once that his fears had been only too well founded. Without the slightest attempt at disguise the preacher went straight to the point, denouncing the royal house as heretics, and M. Drakovics as their supporter, with great vigour. Through the Premier it had come about that Thracia had accepted a monarch and a code of laws from the ungodly and schismatical nations of the West, instead of finding a peaceful shelter under the protecting wings of the great Orthodox Empire, at whose head stood the heir of the Eastern Cæsars. It was a just retribution that the late King had been removed in his prime, and the kingdom left as the battle-ground of the western heretics. Another opportunity was providentially granted to the Thracians by reason of the youth of their present sovereign, and it was not too late to accept with gratitude the overtures of peace newly made to them by the long-suffering head of their faith. What did the Queen’s inevitable objections signify? Her son did not belong to her, but to Thracia. She was a German—a Jewess—who had filled the Court and the city with her creatures, and had set herself deliberately to frustrate the hopes of the nation from the day of her first entrance into Thracia. Was she to be allowed to come between the kingdom and its manifest destiny, the fulfilment of its burning desire for reunion with the race to which it really belonged, and to which it owed its freedom? Let her be given the choice between preserving her heresy and her son’s throne. If she was obdurate, she must be set aside and another regent appointed, with the concurrence of the Orthodox Emperor, who would see that the King was brought up in the true faith.

Cyril dared not delay longer. The conclusion of the sermon would no doubt be interesting, but to wait for it would mean that there would be no hope of anticipating its effect on the crowded congregation, belonging chiefly to the peasant and artisan classes, which filled the cathedral. Holding his handkerchief to his face, both as a disguise and as an excuse for departing, he slipped from his place and made his way to the door. Once outside the cathedral, he thought for a moment of the possibility of bringing up a sufficient force of police to overawe the congregation as they came out, and ensure their dispersing quietly. But the idea was negatived as soon as it arose, for the police-barracks were on the other side of the town, and it might cause a fatal loss of time to go thither, or even to turn aside and telephone to the chief of police. The Palace was Cyril’s charge, and until the Palace was safe, he could not think of anything else. Even before he had brought his train of reasoning to this conclusion, he was climbing the steep street which led to the Palace, and only just in time, for, turning as he entered the gate, he saw the congregation beginning to pour out of the cathedral. It was the work of a moment to call out the guard and close the gates, and then Cyril hurried to his office in order to telephone to the barracks a request for a strong force of police, and to M. Drakovics the news of the situation. He had little fear that any mob would be able to break into the Palace before the arrival of the police, for the guards were all drawn from the famous Carlino regiment, the best in the Thracian army, to which this honour had been committed since the disbandment of the untrustworthy Palace Guard of earlier years. It could not be doubted that with the advantages of position and discipline they would be able to keep the mob at bay at the gates; but the extent of wall to be defended was so large, and so easily to be scaled by one man climbing on the shoulders of another, that to avoid any risk from isolated intruders he sent a message to the Queen by M. Stefanovics, entreating her to remain with the King in her own apartments for the present.

No sooner had the message been sent than Cyril, from his commanding position at the head of the great flight of steps leading to the door of the Palace, caught sight of the advance-guard of an excited crowd debouching from the street he had just traversed. He could see the mob pressing up to the iron gates and shaking them in vain efforts to enter, then brandishing sticks and fists at the guards, and demanding with imprecations that the gates should be opened. Loud shouts were raised for the Queen and the little King, but not by any means as demonstrations of loyalty. Rather they were frantic demands that the Queen should at once yield to the wishes of her subjects, and agree to the King’s conversion, on pain either of being separated from him, or driven from Thracia with him. Cyril congratulated himself on his foresight in keeping the inmates of the Palace from coming in contact with the rioters, but it was not long before he became aware that he had rejoiced too soon. Hearing Stefanovics coming back, he turned to speak to him, and perceived to his dismay that the chamberlain was escorting Queen Ernestine, who held the little King by the hand, while a lady-in-waiting followed.

“I do not understand your message, Count,” said the Queen, pausing as Cyril confronted her. “My son’s subjects are anxious to see him on their festival-day, and you take it upon yourself to exclude them from the Palace. Have the goodness to throw open the gates and admit the people, so that the King may receive their loyal congratulations from the steps.”

“Allow me to entreat you, madame, to return to your apartments with his Majesty,” said Cyril. “This gathering is not what you think.”

She looked at him with disdainful displeasure. “Do you think I am deaf?” she asked scornfully. “They are crying, ‘The King! the Queen! let us see the Queen!’ You are afraid that this demonstration may embarrass M. Drakovics and his Government, and therefore you try to prevent the people from seeing their King.”

“If your Majesty is not deaf, and will listen for a moment,” said Cyril, exasperated, “you will find that the shouts are by no means of a gratifying nature. Does that, for instance, commend itself to you, madame?” as a long-drawn howl of execration forced itself on the Queen’s reluctant ears, making her start and turn pale.

“It is a riot? they are in revolt?” she asked, with trembling lips. “What is the reason?”

“They have just been excited by an inflammatory sermon from the Metropolitan on the subject of their religion, madame. It is possible that your Majesty can guess the direction their thoughts have taken.”

“They threaten my son’s faith? Never! Admit the insolents immediately, Count. They shall hear my answer from my own lips. With my child in my arms I will defy them.”

“Pardon me, madame; the mob of Bellaviste has not even the chivalry of that of Paris, and—you are not a Marie Antoinette. At the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must decline to obey you in this.”

He uttered the last sentence in a lowered voice, to avoid the appearance of wishing to humiliate her in the hearing of Stefanovics. For a moment her angry eyes looked defiantly into his, then they fell.

“I am a prisoner in my own Palace, it seems!” she said wrathfully. “When your wife returns from the cathedral, M. Stefanovics, be so good as to send her to me immediately. I must know all about this affair.”

And she turned her back on Cyril, and retired.

“There come the police at last!” said Stefanovics.

CHAPTER IV.
AN AMATEUR DIPLOMATIST.

The mob had been dispersed by the police, and Cyril found himself able to breathe freely once more. The Metropolitan, arrested by the order of M. Drakovics as soon as the news of the sermon and the consequent outbreak had reached him, was under police supervision in his own palace, and bodies of cavalry were patrolling the streets. The Queen had not shown herself outside her own apartments after the rude awakening she had experienced, but Cyril was kept informed by Stefanovics of all that passed behind the closed doors. It seemed that Madame Stefanovics, on her return from the service, had been required to relate to her royal mistress all that she could remember of the sermon, and that her powers of accuracy and memory were stimulated by a severe cross-examination. The Princess of Weldart was much moved, the lady-in-waiting told her husband, who passed on the fact promptly to Cyril, but the Queen was almost out of her mind. She walked up and down the room in feverish excitement and anger, and broke at last into a flood of passionate tears. Now that her feelings had found this relief, she was more calm, and had spent the afternoon closeted with her secretary, who was kept hard at work drafting and writing letters. This piece of information served in a measure to reassure Cyril.

“She will work it off in that way,” he said to himself. “Writing letters and drawing up proclamations will keep her busy without doing any harm. To-morrow she will be cooler, and we can think about business.”

He remained at the Palace during the whole of the afternoon and evening, expecting to be summoned to assist the Queen in her labours, or at any rate to receive some communication from her relating to the punishment of the rioters who had been arrested. He would not have objected to this. It would be unconstitutional, no doubt, but it might keep her from doing anything worse. As time passed on, and no summons reached him, he became a little uneasy as to what this continued silence might portend; but on hearing from Stefanovics that the Queen appeared much calmer and even happier after her long afternoon’s work, he felt it safe to retire to his own house, which stood just outside the Palace grounds. As he passed out of the gate, and the guards presented arms, he noticed a man slinking through in the shadow, and recognised the Queen’s secretary, a young German. It was late for any one employed at the Palace to be going out, and the uncharitable conclusion at which Cyril arrived instantly was that the secretary was on his way to join some disreputable associates in the town. There was a half-furtive, half-triumphant look about him which seemed to accord with this suspicion, and as the Minister of the Household walked home he indulged in a little moralising on the ease with which young men fall into mischief when away from the control of their parents and guardians. His mind was sufficiently at ease to allow of this, for although earlier in the day he had been conscious of some curiosity, and even a slight degree of apprehension, as to the effect the events of the morning were likely to have on his own position in the Court, he had no intention of allowing himself to be worried by unnecessary fears, and after wrestling with the intricacies of the Palace accounts for an hour or two, went to bed and slept peacefully. At an unwonted hour in the morning, however, he was awakened in a sufficiently startling way.

“Excellency, his Excellency the Premier!” panted Dietrich, throwing the bedroom door open, and as it were flinging the announcement into the room. Apparently he had only managed to keep ahead of the visitor by climbing the stairs at a record pace, for M. Drakovics was inside the door before the words were out of his mouth.

“You are early, my dear Drakovics,” remarked Cyril, sitting up in bed, and rejoicing, not for the first time, that he possessed the faculty of awaking instantaneously with all his wits at work.

“I am early,” shouted M. Drakovics, “and I may well be! Tell that idiot of yours to go to Jericho, and give me your attention.”

“Politeness is never wasted,” returned Cyril. “Dietrich, you may go. Now, monsieur, to what am I indebted for this honour?”

M. Drakovics was literally unable to speak, but he glared furiously at Cyril as he brandished a bundle of papers in his face. Supposing that he was intended to read them, Cyril laid hold of the bundle.

“No, not all!” gasped M. Drakovics. “I—I will break the news to you gently,” with a ghastly smile. “Read that first,” and he selected from the bundle and handed to Cyril a letter in the handwriting of the Queen’s secretary.

“Take a seat,” said Cyril, nodding towards a chair; “you seem somewhat agitated,” and with another mirthless smile the Premier obeyed, choosing a place from which he could watch every change in the expression of his host’s face.

“A letter addressed by the Queen to the Emperor of Scythia!” said Cyril. “H’m, that’s bad. Has it been sent off?”

“Unfortunately it has. The secretary took it to the Scythian Legation last night, and placed it, I believe, in the hands of the Minister himself.”

“What a way of doing business!” groaned Cyril in disgust. “Well, that’s bad too—worse, in fact. Now to read this precious epistle.”

He applied himself to the task, while M. Drakovics ejaculated with a hollow laugh, “Wait a little. You have not heard the worst yet,” and watched him again.

“It’s pretty strong,” remarked Cyril, reassuringly, “but it’s not badly put together—would make a magnificent stage letter. Yes, this bit would certainly bring down the house: ‘It is less than a month since I was deprived of the protection of my husband, and left to battle with the world for my son’s rights. Your Majesty chooses this moment to attack a lonely woman in her tenderest point. This is the chivalry of Scythia!’ And the pit would shout itself hoarse over the conclusion: ‘But it is possible to pay too high a price even for the favour of an Emperor. To save my son’s kingdom, I would sacrifice much—wealth, comfort, happiness, life itself; but my child’s faith and honour—never! Your Majesty may regard it as an excellent piece of diplomacy to send your representative to stir up the fanaticism of a nation which, thanks to the intrigues of your agents in the past, has as yet scarcely emerged from barbarism; but rather than yield to such dictation, I will quit Thracia with my child, knowing that when he grows up he will thank me for thus depriving him of his inheritance. Europe shall judge—Heaven shall judge between us—you seeking to turn a little child from the faith of his parents for the sake of a paltry political advantage, I preferring to see my son reduced to the position of a mere cadet of his father’s house, but with a stainless name, rather than the pervert King of a nation sunk in subservience to you.’ Good gracious! this must be stopped at any cost,” cried Cyril. “We shall have the Scythian Legation withdrawn, and the choice given us of fighting or knuckling under—and how we are to fight, when Scythia makes public, as she is safe to do, the Queen’s unflattering opinion of the Thracians, as expressed in this letter, I don’t know.”

“And have you any measure to propose?”

“Has the letter, of which this is the draft, left the Legation yet?”

“No; I think we may be sure that it has not.”

“Then there is a hope. We must get at Baron Natarin, and have the letter back. What excuses precisely are to be offered we can consider later; but I think we can make him see that the choice lies between his surrendering the document and our justifying the charges contained in it, which we can do at the trial of the Metropolitan. Soudaroff is sure not to have gone beyond his instructions, though it’s pretty clear that he mistook his man, and we shall have some interesting revelations to make, which will prove that Scythia has been interfering most unwarrantably in our internal affairs. Yes; I think they will prefer to hush it up.”

“That is now scarcely possible, unfortunately,” said M. Drakovics, with a kind of sombre triumph in his tones, “for look here.”

He spread out on the bed copies of that morning’s issues of the three daily newspapers published in Bellaviste, in each of which Cyril, to his utter horror, saw the fateful letter facing him in all the boldness and clearness of the largest print.

“The woman must be mad!” he said, scarcely able to believe his eyes as he turned mechanically from one reproduction of the “Letter addressed by her Majesty the Queen-Regent to the Emperor of Scythia” to another. M. Drakovics sat regarding him in stony silence, and, after a moment’s stupefaction he pulled himself together.

“Have you discovered how the letter got to the newspaper-offices?”

“Yes; the secretary took them each a copy.”

“Ah! a copy signed by the Queen?”

“No; merely one in his own writing.”

“Good; then we may conclude that he was not authorised to do so.”

“Probably not, since he sold the letter to the editor for a considerable sum in each case.”

“Better and better! I was almost afraid to hope for such a thing. And what measures have you taken with regard to the papers?”

“Naturally I have seized all the copies printed, broken up the plates, and placed every one employed in the offices under arrest.”

“And you think that will be effectual?”

“It is the best we can do. The editors and printers know of the letter, of course, and we cannot silence them all.”

“No; but we can square them. Set them at liberty on condition of their printing the account of the matter with which you will furnish them, and let them bring out their papers as soon as they can, so as to attract as little notice as possible by the delay. I am sorry you broke up the type, for it would have come in useful, with merely this precious letter and the comments on it struck out. However, you must do the best you can.”

“And if the editors refuse, or persist in giving their own version?”

“Surely you have your editors in better order than that? But send a censor to examine the papers before they are allowed to be distributed, and if there is any difficulty, suppress the paper at once, and proceed against all concerned for conspiracy. They would stand convicted of being partakers in a plot to embroil us with Scythia.”

“Excellent! That is to be our idea, then?”

“Of course. Put it all on the secretary, and sack him promptly. We may thank our stars that the notion of feathering his own nest out of the affair occurred to him. Otherwise we should have found it extremely difficult to make him the scapegoat, but now he has put himself beyond the pale of mercy.”

“I have already ordered his arrest; but I am expecting every moment to receive an angry message from the Queen, demanding that he should be released. Are we to keep up the conspiracy idea with her, or not?”

“By no means. It wouldn’t be any use. We must have it out with her, and come to an understanding. This sort of thing must not occur again. If you will be good enough to go down-stairs, Drakovics, and tell my people to get you some breakfast, I will come with you to the Palace as soon as I am dressed. Then after that I will go and interview Natarin, and get the original letter back by hook or by crook. I suppose you have the Legation under surveillance?”

“Yes; and any one who leaves it is to be followed. Of course, we can take no steps openly.”

“Rather not; but I am of opinion that Natarin is too old a bird to allow that letter to go out of his hands before hearing from you. We must replace it, of course, with a dignified message of protest. The fact that some such letter was written must have got about; but if we allow it to become known that the secretary, with a view to his own aggrandisement, despatched and published an early draft without authority, and that the real epistle contains nothing that could offend the Emperor, while it defines politely the Queen’s position, it seems to me that we shall not score so badly.”

M. Drakovics departed with a sigh of polite incredulity; but the resourcefulness of his host had cheered him to such an extent that he succeeded in partaking of a remarkably good breakfast while waiting for Cyril to accompany him to the Palace. By virtue of their office, both Ministers possessed the right of requesting an audience of the Queen at any time, and the chamberlain to whom they stated their desire to be received by her Majesty expressed no surprise, in spite of the early hour. He led them to the apartment in which the Queen was accustomed to spend her mornings, and requested the lady-in-waiting in the anteroom to inquire her Majesty’s pleasure. As the door was opened they had a glimpse into the room, and M. Drakovics turned to Cyril behind the chamberlain’s back with a glance that expressed unutterable things. The day was a cool one in early autumn, and a small fire was burning in the English grate, before which the Queen was sitting on the hearthrug, playing with the little King, while her mother looked on benignantly.

“At any rate,” observed Cyril in a low voice, for the comfort of his chief, “we serve a sovereign whom age can never wither, nor custom stale her infinite variety. We expected to find an outraged mother defying the world——”

“And we see a thoughtless child!” burst from M. Drakovics; but by this time the chamberlain had received his orders, and bowing as he held the door open, invited them to enter. A sudden transformation had been effected in the appearance of the room. King Michael had been relegated to his high chair and a picture-book; the Princess of Weldart had withdrawn into a corner, and was exclusively occupied with her embroidery; while the Queen, her face a little flushed, and her hair under the peaked edge of the black cap slightly awry, was sitting at the table.

“Your Excellency finds us en famille,” she remarked to M. Drakovics, somewhat too airily for the tone to be quite natural. “She means to brazen it out,” said Cyril to himself.

“It is possible that you might prefer to receive Count Mortimer and myself in private, madame,” said M. Drakovics pointedly.

“I have no secrets from my mother,” returned the Queen. “This is not a Council of State, I think?”

“Technically speaking, it is not,” M. Drakovics agreed, “but I think your Majesty can scarcely be ignorant that the object of our visit is to discuss a very grave matter of State.”

“It is not hard to guess,” said the Queen, “that you refer to the Metropolitan’s sermon yesterday, and the events that followed it.”

“And to a slight—pardon me—a slight indiscretion on your own part, madame, which followed the events,” said M. Drakovics, irritated by what seemed to him her prevarication.

“I am at a loss to understand your Excellency,” said the Queen angrily, darting a lightning glance of wrath at Cyril.

“I allude to the letter which your Majesty has thought fit to address to the Emperor of Scythia without consulting your advisers.”

“And may I ask how long my advisers have considered it a part of their duty to supervise my private correspondence?”

“A correspondence which appears in the public prints is scarcely to be called private, madame.”

“In the papers? I fear that your Excellency has been imposed upon by some forgery. The letter which I drew up yesterday and dictated to Herr Christophle has never left my possession.”

“I am inexpressibly relieved to hear it, madame.”

“But you do not believe me? Must I show you the letter itself?” And with one of her impulsive movements, she sprang up and crossed the room to an escritoire. Unlocking a drawer, she pressed a spring and drew out a smaller drawer, in which, with a sudden change of countenance, she began to search anxiously.

“It is gone!” she said, looking round with a frightened face. “Christophle and my mother thought it would be well to send it last night, but I said I would sleep over it before despatching it.”

“Had the secretary Christophle access to your Majesty’s escritoire?” inquired M. Drakovics drily; for it had not escaped either Cyril or himself that the Princess of Weldart had sat up suddenly, as though about to speak, when the Queen had first risen from her chair, but had relapsed again immediately into an ostentatious indifference to all that was going on.

“No, certainly not. What should he want with the letter? Besides, the key is on my watch-chain.”

“I do not know what his business with the letter was, madame, nor will I offer an opinion as to the means by which he obtained possession of it. All I can say is, that late last night Herr Christophle not only delivered your Majesty’s signed letter to Baron Natarin at the Scythian Legation, but also sold copies on his own account to all the papers of the capital.”

“Impossible!” cried the Queen. “How could he sell copies of my letter to the papers? And how did he obtain possession of the letter itself?”

“I see nothing to make all this commotion about,” put in the Princess of Weldart briskly. “When a letter is written, why should it not be delivered?”

The Queen glanced sharply at her, then turned to the Ministers with a stunned look on her face. “I fear that Christophle must have made use of that argument,” she said falteringly. “In any case, I shall rebuke him sharply for his officiousness.”

“Pardon me, madame, but that is not enough,” said M. Drakovics.

“Not enough? You tell me to my face that I am not competent to control my own servants? I say that it is enough, M. le Ministre!”

“My regret at being compelled to differ from your Majesty is only enhanced by the consequent necessity of placing my resignation in your hands, madame.”

“What! your Excellency does not dream of retiring from office for the sake of such a trifle?” Her tone was one of genuine alarm.

“When your advisers have the misfortune to lose your confidence, madame, it is undoubtedly their duty, as well as your pleasure, that they should yield their places to more favoured individuals.”

“Is this the way in which you fulfil your friend’s dying charge, Count?” she asked bitterly of Cyril, while the Princess of Weldart, who had dropped her work, looked up with gleaming eyes.

“Madame, no one can accuse me of neglecting his Majesty’s dying command so long as I could carry it out with honour; but I cannot stand by and see you plunge Thracia into a ruinous war in which your son’s kingdom will be irretrievably swallowed up.” He had given M. Drakovics no authority to include his resignation with his own, but this was a case in which unity was all-important.

“Oh, you are a true friend!” said the Queen ironically; but her mother rose and stood in front of her, waving the Ministers away.

“This is enough, my daughter. I will not see you lowered by appealing any longer to the patriotism or natural piety of these gentlemen. They have insulted you grossly in your own palace, in their anxiety to serve the interests of Scythia—an anxiety for which they will doubtless receive a suitable reward. I believe that the Emperor is extremely generous towards his foreign pensioners. M. Drakovics, Count Mortimer, you may retire. Her Majesty the Queen-Regent dispenses with your services.”

But the Princess, in her eagerness to clinch matters, had gone too far. Queen Ernestine was not to be superseded in the exercise of her prerogative, even by her mother. She rose from her chair a second time, with her lips tightened ominously.

“I am afraid that our discussions have disturbed you, mamma. His Excellency the Premier,” she laid a stress on the word, “was right when he suggested that this was scarcely the place for them. Messieurs,” she turned to the two Ministers with her most winning manner, “will you be so good as to accompany me into the next room? There we can discuss things without fear of interrupting any one.”

“Am I to understand that your Majesty endorses the remarks of her Royal Highness?” inquired M. Drakovics, without offering to move.

The Queen shot a glance of reproach at her mother. “See in what a position you have placed me!” it seemed to say. “Your Excellency,” she said, “I must apologise unreservedly for my mother’s words, which can only be excused by her ignorance of Thracia and its statesmen. If she knew you and Count Mortimer as I do, she would recognise the absurdity of her accusation.”

To Cyril’s intense amusement, M. Drakovics fell on his knees, and kissed the Queen’s hand.

“Madame,” he said, “I am overwhelmed. The pain I experienced on hearing the words of her Royal Highness is only equalled by the shame I feel for having appeared to demand an apology from yourself. I am your Majesty’s servant to command.”

“The little witch has won a triumph indeed!” reflected Cyril, as he and M. Drakovics, bowing to the Princess, followed the Queen into the next room. “It is quite worth while her stooping to conquer Drakovics. And he has taken a leaf out of her book, which shows that the lesson has not been lost upon him.”

“It will please me, messieurs,” said the Queen, when Cyril had shut the door, “if you will have the goodness to regard the incident which has just occurred as though it had not taken place. Will your Excellency,” she turned to M. Drakovics, “be kind enough to explain to me the words which fell from Count Mortimer a few minutes ago as to plunging Thracia into a hopeless war?”

“It is my duty to inform your Majesty,” returned the Premier, with great solemnity, “that the letter so mysteriously abstracted and so iniquitously published would infallibly plunge us into a war with Scythia, into which other nations would certainly be drawn. Whatever the result of the whole contest, it can scarcely be doubted that Thracia would be swallowed up by one of the victorious Powers.”

The Queen grew paler and paler. “And is there any measure you can propose to avert this disaster?” she asked, in a voice that was almost a whisper.

“In the confidence that I was honoured with your Majesty’s favour, I have already, with Count Mortimer’s assistance, taken steps which we hope may ensure that object, madame.”

“You rejoice me, monsieur. Pray unfold them to me. But,” her voice took a firmer tone, “I must desire that no inquiry be made into the abstraction of the letter from my escritoire. I propose to deal with that myself.”

“Your Majesty shall be obeyed. The measures I would venture to suggest are briefly these: that your Majesty should write another letter to replace that now in the hands of Baron Natarin, if we can by any means obtain its restoration; that the secretary Christophle be instantly dismissed in disgrace——”

“Oh no, not dismissed!” cried the Queen. “He was wrong, but he erred from excess of zeal. I dictated and signed the letter; the writing alone was his. He must not be punished for—for my fault.”

“Am I to understand that your Majesty commissioned Herr Christophle to sell your letter to the daily newspapers?”

“Certainly not. Why should I wish it to appear in them?”

“I cannot tell, madame; but it did appear there. The issues of the papers in which it appeared are now suppressed, but that cannot excuse the secretary. He has rendered himself liable to very heavy punishment for betraying State secrets, and we shall be able to deal with him effectively in that way.”

“After a trial?” asked the Queen, alarmed. “That must not be. Your Excellency will see that after his long employment here he must be in a position to reveal—to reveal many things of importance if he is hard pressed.”

“Your Majesty would prefer that he should be sent back to Hercynia with the warning that the law will be set in motion against him if he tells anything he knows? Dismissed and disgraced he must be, for the sake of the moral effect on Europe.”

“Of course—I suppose so. And about this letter—do you wish me to write it now?”

“If your Majesty pleases. It might be well if Count Mortimer would be good enough to act as secretary, in order to avoid any further treachery.”

“Your advice is excellent, monsieur. You will lend us the assistance of your pen on this occasion, Count?”

“My pen, like myself, is always at your Majesty’s service,” Cyril answered, grimly enough, all unmoved by the dazzling smile with which she turned to him. He noted her heaving breast and trembling hands, and knew that her unaccustomed graciousness was merely the outcome of her desperate eagerness to shield her mother from being identified as a sharer in the secretary’s treachery. She read his thoughts, and cast a piteous glance at him as he sat down and dipped a pen in the ink. “I have conquered even Drakovics, but you will not allow yourself to be won over!” it seemed to say; but Cyril was not to be touched. His eyes met hers unmoved when he looked towards her, and she gave a frightened little sigh as she turned to M. Drakovics to consult him as to the opening words of the letter. Nothing could well have been more unlike the fateful missive which might have plunged Europe into war than the epistle which left Cyril’s hands at last. There was no reproach, no defiance in it from beginning to end. The Queen was made merely to insist on the sorrow and astonishment with which she had heard that the Metropolitan claimed the support of the Emperor for his extraordinary conduct. It was altogether beyond the bounds of possibility to suppose that anything said by Prince Soudaroff could bear the meaning placed upon it by the Archbishop’s distorted brain, for no one knew better than the Queen that the Emperor would be the last person to wish to disturb a settlement approved by Europe, and confirmed by the most solemn engagements. (Cyril and M. Drakovics could not resist stealing a glance at one another at this point, and the Queen laughed drearily.) The letter concluded by remarking that the Metropolitan’s mind was without doubt temporarily unhinged, and assuring the Emperor that a sufficient period of rest and seclusion would be granted him to ensure that he should no longer entertain, or at any rate promulgate, such delusions as those under the influence of which he was now labouring.

“We have come off better than I expected,” said M. Drakovics to Cyril, as they retired in triumph with the letter; “but I foresee that we shall be obliged to get rid of the old lady, or she will get rid of us.”

“You may well say so,” returned Cyril. “In fact, if she had had a little more tact, she would have succeeded in doing it already.”

In the morning-room, at the moment, the Queen was locking her escritoire and fastening the key to her watch-chain without saying a word. When she had finished, she turned to her mother.

“One must be careful after what one has heard to-day,” she said. “It is evident that there is some one in the household who cannot be trusted. I never thought it necessary to put my keys under my pillow before; but this one, at any rate, shall never be left in my jewel-case at night again.”

Under her hostile, accusing eyes the Princess of Weldart blenched. She knew perfectly well the hidden meaning of the words, and felt grateful that the charge which she would have found it difficult to rebut was not framed more definitely. The best policy was to say nothing, and she adopted it.

In the meantime Cyril, armed with the newly written letter as a guarantee of good faith, had paid the all-important visit to the Scythian Minister. As he had expected, he found Baron Natarin by no means averse from accepting his view of the case. In any circumstances, it would have been difficult to decline to surrender a missive which had been surreptitiously obtained and presented without the knowledge of the Queen, probably in order to gratify the spite or vanity of the man who had stolen it; but there was a failure in Scythian diplomacy to be covered as well. Prince Soudaroff had not gone beyond his instructions, but, as Cyril had divined, he had mistaken his man. The words which had been intended to initiate a long and persistent agitation, extending throughout the country, had kindled in the Archbishop’s breast an enthusiasm which had wasted itself in stirring up the short and abortive riot at the capital, and fanaticism had undone what policy had hoped to effect. The Scythian Minister returned the letter, expressing a hope that it would be found possible to allow the Metropolitan to escape lightly, and Cyril retired, retaining the second letter, which was to be forwarded to the Thracian Minister at Pavelsburg, and presented by him to the Emperor in due course.

Baron Natarin’s pious aspiration, which was in reality a request, almost a warning, as to the fate of the Metropolitan, was not allowed to remain unfulfilled, although it required a good deal of ingenuity to bring it to pass. The Archbishop was tried privately, and sentenced to a year’s residence in a monastery remote from the capital, and now the difficulty presented itself—how was he to be released? It had been absolutely necessary that he should be brought to trial, in order to vindicate the prestige both of the law and of the reigning house, and also to prevent similar outbreaks in future; but to enforce the sentence would raise awkward questions as to the necessity of depriving the prisoner of his important post, whether permanently or merely for the year. The Queen could not pardon him, since her doing so would seem an insult to the Emperor of Scythia, of whose name, according to the now accepted view, the Metropolitan had made such an unwarrantable use. At the same time, the Emperor could not ask for his pardon without appearing to identify himself with the disloyal views to which he had given utterance. In this dilemma, it was necessary to arrange a little plot in order to effect the desired end, and the details were left in Cyril’s hands.

It so happened that the police barracks at Bellaviste had lately been enlarged, and that, as had been previously settled, the Queen paid an informal visit to the new buildings one morning, accompanied by the little King, who was deeply interested in all that he saw. The cells struck him most, and he catechised his guides about them during his visit, and talked about them all day after it, the horrors of prison-life appearing to be deeply impressed upon his youthful mind. The next afternoon, when his mother and he were driving along the New Road, which is the Bois de Boulogne of Bellaviste, they met a closed carriage surrounded by an armed escort. Inside the carriage sat the Metropolitan, with his chaplain and a secretary, on the way to the distant monastery appointed for his residence.

“Mamma, a prisoner!” cried the little King, jumping up in the carriage. “Oh, poor man, are they taking him to jail?”

“I am afraid so, my little son.”

The tears gathered in the child’s eyes. “Poor, poor man!—Oh, mamma, it is the nice old gentleman who gave me the funny picture!” The picture in question was not intentionally comic. It was a jewelled icon representing St Gabriel of Tatarjé, which the Metropolitan had presented to Prince Michael upon his last birthday.

“Yes, dear, it is.”

“But has he done anything wicked? Will they put him in one of those dreadful places? Oh, mamma, must he go?”

“Ask Count Mortimer, little son. He will be able to tell you.”

“Oh, Herr Graf,” cried the child, as Cyril rode up to the side of the carriage, “is he very bad? Must he go to prison?”

“He has been very bad, but I think he is sorry, Majestät,” responded Cyril, with perfect gravity; “and he need not go to prison if you can get the Queen to forgive him.”

“Mamma, you aren’t sending him to prison?” cried King Michael; “you won’t make him go? Oh, do let him off, please do. It is your own little son who asks you,” and he buried his tear-stained face in his mother’s dress.

“Darling, I should be delighted to let him go,” said the Queen, blushing, and somewhat confused by the presence of the deeply interested crowd which had gathered round the two vehicles, and was listening with the utmost attention to all that passed; “but I am afraid——”

“Will you promise that he shall be good in future, Majestät?” interposed Cyril. “A King’s word must be kept, you know.”

“Oh yes!” cried the child joyfully. “Prisoner, please come out.” The Metropolitan descended from his own carriage, and approaching that of the Queen, kissed the hand which King Michael, talking all the time, held out to him. “I know I ought to call you something else, but I can’t remember it; and you are a prisoner now, aren’t you? Mamma is going to let you off, and not send you to prison, but you must be good now, because I have said you will be, and a King’s word must be kept.”

“Madame,” began the Metropolitan, “I owe your Majesty many thanks,” but she interrupted him.

“No, your Beatitude must not thank me. Thank my son, who thus repays the injury you sought to do him.”

“You are right, madame,” replied the old man. “I thank his Majesty.”

CHAPTER V.
HEAVILY HANDICAPPED.

For some time after these exciting events, there was peace in the Palace at Bellaviste, until the near approach of the date fixed for the Princess of Weldart’s departure for the South of France brought about another difference of opinion between the Regent and her Ministers. The breach caused by the Queen’s discovery of the part her mother had played with reference to the letter to the Emperor had soon been bridged over, for the young widow in her loneliness could not keep up a quarrel with the only person in whom her position and circumstances permitted her to confide. Indeed, it was the friendly relations existing between the mother and daughter which led to the fresh difficulty already mentioned, for Queen Ernestine, dreading the solitude of the long winter, and finding her life very monotonous and the cares of State uncomfortably heavy, conceived a desire that she and the little King should accompany the Princess to the Riviera. Full of enthusiasm for her new idea, she broached the subject to M. Drakovics and Cyril one morning, when the business on which they had come to consult her was ended. To her surprise and annoyance, the Premier showed no disposition to further her wishes.

“It is impossible, madame,” he said bluntly.

“Impossible? But I wish it!” she exclaimed, with the childishness which occasionally made Cyril long to put her in the corner.

“Impossible, madame,” repeated M. Drakovics, “if only from the point of view of propriety. To leave your kingdom, so lately bereaved of its head, for the gaieties of the Riviera, would be an unheard-of slight to the memory of your husband, and produce a most deplorable impression in the country.”

“That may be perfectly true,” thought Cyril, “but it was not your business to say it, at any rate in that way.” The Queen turned crimson, and cast a fiery glance at the Premier.

“I can assure your Excellency that the memory of my husband is quite safe in my hands. You are evidently unaware that my mother’s villa is situated in a most secluded spot, and that she sees no society, with the exception of members of her own family. Your Excellency’s insinuation is unpardonable.”

“I think, madame,” Cyril ventured to say, “that the Premier has not stated the chief objection to the journey your Majesty was proposing, but I am sure it is in his mind. In the present state of public affairs, it would be highly inexpedient, if not positively dangerous, for your Majesty and the King to be both absent from Thracia at the same time. His Excellency was unwilling to suggest the possibility of your accompanying her Royal Highness and leaving his Majesty behind, but that is the only alternative.”

“Ah yes, it is likely that I shall leave my child, is it not?” she asked with superb scorn, while her fingers beat a tattoo on the table with the inlaid paperknife. “One would have thought it would be perfectly clear to you, gentlemen, that it is on account of the King’s health I am anxious not to spend the winter at Bellaviste.”

“I trust, madame, that you have no reason for anxiety on his Majesty’s behalf? The Court physician’s reports are most reassuring.”

“Oh, naturally—there is nothing absolutely the matter with him, but he is growing too fast and becoming thin and pale. It is the fault of this town air, and the confined life here at the Palace. I want him to be in the country, where he can live simply and play with other children, and be merely a boy among boys.”

“The plan is an excellent one, madame,” said M. Drakovics, finding his tongue for the first time since the severe rebuke he had received; “but I must agree with Count Mortimer that it would be in the highest degree unwise for your Majesty and the King to quit the country at present.” The Queen frowned, but he went on valiantly, “What does your Majesty think of Praka as a winter residence? The climate is extraordinarily mild, and the combination of sea air and rural life would be excellent for his Majesty.”

“I don’t care for Praka,” returned the Queen shortly. “If we must remain in Thracia as state prisoners, I prefer to go to Tatarjé. The Villa Alexova, among the pine-woods, is an ideally lovely spot.”

“But, pardon me, madame—Tatarjé is a whole day’s journey from Bellaviste, even by rail. It is most important that your Majesty should not be far from the capital, in case of any sudden emergency.”

“You seem determined to oppose everything I suggest!” cried the Queen petulantly. “I detest Praka. If I am satisfied to leave your Excellency in charge of affairs, and merely to be informed by telegraph of what happens, surely there is nothing wrong in that?”

“I could not consent to undertake such a responsibility, madame.”

“But you are content to accept the responsibility of undermining the King’s health? Pray say no more, messieurs. We will discuss this matter again. As for me, I am weary of it,” and she swept out of the room, and sought refuge with her mother.

“They wish us to go to Praka,” she said, entering the morning-room.

“What did I tell you?” responded the Princess quickly. “Of course they choose Praka. No doubt they have settled it together long ago.”

“It would not surprise me,” the Queen agreed. “They seem to work together as though they had only one mind between them.”

“We must separate them. So long as they are united, we are powerless. I wish I could see a little more practical wisdom in you, Ernestine. It is all very well to pay the most exaggerated deference to these two men one day, and quarrel with them the next; but it merely cements their alliance instead of breaking it.”

“Why, what would you have me do?” asked the Queen listlessly.

“I would have you work on a definite plan. What is the use of your alternate sweetness and petulance if it all leads to nothing?”

“How can it lead to anything? I am pleasant to them if things are happening as I like, and I suppose I am petulant if I feel cross. One cannot act on a plan when one is angry.”

“That’s the very thing. You should never exhibit anger or pleasure unless to serve a purpose. You must learn to conceal your feelings.”

“I have never been able to do that hitherto. But what is the purpose which this concealment is to serve?”

“The estrangement of Count Mortimer from M. Drakovics. It is a very simple matter, and I really feel quite impatient when I see you wasting without any result quarrels and reconciliations which might effect so much.”

“One might think that I was in love with either or both of these gentlemen,” said the Queen lightly. Her mother frowned.

“Remember your position, Ernestine, pray. I should be afraid to engage you in any diplomatic intrigue worthy of the name; you are so absurdly susceptible to outside influence, and so unable to conceal its effect on you. Is it possible that you don’t see who is to blame for the way in which these men continue to act together?”

“No, indeed—unless you mean the men themselves?”

“I mean you. You have persisted in treating the two Ministers as though they were a double-faced automaton, working merely as a whole, when the slightest glimmering of common-sense should have led you to see that your only hope lay in considering them separately.”

“But what ought I to have done?”

“You should have treated them with the most even and impartial courtesy when they were together, reserving all your fluctuations of temper or spirits for the occasions on which you received either of them alone. Suppose Count Mortimer had requested an audience—you should have treated him with friendly kindness, deferred to his opinion, and taken the opportunity of lamenting that M. Drakovics never sympathised with your difficult position, nor understood your troubles. When you received M. Drakovics, you would have used similar measures, and complained of Count Mortimer, intimating, of course, that he himself was the only friend you possessed in Thracia. In this way each man, without the other’s knowing it, would grow to imagine himself to be high in your favour and confidence, and would look on his rival with a jealous eye, until they began to quarrel about the right of private audience. You would remain unobservant all this time, except when you interfered to heighten the agony a little. Jealousy would end by leading to a quarrel in your presence, when you could at once get rid of them both.”

“It all sounds very wicked and very mysterious,” said the Queen, stifling a yawn; “but I could never succeed in that kind of thing. I haven’t the brains or the tact for politics, mamma. And even if one could deceive M. Drakovics—I can quite believe that his vanity would lend itself to such a course—I don’t think I should be successful with Count Mortimer. He seems to be able to see through things. I did try to win him over once—it was about Sophie von Staubach’s appointment—but he saw it immediately, and it made me feel so dreadfully uncomfortable, though he did take my side.”

“Then with him you must act differently. Some men prefer to be approached without disguise, and you can flatter his weaknesses openly.”

“But he has none. The King used to say, ‘Mortimer has no vices except ambition, no pleasures even—except power.’”

“Except ambition and power! But that is everything, for the love of power can ruin a man just as surely as any other vice. This makes me hopeful, Ernestine, for your husband was a shrewd observer of character. We must approach Count Mortimer on his weak side. It might be as well occasionally to hint at the possibility of his superseding M. Drakovics as Premier. That will put his own thoughts into words. Then, in the meantime, there are other ways. Money confers power. One might assist him to marry an heiress. He ought to marry; but no doubt his poverty has prevented him hitherto.”

“But, dear mamma, I have not an unlimited choice of heiresses at hand to offer him.”

“You have one, which is quite enough. There is your maid of honour, Anna Mirkovics—her father fully expects you to select a husband for her, and she will be the richest woman in Thracia at her mother’s death. It would be an excellent match.”

“But Anna is terribly plain, and has no education, according to our ideas. Besides, even if Count Mortimer married her, how would it detach him from M. Drakovics?”

“You are rather dense to-day, my dear child. Naturally, I do not propose that you should give Anna to the Count without exacting any conditions. You would, of course, agree with him that, in return for your help in arranging the marriage, he should support you in future against M. Drakovics. The girl is so absurdly devoted to you that her influence would all be cast in the same direction.”

“And Anna is to be sold to him as the price of his support! I thought it was only princesses who were treated in that way? At any rate, I don’t intend to sacrifice her to a husband who would only marry her for her money. Moreover, I am certain that Count Mortimer would not consent to the bargain.”

“Not consent!” The Princess of Weldart’s eyebrows rose until they nearly met her hair. “My dear Ernestine, only give him the chance!”

“I will,” said the Queen, unmoved. “If I were not so sure that he would refuse, I would not risk Anna’s happiness; but I know he will.”

“I have not the slightest doubt that he will seize upon the idea with avidity.”

“And I am sure that you misjudge him. You have scolded me so often for yielding to the King’s dying wish, and consenting to a reconciliation with this man, that I wish him to justify himself to you. I believe that he is a sincere friend to Michael and myself, although he makes himself extremely disagreeable in fulfilling the duties imposed by his friendship. Well, you will see.”

“We shall see,” echoed the Princess; and the Queen, piqued by the incredulity of her tone, sat down and dashed off a request to Cyril to come to her immediately, as she wished to consult him upon a point of importance.

“I will send it at once,” she said, ringing the bell. To the servant who answered the summons she gave the note, desiring him to deliver it instantly, and as soon as he was gone she turned again to her mother.

“You must sit behind the screen,” she said. “I don’t want you to be able to say that he posed as a disinterested ally because you were present. And you must not reveal yourself, of course. It would scarcely do to have a ‘screen scene’—an unforeseen dénoûment of a dramatic order—in this little comedy of ours. It is quite exciting, isn’t it? I wonder how you will feel as you sit concealed, and listen to Count Mortimer’s noble sentiments!”

She was full of interest and animation as she hastened to arrange the screen round the Princess as she sat beside the fire, and walked backwards and forwards from the door to the table to assure herself that there was no possibility of Cyril’s catching a glimpse of the concealed auditor. Just as his footsteps were heard without, she jumped up again to arrange one side of the screen more easily, so that it might not look as though there was anything to hide, and only returned to her chair as the footman opened the door.

“You were pleased to send for me, madame?” said Cyril, as he entered.

“Yes; I wanted to talk about this plan of wintering in the country. Surely you can induce M. Drakovics to withdraw his opposition to our going to Tatarjé? The King and I are the persons chiefly concerned, after all.”

“The kingdom is also concerned, madame.”

“Oh, of course; but then—— Come, Count, I wish to go to the Villa Alexova; is not that enough? It is a lady’s reason, you know.”

“It is enough for a lady’s reason, madame; but not for a Queen’s reason.”

Queen Ernestine shrugged her shoulders. “Your definitions are too subtle for me, Count. I think you will use your influence with M. Drakovics, since I ask it?”

“Madame, I dare not use my influence to the injury of the kingdom.”

“The injury of the kingdom!” she cried indignantly. “You know as well as I do that the reason why M. Drakovics wants us to winter at Praka is that he has property there, and thinks that it will increase in value if the place becomes fashionable.”

“Your Majesty has the power of divining motives. My abilities are not of such a high order.”

“But surely it must make a difference when you know that?”

“I am afraid, madame, that it is not any part of my duty to inquire into the secret motives which may have prompted M. Drakovics in the advice he has thought fit to give your Majesty.”

“Duty, duty! All that you consider is your duty to M. Drakovics. Have you no duty to the King and to me?”

“Undoubtedly, madame. In this instance the duties coincide.”

“Why do you trifle with me in this way, Count? You promised my husband that you would befriend us—now I call upon you to fulfil your promise. We need a new party in Thracia, such a party as supported your English George III., the party of the King’s Friends, and you are the man to lead them.”

“I did not know that your Majesty was ambitious of becoming a power in politics,” returned Cyril, desperately puzzled as to her meaning. Surely she must have some object in talking in this apparently random way?

“What can I offer you to secure your allegiance, Count? We cannot expect to obtain support without paying for it, I know. Would you care to marry a rich wife? Prince Mirkovics’s daughter is in my charge, and with her fortune it would be very suitable for her to marry a Minister of State. Or would you prefer the reversion of the post which M. Drakovics holds? or both, perhaps?”

Cyril stood listening in astonishment as she ran on, half afraid to glance at his face, but determined to put him to the proof. “Madame——” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Or there is money, of course. We are not very rich in Weldart, but still, one can assist one’s friends occasionally. Would you——”

This time it was Cyril’s turn to interrupt. “Be good enough, madame,” he said fiercely, “to leave your sentence unfinished. I can forgive much in consideration of your youth; but it is impossible that you can be so childish as not to appreciate the insult you have thought fit to offer me.”

The Queen sat gazing at him helplessly, too much frightened to resent his words. “I am very sorry——” she murmured feebly; “I never thought—— I did not mean——”

“It is a pity that I promised your husband to remain in Thracia and do my best for you and his son, madame,” he went on, “for otherwise your Majesty would have succeeded by this time in driving me from your service, as you desire to do.”

“I don’t desire it——” began the Queen, gazing at his angry face as though the sight fascinated her; but she was interrupted suddenly.

“Que vous jouez à merveille votre rôle, M. le Comte!” cried the Princess’s voice from her hiding-place, and she emerged from behind the screen. Cyril turned upon Queen Ernestine.

“Is it possible, madame, that you have ventured to make this infamous proposition to me in the presence of a third person? Perhaps I shall discover that I have had the honour of furnishing a little entertainment to the whole of your Majesty’s Court?”

“No, no; indeed you are unjust, Count.”

“Is it so, madame? At any rate your Majesty has the satisfaction of realising that it is for the last time.”

“No, you are unjust still; you must let me speak. It was a trick, Count—a foolish jest. My m—— some one pretended to doubt you, and I assured them of your honour, and offered to test it in this way. I was wrong to do it, but I felt certain of your answer.”

“As I am no longer in your Majesty’s service, it may perhaps be permitted me to entreat you to remember your own position, madame, if you have no care for mine.”

“Count, you must not allow this foolishness of mine to deprive my son and Thracia of your services. I forbid it—I, your Queen.”

“There are certain insults, madame, which are so deadly as to absolve a subject from his allegiance.”

“Nothing can absolve you from your promise to my husband. You cannot desert my son and me when he confided us to your care.”

“Your Majesty asks too much. My friend the King would have been the last person to wish that my promise to him should bind me to remain exposed to such insults without having the right to resent them. To borrow your own words to the Premier, madame, your conduct has been unpardonable.”

“Not unpardonable, when you have been assured that the suggestion was made only in jest, and as a means of proving your fidelity in the eyes of others. Your Queen entreats you to retain your post, Count. Is not that enough? Must I fetch my son to join his entreaties with mine?”

“Be quiet, you little fool!” hissed the Princess into her daughter’s ear. Cyril caught the whisper, and it changed the current of his thoughts in a moment. He saw the whole plot now; and where the Queen’s pleading had failed to move him, a determination that the Princess should not be able to boast of having effected his removal from the Thracian scene succeeded. He turned again to Ernestine.

“I accept your explanation, madame,” he said; “but I can only beg you to remember that others might not be so complaisant.”

“And we will go to Praka,” she cried, as he prepared to depart.

“I will convey your Majesty’s message to the Premier,” he replied, still in the same frigid tone, with his hand on the door. It was not his intention to let the Queen down too easily this time. She had committed a faux pas, which might have been a fatal one, and she must be made aware of the fact. Suppose she had made her offer of a bribe to a man who had accepted it, or who, while refusing it, had done so with the intention of publishing the matter abroad? Cyril took a good deal of credit to himself for the tone he had maintained, and resolved to teach his young sovereign a lesson. It was quite evident that she had failed to realise the gravity of the insult she offered; but she could not always expect her inexperience to procure her immunity from the consequences of her foolish acts. The stars in their courses cannot be relied upon to fight invariably for the same person, even though she is young and beautiful and a Queen. Cyril had been too forbearing hitherto, and this was his reward. Queen Ernestine must now be made to understand that practical jokes and wayward tempers were all very well in an irresponsible schoolgirl, but might prove dangerous to the Regent of Thracia.

During the next few days Cyril never saw the Queen alone, and only rarely in company with M. Drakovics. Whenever he entered her presence, he knew that she was searching his face to see whether he had forgiven her, and the fact gave him a keen sense of pleasure, which he was careful to conceal, returning to the coldly deferential manner which he had preserved towards her in her husband’s lifetime, and which he succeeded in resuming with some difficulty, after the comparatively friendly intercourse of the past few weeks. It was the Queen herself who broke the ice at last, for it was not in her nature to remain passive in face of what she chose to consider injustice. She found her opportunity on the occasion of an official reception at the Palace, which the Ministers and their wives were expected to attend, on the anniversary of the declaration of Thracian independence. Cyril was standing a little apart from the other officials when she passed round the circle, addressing a few words to each person, and she spoke to him in English, which scarcely any one else understood.

“I see that you have not yet forgiven me, Count?”

“There are some things, madame, which may be forgiven, but never forgotten.”

“But surely that is a very undignified attitude of mind? If my little son adopted it, I should tell him he was sulky.”

“I know now by sad experience, madame, that no considerations will prevent you from treating me with the same frankness as his Majesty.”

“If that is the case, I will say at once that this change in your manner is extremely displeasing to me, Count. I do not choose to be reminded perpetually that I am in disgrace.”

Cyril groaned within himself. Would nothing teach this girl the most ordinary prudence or reserve? Her delicate and responsible position appeared to her only as a means of escaping from the shackles of conventionality. That she was Queen-Regent of Thracia was merely another reason for doing and saying what she chose. “Nothing could be further from my mind than to produce such an impression, madame,” he answered. “Your Majesty cannot doubt that?”

“Nor the impression that with respect to our wintering at Praka, you have gained a victory over me?”

“I was of opinion that I was going to Praka to make inquiries and arrangements on your behalf, madame, and at your wish.”

“Oh yes, you may go to Praka; but remember, Count, that when it is a question of bearing malice or a grudge, other people can do that as well as yourself.”

She passed on, leaving him to wonder what was meant by the implied threat contained in her last speech. He took an early opportunity of sounding Baroness von Hilfenstein on the subject, and found that the mistress of the robes also entertained misgivings.

“I feel almost certain that the Queen has some plan in her head,” she said; “but she has not communicated it to me. I fancy that she may intend to order a sudden move to Praka before your arrangements are complete, in order to catch you unprepared. At any rate, she has ordered me to warn all the ladies to have their dresses for the winter made in good time, and to be ready to travel at two hours’ notice. I hoped we should get on better when the Princess’s influence was removed, but she has left her tool behind. Fräulein von Staubach is not a friend of yours, Count.”

“I fear not, although I am not aware of having injured her.”

“It is not that, but she distrusts you. She is a good woman—an excellent, kind-hearted creature, full of sentiment—and she sees, as she thinks, the warm heart of the young Queen chilled, and its best impulses thwarted, by your statesmanship. Then the Princess has filled her with doubts as to your motives, and quite unconsciously she influences the Queen against you. She has no intention of interfering in affairs of state, but she cannot help regarding with suspicion any suggestion that comes from you.”

This was scarcely reassuring, and Cyril departed on his journey to Praka in no very cheerful frame of mind. He found a travelling companion in M. Drakovics, who was obliged to visit his Praka estate on business, and they agreed to journey back to Bellaviste together the next day. Cyril’s duty was merely to discover whether it was possible to provide sufficient accommodation for the Queen and her suite in the little village, now almost deserted for the winter, which formed the favourite marine resort of the wealthier Thracians, but in spite of the limited scope of the inquiry, his task was a difficult one. M. Drakovics had not built a house on his property, an omission which he now regretted, since it prevented his putting the Queen under an obligation by offering to lend her his villa; but he represented that it would be possible to accommodate one or two of the suite in the small farmhouse occupied by his bailiff, and by taking advantage of this offer, Cyril calculated that he should be able to find room for the whole of the Court. To live in tents, after the manner of the majority of the summer residents, would naturally be impossible in the winter.

Praka was not by any means a lively place, and its natural attractions, at any rate in the autumn, were soon exhausted, so that Cyril found himself ready and eager to quit it as soon as his business was done. The cooking at the little inn was bad, and the beds worse, facts which did not tempt him to linger, and he was waiting at the station some time before it was likely that M. Drakovics would arrive. As he walked up and down the rickety platform, while in the background Dietrich mounted guard over his bag, a telegram was handed to him. It was from the Baroness von Hilfenstein, and bore the date of the previous evening:—

“Her Majesty has just announced that the Court leaves for the Villa Alexova early to-morrow. I fear this will not reach you in time for you to prevent the move, but pray follow as soon as possible. It appears that the Queen sent Batzen to Tatarjé two days ago to make preparations; but he cannot have been able to do much in such a short time. Everything will be in confusion. I depend upon you.”

“Excellent old woman!” was Cyril’s first thought as he read the missive. “If I have the pleasure of spoiling the Queen’s pretty little plot for making a fool of me, it is all thanks to you. So that is what old Batzen’s mysterious mission comes to, is it? I might have guessed; but the idea of employing the poor old parson on such an errand!”

The Herr Hofprediger Batzen was a venerable Lutheran clergyman to whom the charge of the little King’s moral and religious education was supposed to be intrusted; but as his Majesty was still rather young to receive regular instruction, his tutor’s time was more or less at the Queen’s disposal. Hence it was that his sudden departure from Court on one of her errands had excited no surprise, and people had considered the secrecy which enshrouded his destination as due to the desire for importance of the good pastor himself Cyril was wiser now, and could almost have laughed, in spite of his chagrin, when he thought of the tutor’s unfitness for his present task, and the pitiful muddle which would be the probable result of his attempt at housekeeping. But this was not the time for laughing, but for action, and Cyril hurried out to meet M. Drakovics as the Premier rode up to the station on his rough country horse.

“Would you like to hear what is our gracious sovereign lady’s last little game?” was the irreverent question with which the younger Minister greeted the elder. M. Drakovics raised his eyebrows.

“If you could assure me that she had eloped to join the ex-secretary Christophle, and had married him, I should not be heart-broken,” was his answer, as he dismounted.

“No, no, my friend; you are not to be Regent just at present. Her Majesty and the Court remove to-day to Tatarjé, and take up their abode at the Villa Alexova.”

“Mille tonnerres!” cried M. Drakovics, stamping furiously about the platform. “This woman will ruin in a day the kingdom I have been building up for nine years. I ask you, is it to be endured?”

“I’m afraid it must be so, since you can scarcely propose to cure it by superseding the Queen in the regency. But the news is certainly most serious. It would be better if you had told the Queen the real reasons for her not going to Tatarjé, as I advised at the time, instead of simply making out that it was too far away.”

“Would you have had me tell her that the Villa is within a drive of the country residence of her cousin the Princess of Dardania, and that that woman’s Court is a perfect hotbed of intrigues of all kinds?”

“I would not have had you do anything so foolish. Our old acquaintance, the Princess Ottilie, will no doubt do her best to entangle her Majesty in some of her schemes for the advancement of her husband’s dynasty; but she is not by any means the most dangerous person in the neighbourhood of Tatarjé. That bad pre-eminence is reserved for Colonel O’Malachy.”

“Oh, that old dotard!” said M. Drakovics contemptuously.

“Dotard if you like, but what is he doing where he is? You know that the air of Tatarjé seems to breed rebellion; that in my brother’s time the garrison supported the insurrection in favour of the house of Franza; and that Otto Georg had more trouble with the town and district than with all the rest of the kingdom.”

“It is all Bishop Philaret’s fault. He is stronger even than the Metropolitan in his pro-Scythian sympathies. You know they say that he threatened to get the Synod to excommunicate him for accepting a pardon from a non-Orthodox King?”

“I know. Well, that is the kind of danger the Queen would have recognised and appreciated. Anything that threatened her son’s faith or throne would have put her on her guard at once; but you would not tell her. And now, besides the Princess of Dardania, who is likely to be troublesome, but scarcely dangerous, we have the Bishop actively hostile, and Colonel O’Malachy biding his chance to reap a harvest for Scythia.”

“You remarked to me once,” cried M. Drakovics, turning savagely upon his supporter, “that in moments of crisis it was well to act, instead of wasting time in mutual recrimination. If I concealed from the Queen my true reasons for not wishing her to take the King to Tatarjé, it was because I knew that she would tell them to her mother, and that through her it would become known all over Europe that there was disaffection in Thracia. I took what seemed to me the wisest course; but no man’s wisdom can provide against a woman’s folly. I ask you now what you propose to do?”

“I propose to reach Tatarjé to-night, and resume my duties in connection with the Court.”

“To-night? but it will take us until mid-day to get back to Bellaviste, and Tatarjé is twelve hours’ journey farther on.”

“You don’t imagine that I intend to follow the Court meekly at a distance, giving them a twelve hours’ start, and to turn up the day after the fair in that way? No; I shall take the cross-country route, and so get there about midnight.”

“But the railway is not yet open all the way.”

“No; but it is sufficiently near completion to allow of the passing of ballast-trains. Milénovics was telling me so only yesterday. My man and I must find accommodation on the engine of one of those trains, and my things can be sent on to me from Bellaviste.”

The Premier’s eyes glistened, but he restrained himself. “You are the man for the present state of affairs,” he said; “for you know better than any of us how to spoil the success of a woman’s tricks. Mind, I rely upon you wholly as regards Tatarjé. I must get on as best I can at the capital; but the safety of the King, and therefore of Thracia, rests on your discretion. I may run down occasionally, of course; but you will be obliged to act on your own judgment if any difficulty arises. You can trust me to support you.”

A little further conversation on various important points followed, and the two Ministers separated to seek their respective trains. The first part of Cyril’s journey passed without discomfort, as the line had been in use some time; but when the section still in process of construction was reached, matters were very different. When the passengers were all obliged to quit the train, which went no farther, the disclosure of Cyril’s identity secured permission for himself and Dietrich to travel in the cab of the engine attached to a line of ballast-trucks which were just about to start; but so rough did the way in front appear that at first even the stolid German hesitated to follow his master. But there was no time for delay, and in response to Cyril’s “Be quick, Dietrich; either come or stay behind!” the valet shut his eyes, metaphorically speaking, and took the plunge. The journey was like a peculiarly realistic nightmare, owing to the swaying and jolting and clanking and leaping of the train, which varied matters occasionally by running off the rails and regaining them in some miraculous manner. It was an experience no one would wish to repeat; but as Cyril stood at eight o’clock that evening, bruised, dusty, and exhausted, on the platform of the country station at which the farther end of the new line joined that running to Tatarjé, he rejoiced. Three hours’ journey would bring him to his goal, and deprive the Queen of her anticipated triumph over her Ministers. His calculations were not mistaken. By midnight he had reached Tatarjé, only an hour or so later than the Court, and selected his quarters in the Villa, giving strict orders that the Queen was not to be informed of his arrival. In the distracted state of affairs consequent on Herr Batzen’s mission of preparation, the order was easy of fulfilment, and Cyril took a good night’s rest, and bided his time.

His time was not long in coming. In the morning the Queen and Baroness von Hilfenstein found themselves beset by a throng of tearful ladies and loudly complaining maids, who all expatiated upon the discomforts of the night, and the absolute lack of furniture and even food which prevailed in all parts of the house. Finding the Queen quite at a loss, the Baroness made the practical suggestion that Count Mortimer should be summoned, and matters given into his hands.

“Count Mortimer!” cried the Queen in astonishment. “But he is at Praka, or at any rate no nearer than Bellaviste.”

“Pardon me, madame; but I am almost certain I caught a glimpse of him coming to the Villa this morning.”

The Queen turned in bewilderment to the other ladies, one of whom hastened to assure her that she had found Count Mortimer established in an office on the ground-floor, and had complained to him of the state of affairs, when he had replied that he would do his best to remedy it as soon as he had the Queen’s authority. It was evident that the only thing to do was to send for him, and this the Queen did.

“When did you arrive, Count?” she asked, when he appeared.

“Last night, madame,” with a look of surprise.

“But how—how did you succeed in getting here?”

“It is my duty to accompany the Court, madame.”

“Yes; but—I thought you were at Praka?”

“On the contrary, madame, I am here, and ready to serve you.”

The Queen gave up the riddle with a sigh, and Cyril remained master of the situation. He knew that she would have given anything to ask for an explanation, which her dignity would not allow her to do, and he enjoyed his triumph in the intervals of his multifarious labours all day.

CHAPTER VI.
A DAUGHTER’S DUTY.

Lady Caerleon sat alone in the breakfast-room at Llandiarmid, with an unopened letter lying before her on the table. Her husband was staying with a friend in the Midlands for a few days’ shooting, and she had sent the children away to play, for she felt reluctant, almost afraid, to open the letter in their presence. The sight of the Thracian stamp and post-mark, and of the writing upon the envelope, brought back to her with unwelcome vividness the troubles of her girlhood, which had passed out of sight—almost out of mind—during the happy years of her married life. That writing she had last seen some months before her marriage, when her father had written to upbraid her for revealing his plot against Caerleon’s life to the intended victim, and had cast her off, as he declared, for ever. “I have no daughter now,” he had said, and she accepted his decision with a resignation which comprised in it something of relief. “You must be father and brother to me, as well as husband,” she had said to Caerleon on their wedding-day, looking into his face with her great serious eyes, “for I have no one but you;” and if she had experienced little difficulty in choosing between father and lover, she had never for a moment found reason to regret her choice. It was like tearing open an old wound to return now to the trials of those earlier days; but she shook off her reluctance after a time, and unfolded the letter with a determination to know the worst at once. As she looked at it, however, the apprehension faded from her face, for instead of conveying the curse which her father had sworn that he would send her with his dying breath, the words which met her eye were expressive of the greatest goodwill.

“My dear Nadia,—You will likely be surprised to receive a letter from me; but I feel I am growing old, and often lately I have been troubled to think that the one relation I have left in the wide world was living in enmity against me. Owing to reasons with which you are very well acquainted, it is not possible for me to take the step to which my feelings prompt me, and by paying you a visit in England, seek to end this sad state of things; but if you should feel moved to terminate it, be sure that you will find no obstacle in me. I have suffered of late from a painful and distressing illness, any recurrence of which, so the doctor informs me, would be fatal, and which may recur at any time. At this moment I am experiencing great relief from a course of the Tatarjé waters, and find my former strength wonderfully restored. My life has not been too happy, and now, lingering on the borders of a better world, I am conscious of a longing for that solace of family affection, from which circumstances have debarred me wholly of late years, and in a measure, as you know, all my days. I wish to blame no one, but I think your own heart will bear me out in this. It is not for me to sue for pity to my daughter; but if her filial feelings lead her to take the first steps towards a reconciliation, far be it from me to repulse her! You have children, Nadia—a son, I hear. Since your poor brother’s death and your disobedience I have had none; but I would like greatly to see yours before I die. It would afford me pleasure, also, to meet your husband again, for I have always entertained the highest respect for him, although we unfortunately differed in politics. Some years ago I received from him a very suitable and becoming letter, which I fear I may have failed to treat with the consideration it deserved. I do not ask his pardon; he will be able to understand something of the bitterness which fills a father’s heart under circumstances such as mine. I make no entreaties; I leave the matter with you. However you may decide to receive this overture of mine, I cannot forget that I am your father,

“O’Malachy.”

Nadia read the letter through again, for its tone of injured rectitude was somewhat puzzling in view of the circumstances in which the breach between her father and herself had taken place. To say that Caerleon and he had “differed in politics” was a mild way of stating that the O’Malachy had plotted not merely to depose, but to murder, his would-be son-in-law when the latter occupied the Thracian throne. Perhaps it would be too much to expect any expression of regret for this unfortunate misunderstanding; but Nadia felt that her father was scarcely entitled to imply that all the misconduct was on her side and all the undeserved suffering on his own. Still, the fact that he had written this letter at all was more than she could have dared to hope, and she knew him well enough to recognise that it was only in accordance with his character to safeguard his own dignity as far as possible in thus making friendly overtures after his long silence, although this rendered it all the more difficult to know how to reply to the letter.

“I wish Carlino was at home!” she said at last. “I cannot tell what to say by myself. Ah, yes; I will send him the letter, and he shall tell me how I ought to answer it. How glad he will be to hear that what I have been longing and praying for ever since we were married has come to pass at last! We will take the children with us and go to Tatarjé, and papa’s heart will be softened. Perhaps he will be able to come back to England after all, and spend his old age here. If he is really changed, he might wish to do it, and some of Carlino’s friends in the Government would surely be able to make it safe for him. Oh, how delightful it would be to know that he was quiet and had given up plotting! I am certain Carlino feels it a trial to be connected with a Scythian secret service agent, though he never allows it to appear; and it will be a comfort to him to have him close at hand and to be able to keep an eye on him.”

It did not occur to Nadia, as she sat down at her writing-table to begin her letter to her husband, that the O’Malachy was scarcely likely to be either a very desirable or a particularly contented inhabitant of the Castle unless his character had altered very materially of late years; but Caerleon frowned a good deal over the proposal when it reached him the next morning. He had not bargained for receiving his father-in-law as an inmate of his family, and it seemed to him that it would make for the happiness of all concerned if the gallant officer should elect to end his days at some Continental health-resort. The annoyances which his presence at Llandiarmid was bound to entail would press most heavily on Nadia herself, and therefore she would be inclined to underrate them in prospect; but Caerleon had no intention of allowing his wife to be victimised by her father if he could possibly induce her to see that the sacrifice was not demanded of her. He had slight opportunity, however, of laying his views before her, for even before the time at which he was revolving in his mind the sentences which should produce the impression he desired without appearing to throw cold water on her schemes for her father’s reformation, Nadia had taken a sudden and most important step on her own account.

In the afternoon of the day on which Lady Caerleon had received her father’s letter, and forwarded it to her husband, Wright the coachman, returning from executing various commissions for his mistress in Aberkerran, brought out also a telegram addressed to her, which had been intrusted to him at the post-office, with the view of saving the trouble and expense of a special messenger. He lingered at the door while she opened the envelope, expecting to hear that Lord Caerleon was returning earlier than had been anticipated, or that he had been suddenly called to London; but to his great alarm she turned pale when the message met her eyes, and a startled cry broke from her—

“My father is dangerously ill, Wright, and entreats me to come and see him with the children before he dies. The telegram is from the doctor, who warns me not to lose a moment. We must leave by to-night’s train—the one Lord Cyril took when he was called away.”

“You and the children, my lady? and all in such a ’urry?” said Wright, in bewilderment. “’Ow ever will you get ready?”

“We must manage. I should never forgive myself if we were too late. I must telegraph to the Marquis to meet us in London. He is not so far from town as we are, and will be able to do it well.”

“But you wouldn’t go for to travel alone to town with the children, my lady?”

“Of course I shall take nurse. I think I will take you as well, Wright. You know something about travelling, and if anything should prevent the Marquis from meeting us, you would be most useful.”

“Yes, my lady; but what am I to say to my wife?”

“Tell her that I take you because you were with Lord Caerleon in Eastern Europe before, of course. Have the waggonette ready at six, and bring Stodart to take charge of the horses and drive them home.”

“Yes, my lady—but, begging your ladyship’s pardon, do you think as ’is lordship would approve of your startin’ off quite so quick without sendin’ ’im word fust?”

“My good Wright,” returned Nadia forbearingly, “I shall telegraph to Lord Caerleon before we get into the train. I should not think of going to Tatarjé without him; but it is just possible that he might not reach London quite in time for the Flushing boat, and might have to follow us by another. That is why I am taking you. But you may be quite sure that my husband will approve of my doing my duty.”

Wright retired, crushed, to give the necessary orders at the stables, and then to break the news of his sudden departure to his wife, who complained that the Marchioness was very thoughtless, and ’ad much better take one of the young fellows as didn’t suffer with the rheumatics, if she wanted to go trapesing about over the place, and not lead a respectable family man on such a wild-goose chase; but there! she never ’ad set much by them furriners. But this utterance struck at the root of all Wright’s ideas of the respect due to the “Family,” and he hastened to assure his grumbling spouse, while she packed his bag and he brought out the old passport which he cherished with a good deal of pride, that her ladyship was taking the proper course under the circumstances, and that he considered she was perfectly justified in what she did.

After all, in spite of Lady Caerleon’s promptness in deciding upon the journey, and her haste in preparing for it, there was not time for her to send off the telegram to her husband before the train started, and she was therefore obliged to give it into the hands of Stodart the groom, with instructions to despatch it immediately. Stodart was a well-intentioned young man; but on the present occasion the honour and glory of finding himself in sole command of the horses and carriage seems to have been too much for his self-control, for after driving through the principal streets to exhibit his grandeur to his acquaintances, he yielded to the invitation of a friend, and accepted a glass or two of beer at a public-house close to the post-office. There is no reason to suspect that he went beyond the two glasses; but the melancholy fact remains that when he reached the post-office it was too late to send the telegram that day. The crestfallen youth took it back to Llandiarmid, and confessed his dereliction of duty to the housekeeper, who rebuked him sharply for not having left the missive with some one in the town who could have despatched it as soon as the office opened. Stodart himself rode into Aberkerran at the earliest possible hour the next morning, and sent off the message; but by that time a weary and shivering little group, gathered on the platform at Victoria, had realised sadly that Lord Caerleon was not there to meet them, and had taken the Queenborough train without him. Nor did the misfortunes of the telegram end here. It did not reach the country-house at which Caerleon was staying until some time after the gentlemen had started for the distant coverts, and the hostess considered that it might well wait until she herself joined the sportsmen at lunch-time. Even then, she was thoughtful enough not to present it until after the meal, in case it should contain bad news, and then she forgot it until she and the other ladies were making their way home, so that when Caerleon at last received it he was forced to realise that his wife and children were already speeding across Europe away from him as fast as steam could carry them. His own man was on the sick-list, having been shot accidentally in the ankle by an amateur sportsman of the party, and he was obliged to telegraph to Llandiarmid that Robert the footman should meet him at Victoria the next morning with his passport and other necessaries for a Continental journey. He was already too late to catch the night-boat, and had the mortification of knowing that his utmost haste could not result in enabling him to be less than a day behind.

As for Nadia, she pursued her way with a timidity that was almost fear. Since her marriage she had scarcely been further than Aberkerran without Caerleon, and she felt worried and perplexed when Wright asked for directions or inquired her wishes. She had been independent enough at one time; but Caerleon had managed everything for her so long that she hardly knew how to act on her own responsibility. Happily a gleam of hope reached her at Cologne, where she received a telegram from her husband to say that he was starting to follow her, and would join her at the Hôtel du Roi Othon at Tatarjé, where the O’Malachy was staying. She found another piece of comfort in the behaviour of the children, who regarded the whole affair as a game of the most delightful kind.

From the moment at which Usk and Philippa were first told that instead of going to bed they were to take a journey to the other end of Europe in order to see grandpapa, who was ill, they seemed to themselves to have passed out of the regions of reality into those of romance. Their mother’s father had always been a shadowy figure to them. They knew all about their other grandfather, whose sword hung over the mantelpiece in father’s study, and whose medals and decorations they were allowed to look at as a treat on their birthdays. They could give detailed accounts of the various engagements in which he had taken part, and by mounting a chair in the picture-gallery they could indicate on his portrait the exact locality of each wound that he had received. Moreover, his monument faced them in church every Sunday, and had served to provide matter of extraneous interest during many long sermons. But with Grandpapa O’Malachy it was different. He was not dead; but he was away somewhere, and he never wrote to mother. Once Philippa, overhearing some words of gossip between her nurse and Wright, who had returned from his travels with a very low opinion of the O’Malachy, had asked her father point-blank whether grandpapa was a wicked man—an inquiry which Lord Caerleon could only parry by saying that little girls ought not to ask questions. This unprecedented snub, following on what she had already heard, Philippa accepted as an affirmative answer, and to her and to Usk their grandfather became for the future a compound of Guy Fawkes and of the wicked uncle of the Babes in the Wood. Many happy hours were spent by the two in the Abbey ruins “playing at grandpa”; but this was not guessed by their parents, for Philippa had issued an edict that “grandpa was not to be talked about, because it worried mother,” and Usk, who was her willing slave, obeyed her faithfully.

To be now actually on a journey to visit this mysterious, and therefore terrible and delightful, relative, was in itself an incredible joy; but it was heightened by the fact that he lived in the country where father was once king, and when they set foot on the Continent the children had reached a state of exaltation in which nothing would have surprised them, from Genii to Man Friday. Their excitement did not show itself outwardly. They ran races and played games up and down the corridor of the train, made friends with the other passengers, looked out on the strange people at the stations, and came to their mother ever and anon for petting and a story; but occasionally, when their extreme quietness prompted Nadia or their nurse to make a raid upon them in fear of some mischief, they would be found curled up together in the corner of a seat, Philippa telling Usk in a whisper tales of marvel respecting the wonders to be anticipated. When once the Thracian frontier had been crossed, they spent their time in rushing from window to window of the carriage, so as not to miss one scene of the enchanted land. All through the journey they had asked at each station whether this was father’s kingdom yet, and now they were happy. Nadia had rashly attempted to prove to them that Thracia had now another king, and in no way belonged to their father; but Philippa was persuaded that once a king meant always a king, and supported her contention by the historical examples of David King of Israel, King Alfred, and the Young Pretender.

There was abundant opportunity for the travellers to see as much of Thracia as they wished, and even more, for this portion of the railway had been damaged by a flood the day before, and progress was very slow. The train was timed to reach Tatarjé at three in the afternoon, but it did not get in until seven; and the children were roused from an uncomfortable slumber by their nurse that they might be put tidy before arriving. The station, so far as they could see, was very much like other stations, and the streets were chiefly remarkable for being narrow, badly paved, and smelly; but what did this signify? they were situated in Arcadia. Usk and Philippa were wide awake now, and able to notice their mother’s excitement. She was panting as she sat upright in the carriage, and her lips trembled. If she should be too late now, after this dreadful journey!

The loungers in the hall of the Hôtel du Roi Othon found a new subject of interest that evening in the stately lady who entered suddenly, followed by her children and servants, and demanded to be taken at once to the Herr Oberst O’Malachy’s room. The German waiter whom she had addressed looked at her in astonishment not unmixed with suspicion. The lady spoke German without the slightest foreign accent; but her companions were unmistakably English, and what could they want with the Scythian officer?

“I don’t know whether the Herr Oberst will see visitors,” he said.

“He will see me. I am his daughter, and have come straight from England because he sent for me. Take me to him immediately, if you please.” The waiter gave way before the tone of calm command.

“Madame will know best, no doubt,” he said with a bow, and led the way up-stairs, Nadia following him closely. Her journey was not in vain; for at least her father was not dead.

“Mother,” suggested Philippa, pulling at her mother’s cape as they reached the landing, “perhaps he means that grandpa is asleep.”

“I shan’t disturb him, Phil. You and Usk had better wait outside, and I will just go in very quietly and look at him.”

But the door which the waiter flung open with the announcement, “A lady from England to see the Herr Oberst,” was not that of a bedroom, and the children, looking in with astonished eyes, saw their mother pause and start as soon as she had crossed the threshold. A number of men were sitting round a table laden with fruit and wine in a gorgeously furnished sitting-room, and stared at the intruder in amazement; while a white-haired man at the head of the board, who seemed to be engaged in concocting a bowl of punch, dropped the lemon he had been manipulating, and turned round in his chair to gaze.

“And is ut you, Nadia?” he cried heartily, after a moment of stunned silence. “Come in, come in! My daughter, gentlemen.”

“You asked me to come. You said you were ill,” gasped Nadia, catching at the door to steady herself.

“And sure I was ill. If I’m all right again now, thanks to the doctor here, you’d not grudge ut me, would you?”

As she made no answer, but stood gazing at him with dilated eyes and parted lips, he rose and came towards her, supporting himself with a stick.

“’Twas good of you to come, Nadia, and if I’d known it would give you pleasure, sure I’d have stayed in bed to receive you. But never so much as a telegram to let me know you were coming; how in the world could I even meet you at the train? Come, sit down, and don’t stand looking at me like a voiceless banshee. What is ut, at all?”

Nadia sank down on the chair the waiter brought her; but still she said nothing, and the children, wondering exceedingly, came and stood beside her.

“Mother, is it grandpa?” asked Philippa in a whisper. She was mindful of her manners, if her mother had forgotten them.

“Yes; it is your grandfather,” replied Lady Caerleon with a strange laugh. “Go and speak to him.” The children obeyed.

“How do you do, grandpa?” asked Usk, who was the first to reach the tall stooping form by the table. “I hope you are quite well?” But he felt himself eclipsed at once when Philippa said pointedly in her turn, “How do you do, grandpa? I’m so glad you’re better.”

“But it is adorable!” cried one of the gentlemen, as Philippa stood on tiptoe to bestow a kiss on her grandfather. “Come and give me a keess also, leetle English Meess.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” said Philippa, disliking the speaker instinctively, but mindful of the duties of politeness. “My name is Lady Philippa Mortimer.”

“Mortimer!” said another. “No relation of our dear Count, surely?”

“Ah, would you like to know?” said the O’Malachy, trying to remove Philippa’s fur cap, but she withdrew herself from his hands.

“I can take off my hat myself, grandpa,” she said reprovingly, and did so. A cry of recognition broke from the company.

“Carlino’s daughter! There cannot be a doubt.”

“Exactly,” said the O’Malachy drily. “Have I won my bet, gentlemen?”

A chorus of affirmation greeted him, and Lady Caerleon laughed again—a hard, unmirthful laugh. Philippa looked at her anxiously.

“I’m very glad you’re better, grandpa,” she said; “but don’t you think you might have sent mother a telegram? Then we needn’t have hurried so, and we could have waited for father.”

“So!” cried another man; “and where then is the Herr Papa, little Goldenlocks?”

“Father missed the train, and we couldn’t wait, but he will be here to-morrow.”

“Aha!” said the gentleman who had wished to kiss Philippa. “There is something wrong here, Colonel.”

“How could I help ut?” demanded the O’Malachy. “I never dreamt of her arriving without um. However, ’tis only a day’s delay.”

“Father would never have let mother come alone,” said Philippa, up in arms at once; “but he couldn’t help it, for he didn’t know in time. And mother has been so dreadfully worried about him, and about you too, grandpa. It’s very bad for her to be worried, and she oughtn’t to be let do it.”

“Indeed! and who says that, milady?”

“Father says so, and he always keeps her from being worried, too.”

“What! the excellent Carlino is a considerate husband?” and the gentlemen laughed as though they thought it a huge joke. “He is a model of all the domestic virtues, is he not, milady?”

“I don’t know what that means; but if it means that father is good, of course he is.”

The gentlemen laughed again, which made Philippa angry.

“I don’t think it’s nice to laugh about father like that when we are there. Please, grandpa, we’re all very tired with the train, and mother is worried, I’m sure. Oh no, it must be that she’s so glad to know you are so much better than she expected. But I think she ought to rest a little. Can we get rooms here, do you think?”

“Delightful English common-sense!” cried Philippa’s enemy; but the O’Malachy interposed promptly.

“Of course you can, Phil. The waiter thought of that long ago, and has gone to see after them. I hear um coming back now, and he has your maid with um. I daresay you will like to see your rooms, Nadia. You don’t look fit to talk to-night; but I’ll hope to find you fresh and rested in the morning.”

Roused from her stunned condition by his words, Nadia rose, and, bowing coldly to the company, left the room with the children. While her mother was settling matters with the servants outside, Philippa discovered that she had left her cap behind, and ordered Usk to come back with her and fetch it. But the thought of traversing the long room again under the eyes of the diners was too much for Usk, and Philippa pushed the door open quietly, and went in by herself, to find her grandfather leaning over the table and talking earnestly in French, for the benefit, apparently, of a gentleman who had only just joined the party. The children were accustomed to speak French almost as regularly as English with their mother, and Philippa caught the words—

“The Jewess and her boy have put themselves in our power by coming here. We seize them and the Count at one blow, then proclaim our friend king, call out our people, and march on Bellaviste.”

“But what if our friend prove restive?”

“That will probably be the case; but we must find means to quiet him, and if all expedients fail, there is the boy. The Bishop would like that better. By all the——! what are you doing here, Philippa?”

“I came to get my hat, grandpa. It’s on your chair.”

“Take ut, then, and be off. Did you hear—— No, I won’t put ideas into the child’s head. Go to bed at once, like a good girl, and in the morning I’ll take you and your brother into the town and buy you some sweets.”

“One moment, Herr Oberst,” said the man with the German accent, before Philippa could utter her thanks. “I wish to satisfy myself that our friend’s daughter inherits his amiable peculiarities. Come here, little Goldenlocks,” and he poured her out a glass of wine, “drink this to the health of the dear Herr Grandpapa, who has recovered so quickly from his sickness under the care of the good doctor.”

“No, thank you,” said Philippa politely, for she had refused similar invitations before; “we are all teetotallers.”

“Excellent!” cried her new antagonist, while the rest shouted with laughter. “You are indeed happy in your descendants, Herr Oberst. Who could have believed that so virtuous a family existed in these degenerate days? What could be better for our plans?”

“Don’t tease the child,” said the O’Malachy, darting an angry glance at him. “Run away, Phil. Here’s a crystallised apricot for you. Can’t you see that I’m busy with these gentlemen?”

If the O’Malachy had intended to stamp on Philippa’s memory the conversation she had overheard, he could not have found better means to that end than his evident anxiety to get her out of the room, and his gift of the apricot. She was revolving many things in her mind as she passed through the door, and met her brother outside.

“I’m sure grandpapa’s friends are not nice, Usk,” she said, as she divided the apricot with him. “They laughed when I said we were teetotallers.”

“So do some of father’s friends—often,” objected Usk, with his mouth full of fruit. “Mr Forfar did.”

“Yes; but that was a different kind of laughing. This was horrid, like the people in Vanity Fair when Christian and Faithful were going through, I should think. And they said such funny things, too. But I’m not going to worry mother. I do wish father was here!”

“Excellency,” said Dietrich, entering his master’s office in the Villa Alexova, and standing at the salute, “I have just seen the young Countess.”

“Nonsense, Dietrich! You must be dreaming.” Cyril knew that for some inscrutable reason of his own—probably connected with linguistic difficulties—the valet always alluded to Philippa as “the young Countess.” “Lady Phil is with her parents in England.”

“Excellency, I met her in the street just now, attended by the coachman Wright, and they both spoke to me.”

“But what did they say?”

“They expressed pleasure on seeing me, Excellency; and the young Countess said that her lady mother had been summoned from England to attend the death-bed of the Herr Oberst O’Malachy, but that on arriving here they found him alive and well.”

“What devilry is the old wretch up to now?” muttered Cyril. “He has never been seriously ill since he came here. Did you tell Lady Phil that I was at Tatarjé, Dietrich?”

“No, Excellency; I had no orders. When the young Countess asked me why I was here, I said that I was on the business of the Herr Hofminister. But in case you should wish to speak to the little lady, I informed her that persons of respectable appearance were permitted to walk in the gardens of the Villa at this hour, and I see that she is in the chestnut-alley now.”

“Your wisdom, Dietrich, is only equalled by your talent for silence. You have judged correctly: I do wish to speak to the little lady;” and Cyril rose and put away his papers, and went out into the garden. When Philippa saw him advancing towards her, she flew to meet him with a scream of delight.

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, I am so glad! How nice of Dietrich not to tell us you were here, and give us such a lovely surprise! Mother is so dreadfully worried, and father won’t be here till this afternoon, and grandpapa is such a funny man. But you’ll do next best to father. It’ll be all right now.”

“Poor Phil, what a catalogue of woes! Where is your mother?”

“At the hotel. She and grandpa have been talking and talking, and I know mother cried, but grandpa was quite cheerful and joky. He said it would have gone to his heart to send a telegram to say we needn’t come, he was so counting on seeing us. He was going to take Usk and me out to buy us some sweets; but Usk was tired, and mother said he had better not go out until we go to meet father at the station this afternoon, and grandpa said it wouldn’t be fair to Usk to take me out alone. Mother wouldn’t go out; she said nothing should induce her to let Usk out of her sight. Please stoop down, Uncle Cyril; I want to whisper. I think mother’s frightened about something. And nurse wouldn’t come out. She said she dursen’t trust herself in these furrin streets, lest she should be murdered, and so I couldn’t have gone out at all if Wright hadn’t been here. But mother made him promise never to take his eyes off me for a second.”

Cyril looked up and met Wright’s gaze. The coachman shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid it’s a bad business somehow, my lord; but the rights and the wrongs of it is quite beyond me.”

“Well, Phil,” said Cyril, “suppose I come with you and see your mother? Perhaps I shall be able to cheer her up a little; and at any rate it’s not long before your father will be here.”

“No; only a little more than two hours,” said Philippa, contentedly, putting her hand in Cyril’s as they turned to leave the garden. The sight of the Villa suggested a new topic to her mind.

“Oh, do you live in that big house, Uncle Cyril? It’s a little bit like Llandiarmid, isn’t it? only there aren’t any ruins.”

“No; the little Prince whom I told you about lives there. His father is dead now, and he is King.”

“But they are going to have another king as well, aren’t they? Grandpapa and his friends were talking last night about making a friend of theirs king.”

“Were they, indeed? They didn’t mention his name, I suppose?”

“No; they only said notre ami, just as they did when they were saying nasty things about father being a teetotaller. They said he had amiable peculiarities. Wasn’t it horrid of them? They were talking French, you know. Oh, and who is the Jewess, Uncle Cyril?”

“Why, don’t you know what a Jewess is, Phil?” Yet Cyril’s blood quickened, in spite of his careless tone, as he heard the cant name of the rabble for Queen Ernestine.

“Of course I know, uncle. I have heard the Jewish children sing, in London. Usk cried just a little, because they weren’t black; but I knew before that they wouldn’t be. But it was ever so long ago, and he was very little then.”

“But what made you ask about a Jewess now?” with some impatience.

“Oh, because grandpa said, ‘The Jewess and her boy are in our power.’ They talked about the Count, too, and the Bishop; but it didn’t sound so interesting.”

“Phil, try and remember exactly what you heard, and be very careful in telling it me. If you have the slightest recollection of any names, tell me them just as they sounded to you.”

“But there weren’t any names, Uncle Cyril. I don’t even know who the gentlemen were, except that one talked as if he was French, and another as if he was German. And they only said that about making their friend king, and that if he didn’t like it, there was the boy, and the Bishop would like that better, and something about marching to Bellaviste. Oh, here’s grandpa!”

They had come face to face with the O’Malachy in crossing the street into which the gate of the Villa opened. He swept his hat off with a flourish, and Cyril returned the salute carelessly.

“My niece has found me out, you see, O’Malachy. I hope you were not looking for her? I am taking her back to her mother as soon as we have done a little shopping. There was something about a doll in Thracian costume, wasn’t there, Phil?”

“Oh, Uncle Cyril!” murmured Philippa, squeezing his hand ecstatically, and Cyril passed on with a nod to the O’Malachy, and entered the first toyshop they reached. He knew that the O’Malachy was watching them, and the thought nerved him to remain patient and apparently interested while Philippa discussed the merits of innumerable dolls, and minutes of priceless value slipped away. The old man was still looking in at a shop-window near at hand when they came out, and Cyril was obliged to walk home with Philippa, instead of intrusting her to Wright’s care as he had intended; but he controlled his anxiety so well that the child did not even discover that his mind was preoccupied. When they arrived at the porch of the hotel, he stopped and looked at his watch.

“Why, Phil, I shan’t be able to come in and see your mother after all. We oughtn’t to have spent so much time in choosing the doll. But tell her that I shall be sure to look in this afternoon. Say that I beg her particularly not to be frightened by anything she may hear—and, by the bye, ask her from me not to go to meet your father at the station. That’s a little treat which I want for myself, do you see?”

“Oh yes, Uncle Cyril,” said Philippa, smiling at the idea of a grown-up person’s wanting a treat, and she waved her hand to him as he took off his hat to her and turned away. He still walked slowly, but his mind was strung to its highest pitch, and his plans were working themselves out.

“Less than two hours now. First to make things safe about our friends the enemy, and then to stop Caerleon, and prevent his coming here. You very nearly won this time, O’Malachy; but if I beat you in this nest of rebellion, with a disaffected garrison, I think you will have to shut up shop for good and all.”

CHAPTER VII.
TWO KINGS OF BRENTFORD.

The message which Philippa brought from Cyril served in some degree to allay her mother’s anxiety, and the continued absence of the O’Malachy tended to the same result. He had said that he was going to lunch with a friend or two at the Kursaal, and that he would return afterwards and take Nadia and the children to meet Caerleon at the station; but, innocent as this programme sounded, his daughter derived no comfort from it. She felt that she had blundered into the midst of a web of conspiracy, of whose extent and object alike she was ignorant, and she was equally afraid of remaining inactive, and of taking any step that might increase the difficulties which surrounded her. What her father’s plans might be she could not divine; but that they were of a perilous nature, and boded evil to Caerleon and the children, she was convinced, while the keenest sting of her position lay in the fact that she was helpless to find a way out of the trap into which her own credulity had led her, and was now leading her husband. Therefore she was devoutly thankful when there was no sign of the O’Malachy’s return, even though she attributed his delay, quite unjustly on this occasion, to his having imbibed at lunch, somewhat freely, liquors more potent than the Tatarjé waters.

It was past three o’clock, and Usk and Philippa, after a little lively squabbling, had settled themselves in the two front windows of the hotel sitting-room “to watch for father,” while their mother flitted about uneasily, now glancing out of one window or the other, and then trying to occupy herself with a book. The children were just engaged in an argument dealing with the respective probabilities of the clock’s being fast and the train’s being late, when their attention was suddenly distracted by the sounds of an altercation on the landing outside the room.

“You ’old your jaw,” they heard Wright’s voice say, as the door was violently opened and then unceremoniously shut, “and don’t come ’ere frightenin’ ’er ladyship with your tales.”

“I must tell ’er ladyship,” was the reply, in a choked voice, which suggested that Wright had the speaker by the collar, and the door opened again, this time admitting Wright and Robert, the young Llandiarmid footman, both in a somewhat ruffled condition.

“What is the meaning of this?” inquired Lady Caerleon in astonishment. “Robert! how did you come here?”

“Please, my lady, ’is lordship brought me with ’im from ’ome, because Mr Franks were ill and not allowed to travel.”

“What! is the Marquis here? What do you mean by forcing your way into the room before your master, Robert?”

“Please, my lady, ’is lordship ain’t ’ere. ’E’ve been arrested.”

“Arrested!” Nadia dropped into a chair, and pressed her hand to her side. “What do you mean? Tell me.”

“We got along all right, my lady, me and ’is lordship, until something over ’arf a hour ago, when we come to Velisi, which is the station next before this one, as your ladyship knows. Then ’is lordship got out to look what they ’ad on the bookstall, seein’ as the two last ’adn’t no English books at all, and ’e didn’t come back. I was keepin’ ’is place for ’im, and the train was just movin’ on, when I see ’is lordship bein’ took away by four of them pleece they ’as ’ere, with their big ’ats and their queer swords. I tried to jump out after ’im, but the people in the carriage ’eld me back; and I made up my mind to come on ’ere and tell your ladyship.”

“You were quite right,” said Nadia mechanically; but Philippa broke in—

“But, Robert, you saw the policemen take father prisoner? Really policemen? You’re sure it was father?”

“Certain sure, my lady. I’d give all I ’ave so I could say different, but I can’t,” and Robert gulped down a sob.

Philippa’s valiant heart failed her. She had all a well-brought up British child’s veneration for the law, which she looked upon as a species of ogre, given to pouncing, by means of its instruments the police, upon unfortunate individuals who had in some way become obnoxious to it, quite irrespective of their guilt or innocence, and locking them up. It never occurred to her to object that her father had committed no crime, but she brought forward the only consolation she could suggest.

“Don’t look like that, mother,” she urged, with broken voice. “It must be a mistake. They couldn’t take father prisoner if they knew who he was. They wouldn’t dare to do it. They must have thought it was some one else. Oh, mother, they can’t put father in prison?” she ended, sobbing wildly as she caught her mother’s hand.

“Hush, Phil, my poor Phil,” said Nadia quietly, soothing the excited child, and holding out a hand to Usk, down whose face the tears were rolling slowly. “I want you both to be very quiet and good, while I think what we can do for poor father. Of course it is a mistake; but we must be very careful not to make it worse by anything we do or say. Wright, please order a carriage at once, and tell nurse I want to speak to her as you pass.”

Wright returned from his errand almost as soon as nurse entered the room, and Nadia signed to him to shut the door. Philippa, exhausted by the violence of her grief, was crying quietly in her mother’s arms, and Usk was sobbing on the floor beside her, with his face buried in her dress; but her own eyes were tearless, and her voice quite calm.

“I want to speak to you all before the carriage comes, so that you may know what to do. I am afraid that the Government here, finding that Lord Caerleon was coming to Thracia, must have jumped to the conclusion that he was plotting to place himself on the throne again, and thought they would make things safe by arresting him.”

“I’m afraid that’s about it, your ladyship,” said Wright hoarsely, when she paused and looked at him. “Of course there’s Lord Cyril——”

“I fear that Lord Cyril must have been arrested as well, for he has not come here as he said he would. Well, there is no need to be frightened. They can’t possibly do the Marquis any harm. I am going now to the Queen-Regent. If any one can help us she can; and I hope that when I have explained the circumstances she will give me an order for Lord Caerleon’s release, and let us leave for England at once. But, of course, it is possible that she has no power without consulting M. Drakovics, and it may even be necessary to apply to the British Minister to bring pressure to bear, which might mean some delay. Nurse, I want you to begin to pack everything at once. If Lord Caerleon is sent to prison, of course I shall go with him——”

“Oh, my lady! to prison!” cried nurse tearfully.

“And then you and Robert must take the children back to England, starting to-night. They must be kept out of danger. Wright, I must have you here, for you know the country——”

“My lady, I wouldn’t go back now, not if you was to send me!” said Wright, with ferocious resolution. Nadia inclined her head.

“I knew you would feel that, Wright. Now, nurse, please dress the children to come to the Palace with me. Phil, be brave; we are going to see what we can do to help father. Let nurse wash your face and put on your best hat.”

With a last choking sob Philippa obeyed, calling up memories of Lady Nithsdale, Jeanie Deans, and other heroines who had pleaded for the lives of imprisoned relatives. Their examples so fortified her that she was even able to rebuke Usk for asking in a doleful whisper whether they cut people’s heads off the very moment they were taken prisoner, and to inform him that if he frightened mother and made her cry, it would be his fault if—if anything dreadful happened; but here the reprover belied her own admonitions by winking away a few tears very hastily.

A few minutes later M. Stefanovics, who was waiting in the hall of the Villa to receive a visitor whom the Queen was expecting, hurried to the door on hearing a carriage drive up, only to find that the lady who mounted the steps with her children was quite a stranger to him. One of the footmen stopped her before she reached the threshold, saying that visitors were not at present admitted to view the Villa, as the Queen was residing there; but she astonished him by saying that her business was with the Queen, and passed on. The rest of the servants were too much impressed by her manner to bar her way; but at the door she was met by M. Stefanovics himself.

“I wish to see the Queen,” she said, barely noticing him.

“Pardon me; but has madame received her Majesty’s commands to present herself at this hour? No?” as she shook her head; “then perhaps she is an early friend of the Queen? In that case——”

“No; her Majesty would not know me, but I am sure she will see me if you tell her my reason for coming. My name is——”

“Pardon me,” said M. Stefanovics again, waving away politely the card which Nadia held out to him; “but I should be deceiving madame with false hopes if I encouraged her to remain. Her Majesty does not receive this afternoon.”

“Still I must ask you to be so kind as to entreat her to grant me a short interview. My husband has been arrested under a misapprehension, and I am relying upon the Queen for his release.”

“But it is impossible, madame! Such matters are the concern of the Minister of the Interior or of the Premier, not of her Majesty. Let me entreat madame to retire, and forward her request to the proper quarter, or at least to turn into my office here, and draw up her petition in writing for presentation to the Queen. Her Majesty is at this moment expecting the arrival of her cousin, the Princess of—— But here is the Princess arriving!”

And the harassed chamberlain hurried out on the steps once more, wondering what he was to do with this sad-eyed woman who could not be brought to take No for an answer. Only an hour ago Cyril had given him strict injunctions not to admit any strangers to the Villa that afternoon upon any pretext, and he was torn between natural kindness of heart and a determination to obey his orders. The children watched him with wide-eyed awe as he escorted into the hall a dark-haired lady magnificently dressed, leading a little girl of two or three years old by the hand; but Nadia uttered a despairing moan as she stood aside among the pillars of the vestibule. The sound roused Philippa to instant action.

“Mother, don’t!” she cried, and running out into the hall faced the strange lady boldly. “Oh, please, are you in a dreadful hurry to see the Queen?” she asked. “Because, if not, would you mind letting mother see her first, just for a minute? It is so fearfully important.”

“Who are you, little one?” asked the Princess kindly. “I have seen you before, have I not?”

“I don’t think so,” faltered Philippa, overwhelmed with sudden shyness, but M. Stefanovics interrupted her. “It is a lady who says that her husband has been arrested by mistake, madame, and she is anxious to entreat her Majesty to obtain his release. I have assured her that it is the business of the Minister of the Interior, but I cannot induce her to go away. I think she must be English.”

“English!” cried the Princess, as though a light had flashed upon her. “Now I know you, my child. You are Carlino’s little daughter.”

“Carlino is what mother calls father,” said Philippa timidly, but the Princess was already crossing the hall to her mother.

“And you are Nadia!” she said, taking her hand in both hers. “Pardon me, dear madame, but I knew your husband long ago, and I have heard him speak of you. The tone of his voice as he mentioned your name so impressed itself upon my mind that I have thought of you as Nadia ever since.”

“And you are the Princess Ottilie,” said Nadia slowly, looking into the dark eyes which met hers with a friendly light in them. “Forgive me, I should say the Princess of Dardania.”

“Thanks to Lord Caerleon,” was the instant answer. “Ah, madame, you know the story—how your husband sacrificed his own feelings that he might assist a helpless girl, driven almost desperate by the cruelty of her circumstances. That girl stands before you now. Will you not allow one who owes her happy married life to the magnanimity of Lord Caerleon to help you in your trouble? Even the mouse helped the lion, you know.”

“Madame, you are too good,” stammered Nadia.

“Good? No, I am not that, madame, but I hope I am not ungrateful. ‘Our Princess never forgets a friend, or forgives a foe’—that is what they say of me in Dardania, and they say it also in certain of the chancelleries of Europe,” she laughed maliciously. “Tell me now what it is that is troubling you? Your husband has been arrested through some stupid mistake of the police?”

“I do not know, madame. He was to join me this afternoon; but his servant arrived without him, bringing word that his master had been arrested suddenly at Velisi. There was no dispute with the police, so far as I know.”

“At Velisi?” The Princess looked thoughtful. “Lord Caerleon had not been warned not to enter the country, or in any other way made himself obnoxious to the Government, had he?”

“Oh no. He could not have crossed the frontier more than an hour.”

“And that would barely have allowed time for a message to be sent to Bellaviste and answered. No; the order for the arrest must have come from here. And the only person with authority sufficient to venture on such a step is your husband’s brother, Count Mortimer.”

“Impossible, madame! My husband and his brother are on the best of terms.”

“Unfortunately, madame, you must know, as I do, that no considerations of friendship or affection would be allowed to stand in the way of Count Mortimer’s plans. It is possible that he fears your husband’s return to Thracia may undermine his own influence here, and that would be quite sufficient to cause him to arrest him.”

“I can’t believe it,” Nadia repeated helplessly; but unfortunately her memory tallied only too well with that of the Princess. If Cyril had any scheme in view, it was not likely that he would allow Caerleon to interfere with its success.

“In any case,” went on the Princess, “you were taking the right course when you came to the Queen. She is the only person who would have both the authority and the courage to demand an explanation from Count Mortimer—with the exception of Drakovics, of course. We will go up-stairs and see her now. Come, my Lida,” and she held out her hand to her little girl, who had been clinging to her dress.

“Oh, mayn’t I take her?” entreated Philippa. “Usk and I will hold her hands all the way up-stairs, and we will be so careful. She shan’t fall, really and truly. Come, baby darling.”

“Her name is Ludmilla,” said the Princess, laughing; “Lida is her pet name.”

“I know; just as I’m called Phil,” assented Philippa, with a beaming smile, as she and Usk, with little Princess Ludmilla between them, began to mount the stairs after their mother and the Princess. Just as they reached the top, Nadia paused suddenly.

“Madame,” she said, “I cannot believe that Count Mortimer is responsible for his brother’s arrest. I entreat your Royal Highness not to prejudice his position with her Majesty by suggesting it.”

“If the Queen did not order the arrest, Count Mortimer must have done so,” returned the Princess inexorably. “We shall see.”

Absurd though the idea appeared to Nadia, it was nevertheless the case that the Princess was much nearer the truth in accusing Cyril than his sister-in-law in defending him, and no one would have acknowledged the acuteness of his fair opponent more readily than Cyril himself. At the moment that the conversation was taking place in the hall of the Villa, he was crossing the railway platform at Velisi, on his way to the police-station, to which Caerleon had been hurried. He found the occupants a good deal disturbed in their minds, and it needed all his commendations for their prompt obedience to his orders to reassure them. Oh yes, the English traveller had been arrested, and was now detained in the parlour of the superintendent’s house, which they had thought it advisable to place at his disposal, since it was evident he must be a great man in his own country. He had been angry, very angry, at his arrest, and had threatened his assailants with unheard-of penalties—the nature of which they understood only very imperfectly, however, since Caerleon had almost lost the small knowledge of Thracian of which he had once been possessed. Did his Excellency really intend to grant this very violent person an interview? Surely he would at least allow two of the police to be present, with drawn swords, so as to be able to repel any attempt at attack? But Cyril refused the offered protection, and entered the parlour boldly. He found Caerleon pacing up and down, still in his travelling ulster, and looking absurdly large and substantial for the little room. He turned when Cyril entered, and faced him in blank astonishment, which changed quickly to anger as the memory of his wrongs returned upon him.

“Well, Cyril, this is a pretty state of things!” he cried. “May I ask what it means? I am taken into custody in a public place, and when I ask why, they tell me it is by your order.”

“I never told them to tell you so, at any rate,” said Cyril. “Now be reasonable, Caerleon, and don’t shout the house down. I would have given you a week’s notice if I could; but since I only had ninety minutes myself in which to save the kingdom, I couldn’t afford to lose time.”

“If you could make time just now to explain what you mean, you would place me under a deep obligation to you,” said Caerleon, with bitter irony.

“That sounds more like business. I am always delighted to explain things away afterwards, provided I have a free hand at the critical moment. The fact is, I didn’t want you at Tatarjé, and I don’t now.”

“Don’t you think you are really too flattering?”

“It must sound so, I suppose; and yet it is the sober truth. If this interrupted journey of yours had turned out as it was intended to do, my occupation would have been gone, for the simple reason that the throne of baby Michael would have been gone too.”

“You don’t accuse me of carrying dynamite about with me, I hope?”

“Not at all. You are the dynamite yourself.”

“If these are your explanations, Cyril,” said Caerleon shortly, “all I can say is that they are a good deal darker than your proceedings, and they are dark enough, in all conscience.”

“Now don’t get waxy, old man. I’m afraid the lapse of years has disturbed your faith in me a little, hasn’t it? I assure you honestly I mean what I say. You have come to the very worst place in Thracia, at the very worst time, and in the very worst way. Come, you can’t say that that’s not plain speaking, can you?”

“I can’t see that it throws much light on the subject.”

“Then I must enlighten you. Neither you nor Nadia seems to have realised that there are still a good many people in Thracia who regard you as having a considerable right—or even the paramount right—to the throne; and yet I told you plainly when I was with you that I hoped you would keep away from this part of the world.”

“But I renounced all my rights of my own free will.”

“Who is to know that it was of your own free will? It might have been done perforce, or under a misapprehension, or anything. And, in any case, the renunciation does not ensure your never wishing—or merely being willing if requested—to resume your rights.”

“Stuff, Cyril! Why should I wish to resume them?”

“Why should any one wish to be a king? I know, of course, that you had quite enough of it when you were here; but then I was not afraid of you, but of others who might make a catspaw of you.”

“Many thanks.”

“There you are again! You really should not be so touchy. Can’t you see that although the people who have a theoretical belief in your claims might be content to let you go with a few sighs and vain regrets, there are others who might be glad to exploit their views and feelings for their own purposes?”

“I don’t see what harm they could do if they were.”

“I do, unfortunately. The head and front of this offending is your respected father-in-law, our old friend O’Malachy. He knows that you are not likely to revisit Thracia by your own wish, and therefore he works upon you through your wife. Guessing that you won’t let her come alone, he brings her here by a telegram to say that he is dying, and longs to see her. He gets her and the children into his hands, to use either as hostages or as puppets, you see, and he is prepared to proclaim you King as soon as you arrive. The town is notoriously disloyal, the garrison honeycombed with disaffection, the Bishop, who is the biggest man in these parts, hates the Queen, and the little King is in their power. What better starting-place could you desire for another revolution? Even if you kicked successfully, there is Usk, whom the Bishop would prefer to you, because he could begin by converting him to the Orthodox faith.”

“But why in the world should the O’Malachy want to make either poor little Usk or myself King?”

“He doesn’t; that is merely a means to an end. But he does very much want to give Scythia a pretext for interfering in our affairs. With two Kings, and a civil war in active progress, she would be able to send troops to enforce order, and those troops would leave the country at the Greek Kalends. Little Michael’s conversion would be insisted upon as the price of support. Drakovics would go under and so should I, and the Queen would either be assisted in her duties by Bishop Philaret and the general of the army of occupation as co-regents, or provided with a second husband, and thus shunted.”

“But how in the world did you find all this out, and why didn’t you take precautionary measures before?”

“I had my first inkling of it less than three hours ago, through a few words which Phil overheard. Of course I knew that the O’Malachy wasn’t here for any good purpose, but that’s nothing new. Since I left Phil I have been working up the plot, and taking steps to frustrate it, at the same time. It was clear that the soldiers and townspeople were to rise some time to-day, probably on your arrival. It was equally clear that they could not rise without leaders; and of course I have a list, through the secret police, of all the suspicious characters that have been hanging about Tatarjé of late. They are under arrest in their own abodes at present, and are to be kept under police supervision, without being allowed to communicate with any one, until you are safely out of Thracia. When things are clear, they will be released with an apology.”

“But why not punished or expelled?”

“Ah, that is the difficulty of making use of an amateur spy, and a child at that. No tribunal would convict on the only evidence I can produce, although it has been enough to enable me to explode the plot. But I shall get the Court back to Bellaviste as soon as possible, and with you and your wife and family safe in England, the plotters can’t do much.”

“But how did my arrest come into your plans?”

“Very simply. I wanted you not to come on to Tatarjé, but to return to the frontier, where Nadia and the children could join you. I started to meet you; but I had run it too close, and I saw you would have left Velisi long before I got here. I couldn’t be sure that a telegram would stop you, and therefore I employed physical force.”

“Wasn’t it a slight oversight, if you meant your scheme to be a secret, that you didn’t have my man arrested too?” asked Caerleon drily. “As it is, he went on in the train to Tatarjé.”

Cyril jumped out of his chair. “No,” he said, sinking back again, “don’t be afraid. I am not going to use strong language, but if ever a man might be excused for doing so——! Didn’t you tell me in your very last letter that Franks had got potted by some idiotic duffer who was out shooting with you, and that you were servantless so long as he was hors de combat?”

“What a memory you have for little things! Unfortunately it has played you false here, though, for I brought Robert with me instead.”

“And I pictured you as rejoicing in your freedom! What possessed you to bring a raw lad on a journey like this?”

“I had no intention whatever of taking him, so you were right there. But I telegraphed to him to bring me some things to town, in order to save time, and he was so broken-hearted when he found that he was not to go with me, that I let him come.”

“And what do you expect him to do at Tatarjé?”

“Well, I should say that he would go straight to Nadia, and terrify her out of her wits by telling her that I am gone to prison.”

“Exactly; and Nadia will proceed at once to do something heroic. Will she come here and insist on sharing your captivity, or will she go to the Queen and demand your release?—that is the question. There will be a train in from Tatarjé in a few minutes, so we shall soon see whether she is coming here.”

But the question was to be answered even before the train came in. A deprecating knock at the door heralded the police superintendent with “A telegram for his Excellency the Minister,” and Cyril tore it open.

“Now the fat is in the fire with a vengeance!” he said, when the man had left the room, keeping his eyes upon Caerleon, as though he feared an attack from behind. “Evidently Nadia has gone to the Queen. Stefanovics says, ‘Her Majesty desires your Excellency to present yourself at the Villa immediately. Pray do not delay.’ That is a little warning from himself, of course. Well, I suppose we must take the train back. Oh, you may as well come too. Nadia will suspect me of having made away with you if I don’t produce you in the flesh, and I hope I have provided against the rising for which your appearance was intended to be the signal. At any rate, I have done my part. If the Queen spoils things, it won’t be the first time, and she will suffer as much as I shall. Come along.”

“Not until I get hold of a hat and a decent coat. You don’t expect me to appear in a garb like this?”

“Yes, I do; it’s an excellent disguise. No one in his senses will suspect you of coming to start a revolution in this get-up. Here, turn the collar of that ulster up, and pull your cap well down over your eyes. If I can get you into Tatarjé and out again without being recognised, I will. I shall have a carriage at the station.”

“I should much prefer not to be recognised,” said Caerleon uncomfortably, as they left the police-office. Cyril laughed.

“You must see that in a case like this it is my bounden duty to minimise your personal advantages as far as possible. If you were not tall and straight and fair-haired, with a beautiful wife and two fine children, there would be no need to be afraid of you; but as it is, what chance has a poor, wretched little woman, who has succeeded in alienating every single person with whom she has anything to do, in comparison with you and your family? There wouldn’t even be the excitement of a struggle. The Queen and little Michael would go down like ninepins. But if I smuggle you through in that venerable ulster and a cap which may have cost you twopence-halfpenny when it was new (but I doubt it), your worst enemy couldn’t accuse either of us of trying to catch the public eye. So come along.”

Ensconced in the corners of a reserved carriage, they made the journey without discovery, and at Tatarjé Cyril succeeded in transferring his brother unnoticed to the closed landau which was in waiting. They drove straight to the Villa, and entered by a side-door, thus gaining Cyril’s office without meeting any one.

“Stay here till I want you,” commanded Cyril. “There are some cigars in that drawer; but keep the door shut, for the Queen objects to smoking, as she does to most things. When I produce you, it will be by way of a grand tableau.”

He hurried up-stairs, and the servant announced him at the door of the anteroom. The lady sitting there, who happened to be Baroness von Hilfenstein’s daughter Paula, gave him a look full of interest and excitement as he passed, and said in a low voice—

“The Princess of Dardania is with her Majesty.”

“This is more thrilling even than I thought,” he murmured back, with his hand upon the door, and immediately entered, to find Nadia sitting on the sofa between the Queen and the Princess. Before he could do more than bow to the royal ladies, Philippa sprang up from the corner where she had been playing with the other children, and, running to him, caught his hand.

“Oh, Uncle Cyril, these ladies have been saying such horrid things about you. I thought that one,” indicating the Princess, “was nice, but,” in a perfectly audible whisper, “I don’t now. They say that it was you who had father put in prison!”

“And you are the only one to believe in me?” said Cyril. “Brave little girl!”

“Oh no, Cyril,” said Nadia eagerly. “It is only that the Queen and the Princess don’t know you as we do, and so can’t see the absurdity of the idea. If you would just assure them that you had nothing to do with Caerleon’s arrest, they must be convinced.”

“I should be delighted to oblige you if it was in my power,” returned Cyril. “Unfortunately it is not possible, since the arrest was effected by my order.”

Nadia sank back speechless and horrorstruck, and Queen Ernestine and the Princess of Dardania exchanged looks of triumph.

“What did I tell you?” asked the Princess.

“Count Mortimer,” said the Queen with energy, holding Nadia’s hand in hers, and rising in order to give greater effect to her words, “owing to various unfortunate circumstances, I have feared at times that I was unable to judge you impartially; but I can say truthfully that I should never have suspected you of such an action as this. What your motive can have been I am at a loss to imagine——”

“Surely you need not ask the motive,” interrupted the Princess. “Count Mortimer feared lest the lustre of his well-earned popularity should be in the slightest degree dimmed by the appearance of a rival star in the Thracian sky.”

“I could have hoped,” the Queen went on, “that your motive was a worthier one than the gratification of such base jealousy; but I grieve to be obliged to think that this is not the case.”

“No, Ernestine,” said the Princess, “you are doing Count Mortimer an injustice. I never said that his jealousy was personal in its character, for it is political. Lord Caerleon, like any one else who stands in the way of his brother’s schemes, must be crushed.”

“Does that make it any better?” cried the Queen. “It is infamous! That you should have attempted to carry out such a despicable purpose by means of the authority with which I was induced at my husband’s dying entreaty to invest you, is merely an additional crime, Count.”

“Oh, Uncle Cyril,” entreated Philippa, “do say something! I know it was a mistake, or—or you did it for fun. Please do tell them.”

“You don’t understand, Phil, that when the Queen and the Princess are pleased to accuse me, it is my duty to listen in silence, and rejoice to find myself honoured with so much of their attention.”

“If you can possibly suggest the very smallest excuse for your extraordinary action, Count,” said the Queen, “I beg that you will at once bring it forward.”

“Madame, if your Majesty considers that I have no excuse, I would not be so wanting in respect as to offer any.”

“Oh, Cyril,” cried Nadia, “won’t you explain? I know there must be some good reason for all that has happened, but you are torturing me.”

“At least pity your sister,” said the Queen, more gently; “and offer any explanation that may seem to you to be adequate.”

“No explanation that I can offer is likely to be satisfactory to your Majesty,” said Cyril. “You were good enough to observe, madame, that it was at the late King’s wish that I was intrusted with my present office. The duties of that office I must continue to strive to fulfil as long as I hold it. My popularity in the country signifies to me as little as the favour of your Majesty, which I cannot flatter myself I have ever had the honour of possessing. It was not in defence of my own popularity that I had my brother arrested to-day, but in that of the kingdom of my master, your son.”

“Are you trying to excuse yourself by casting suspicion upon your brother?” cried the Princess; but Cyril did not flinch.

“Madame,” he went on, still addressing himself to the Queen, “but for the steps I have found it necessary to take to-day, the King and yourself would now be prisoners, and my brother proclaimed King of Thracia once more. Unknown to him, a conspiracy had been formed with that object in view, and this conspiracy I have foiled by the means which have had the misfortune to displease you.”

“Oh, Cyril, I can never thank you enough!” cried Nadia. “You have saved us from utter misery. Carlino will express our gratitude to you himself, for the idea of reigning here again would horrify him.”

“You have reason to believe in the existence of this conspiracy, then, madame?” asked the Queen sharply, turning to her.

“Madame, it explains many things that have terrified and perplexed me since I have been at Tatarjé, and my brother has relieved me from a horrible anxiety.”

“It is evident that we have misjudged you, Count,” said the Queen, “although I cannot but say that your methods of working are open to grave misconstruction. Pray remember that in future I wish to be kept informed if you find it needful to take any action of the kind.”

“But, Ernestine,” said the Princess, as Cyril bowed, “is poor Lord Caerleon to be left languishing in a dungeon while you instruct Count Mortimer in his duties? Should he not be released?”

“If your Majesty will allow me, I will send for my brother,” said Cyril, and on receiving permission, he left the room.

“Stefanovics,” he said, catching sight of the chamberlain in the hall, and scenting a joke, “send the man who is in my office there to me, will you?”

A smothered exclamation of “Your Majesty!” showed him that the recognition had been complete, and hastily descending the stairs, he found M. Stefanovics on his knees, kissing Caerleon’s hand, much to the embarrassment of its owner.

“Come, this won’t do,” said Cyril. “What about your oath to King Michael, Stefanovics? I’m sure it was a good thing I took all my precautions, if a stalwart supporter of the reigning dynasty like yourself can be carried away so completely. Lord Caerleon is a simple British tourist, do you understand? Come along, Caerleon. By the bye, could you possibly manufacture any engagement that required you to get home at once?”

“There’s no need. The County Council meets in three days, and as chairman——”

“Of course, the very thing—vague and sufficiently high-sounding. Now prepare for a surprise.”

The surprise Cyril intended was the presence of the Princess of Dardania; but Nadia met her husband in the doorway, and at first neither of them found it possible to give a thought to the other occupants of the room. When Nadia was calm again, Cyril led his brother in and presented him to the Queen, excusing his very uncourtierlike appearance by explaining that he had merely come to Tatarjé to fetch his wife and children, and must leave again for England that evening. He further defined the County Council as something between a Provincial Diet and the Imperial Reichstag, for the Queen’s benefit, and succeeded in impressing her with the idea that for Caerleon to be late in arriving at his post would be a crime but little removed from high treason. He had so much to say that it was not until the visitors were taking their leave of the Queen that the Princess of Dardania was able to address herself directly to Caerleon.

“I trust you have not forgotten me, Lord Caerleon?” she said graciously; “or that most interesting fortnight of your visit to Schloss Herzensruh?”

“Madame,” responded Caerleon, with perfect truth, “it would be absolutely impossible for me to forget either the one or the other.”

“You are too flattering,” said the Princess, making him a curtsey, as she had done once in that far-off time; “but I can interpret your meaning with the help of your words and actions then. Ah well, Lord Caerleon, you piqued me not a little in that fortnight, for I could not make you care for me, in spite of all my efforts; but now that I have seen your wife, I can understand, and pardon.”

CHAPTER VIII.
A FAMILY COMPACT.

“I suppose you have met Lord Caerleon before, Ottilie?” said Queen Ernestine to her cousin, with a shade of disapproval in her tone, when the visitors had departed. “You seemed to know him very well.”

“I had every opportunity of knowing him,” responded the Princess, “for he and I were once engaged—for nearly a fortnight.”

“Oh, forgive me, Ottilie,” said the Queen, blushing painfully. “I had no idea that this was the gentleman who——I didn’t mean to recall unpleasant memories. Lady Caerleon is a very handsome woman, is she not?”

“Is that last remark intended to soothe my lacerated feelings?” inquired the Princess, with a merry laugh at this sudden change of subject. “If you only knew it, Nestchen, that is just the most painful part of the matter. Can you conceive that Lord Caerleon had the bad taste to prefer the lady who is now his wife to me?”

“I should prefer not to discuss the subject,” said the Queen, frigidly, but with evident confusion. “If I had had the faintest idea that Lord Caerleon was the person who——I should certainly not have admitted him to my presence.”

“My sweetest Nestchen, if you must play the prude, try to do so with a little discrimination. ‘The person who——’ twice over! Tell me, I entreat you, what poor Lord Caerleon has done?”

“I don’t wish to recall the matter, Ottilie; and I wonder that you should care to make a joke of it.”

“My dear Ernestine,”—there was a dangerous glitter in the Princess’s eyes,—“I must insist on your explaining these extraordinary insinuations. It is quite evident to me that you have picked up an erroneous idea of Lord Caerleon’s conduct in the past, and apparently of mine as well. As I do not choose to lie under imputations of such a kind, I beg of you to tell me exactly what you have heard on the subject, if you wish us to remain friends.”

“I am quite content to let the matter rest, Ottilie; but if you will make me speak, I must say that I have heard nothing definitely, for my mother would never permit the affair to be discussed in my hearing. Still, I gathered from stray remarks and hints let drop by different people that you had—well, formed an attachment for a gentleman not of royal blood, and that when your parents expressed their disapproval you eloped with him, but were brought back before you could reach a place of safety, and that afterwards you were married to the Prince of Dardania.”

“Your story is most circumstantial and most romantic, Nestchen, but unfortunately it has got hopelessly mixed. I did run away to be married; but it was not with Lord Caerleon, and I was not brought back, for I was safely married, and to Alexis Alexievitch. He was the lover of whom my parents disapproved, whereas I was engaged to Lord Caerleon with their full knowledge and approval.”

“You ran away with the Prince of Dardania?” cried the Queen, horror and astonishment struggling in her voice.

“I did, indeed; but you seem to think that makes things worse instead of better.”

“Oh no; not at all—— But surely it was unnecessary? And are you in earnest when you say that your parents approved of Lord Caerleon’s attachment?”

“Poor Lord Caerleon can scarcely be said to have been attached to me. As I said just now, he preferred another lady, and was determined to marry no one else. The attachment was a political expedient, devised by his brother and Drakovics; but my father was delighted with the idea, and all the Schwarzwald-Molzaus honoured it with their approval.”

“Impossible, Ottilie!”

“I am telling you the truth. Carlino was King of Thracia then, you must remember.”

“Oh, that makes a difference, of course. A crowned and anointed King——”

“Carlino was neither. He had not been crowned at the time, and as matters turned out, he never was to be. If I had married him, however, I think I may say that your husband would never have sat upon the Thracian throne, Ernestine.”

“Why, what could you have done?”

“Do you think I would have allowed my husband to resign his rights? Why, if he had been deprived of them, I would have set Europe in a blaze before I would have submitted; but to resign them meekly of his own accord——! No. Je maintiendray should have been my motto.”

“But still,” urged Queen Ernestine, waiving the question, “I cannot see how your family could have permitted Lord Caerleon to aspire to your hand before he was crowned. Surely such an alliance would have been subversive of all the traditions of our order?”

“My dear Ernestine, do you really believe that we belong to a separate race of beings, with some ethereal fluid in their veins, instead of blood like other mortals? No wonder that we in Dardania hear tales occasionally of troubles at the Thracian Court, caused by the Queen’s treatment of her entourage!”

“My dear Ottilie,”—with some resentment,—“no arguments could make me regard such a marriage as anything but morganatic.”

“And the mere wearing of a crown would make the difference? But suppose Carlino had been crowned, and had afterwards abdicated, what then? Would the marriage have been regular as long as he was King, but have become morganatic when he no longer possessed the crown?”

“The effect of the anointing would still remain, I suppose,” said the Queen doubtfully, but her words were drowned by a peal of laughter from her cousin.

“Nestchen, you are too delicious! Why weren’t you born before 1789? You ought to be put into a museum, and labelled, ‘Extraordinary survival of medieval methods of thought.’ Don’t you see that we have given up all those ideas of a superior caste nowadays? It is merely a matter of policy. Say that a parvenu mounts a throne and seems likely to retain it; surely the wisest thing to do is to welcome him into your mystic circle, and hold him there by chains so strong that your interests and his become identical? Lord Caerleon could show his quarterings with the best of us Germans; but if M. Drakovics were to become King of Thracia to-morrow, there are very few Courts at which he would be refused if he came seeking a bride.”

“Do you really mean this, Ottilie—that royal marriages are now arranged purely as matters of policy, and absolutely without regard to the claims of blood or the traditions of a princely house?”

“Absolutely. Why, my dear child, you seem to have no idea of the necessities of State. Surely you must see that if a young Princess falls in love with a simple noble, it is really immoral for them to marry; but that it is both right and eminently suitable for her to be handed over to any roturier who may succeed in winning himself a throne? What is the use of an exclusive caste unless outsiders may be admitted into it for a consideration? You must try to understand the wheels within wheels a little, Nestchen.”

“All this is quite new to me,” said the Queen, slowly and sadly. “I thought only the lower orders regarded matters in that light.”

“But why should it make you unhappy, Ernestine?”

“Because it reminds me so strongly of my own marriage. At least I have had the comfort hitherto of feeling that there was something heroic about the way in which I was sacrificed, but you have taken away that consolation. I thought myself like Iphigenia, or that other poor princess—what was her name?—whose marriage with a man whom she detested set the seal upon a treaty; but now you make me feel that I was merely a counter in a very sordid game.”

“Exactly. I never felt that there was anything heroic about my engagement to Lord Caerleon, I assure you; but then, of course, I knew the game which was being played. Surely you must have seen it in your own case?”

“How could I? I was only sixteen, and you know what my life had been. You know that my mother and I spent nearly all our time at our castle in the mountains—for my mother’s health, it was said. When we came down to Weldart for the winter, my parents would appear together on public occasions, but they never met in private. Hitherto I have thought that they kept up appearances to prevent my being saddened with the knowledge of their dissensions, but I suppose you have a different explanation of that also?”

“Well, it would naturally have looked bad if they had separated openly, and eligible princes might have hesitated to take a bride from such a divided household. The family prestige must be considered in cases of this kind, of course. But tell me how the Fairy Prince came at last.”

“If you laugh at me, Ottilie, I shall hate you.”

“My dear Nestchen, I am not laughing. Heaven forbid that I, who gained my own way, should laugh at any one less fortunate.”

The Queen sat silent a moment, then began again, speaking hurriedly. “We came down from the mountains that autumn a little earlier than usual. I was very loath to leave the Castle, for I loved the free, wild life, and when once my lessons were over, I might roam about the hill-paths with my mother’s ladies, or—which I liked much better—with some of the girls from the village. But when we reached Weldart, I found that there were changes there. I was to take my place in society, my presence was expected at all the Court entertainments. That in itself was delightful, but there was more. The Palace was filled with guests. They came and went, but the King of Thracia and his suite stayed longest of all. He was the most distinguished man present, and he paid me marked attention. The ladies-in-waiting congratulated me continually in private. ‘Such a great soldier,’ they said, ‘so brave, so good, so wise, and he talks to no one but our little Princess!’ My head was turned, Ottilie. I thought him the handsomest and most courteous man I knew. He looked old, certainly, even for his years, but that, I thought, was due to the hardships of war. He saw that I took pleasure in his society, and it pleased him——”

“One moment, Ernestine. What was your mother doing while this was going on?”

“My mother watched it all, and said nothing. Day after day I saw her with the same unyielding face, set like a mask, but she would not speak to me on the subject, even when I appealed to her. She would neither encourage me in my liking for King Otto Georg, nor dissuade me from it. It was grandmamma of Weldart who counselled me in the matter. She called me into her room one evening when the King had danced with me several times, and I was so happy that I could scarcely keep myself from dancing then. Grandmamma called me to sit upon a low stool beside her, and took my chin in her hand. ‘So!’ she said. ‘Do you know what a little bird has just whispered to me, Nestchen? It said that the good King wishes to take my little mountain wild-flower back to Thracia with him. How would a crown look on this little head?’ I was frightened at first, and said I was so happy as I was that I did not wish to be married and go away. ‘Pschutt!’ said grandmamma, ‘little girls must be married. Do you want to be like your Aunt Amalie?’ She knew that I had always a dread of Aunt Amalie, and that to become a canoness was the last thing I desired; and she went on, ‘I know perfectly well that the very idea of making a choice is an absurdity. Who could hesitate between the life of a canoness and that of a Queen? Your father might have just as well presented his Majesty to you without any fuss as your future husband, but they do things differently nowadays. But at any rate, when the King speaks to you, be sure to say how greatly you appreciate the honour he is offering you, and remind him how young and inexperienced you are.’ That was all, you see, Ottilie. It was taken for granted that I should accept the King, and positively I did not realise that there was any alternative open to me.”

“And he proposed to you soon after?”

“The very next day; and I did as I was told, and accepted him. They gave me no time to regret my choice. The wedding was hurried on, and the interval was filled with a whirl of gaiety. I was kissed, and blessed, and praised, and congratulated, and petted until I began to think that I was doing something great. Then there were all my new clothes, and the jewellery, and the wedding-presents, and the addresses of congratulation—something new and delightful offered itself for every hour of the day. The King attended me everywhere, brought me presents continually, gratified every wish I could express. I had no time to think, but if I had thought, I should have decided that I was perfectly happy.”

“But I thought you said that you regarded your marriage as a sacrifice made for the sake of your house, or of your order, or something of the kind?”

“That was afterwards; I am coming to it now. It was the night before the wedding; I had been trying on my crown and jewels for the morrow. Some of my cousins thought the crown was too heavy for my head, but I laughed. ‘Who finds a crown too heavy?’ I said, and we gave back the jewels to the proper official to be kept safe for the night, and then I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awakened by some one’s coming into the room with a light, and I saw my mother standing with her back to me and looking at my wedding-dress, which was spread out upon the couch. Presently she took it up and turned it about, handling it so roughly that I was horrified. ‘Oh, mamma, mamma, you will spoil my dress!’ I cried out. She turned and came towards me with such a terrible face that I crouched down among the pillows in actual fear. ‘I would tear it to shreds, or burn it to ashes, if that would have the slightest effect in preventing this marriage!’ she said. I could only look at her, trembling, and she went on, ‘Foolish child! do you imagine that the King loves you? He loathes the very idea of marriage, and is merely driven to it by his advisers for the sake of securing the succession. He is false through and through, and as wicked as he is false. You think it is hardship which makes him look so old? The last war in which he served was that of 1870: it is the wicked pleasures of the life he has led which have aged him.’ ‘Oh, mamma, what has he done?’ I sobbed. ‘Never mind,’ she replied; ‘it is enough for you to know that he is not fit to touch your hand.’ I got out of bed, shivering with cold and terror. ‘You have come to save me, mamma,’ I said; ‘you want me to run away. I am ready. You were right in thinking that I would do anything to avoid marrying such a man.’ She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Get back into bed, Ernestine, and don’t talk nonsense,’ she said. ‘Do you think you are living in a romance? It is your destiny to make this marriage; all princesses go through the same experience. I suffered it myself, but I had no one to warn me beforehand. I had to find out everything—all the falseness and horror of it—but at least I have spared you that pain.’ ‘You can’t mean to say that you will sacrifice me to this man, mamma?’ I said; ‘what have I done, that you should be so cruel?’ ‘You have been born a princess,’ she answered; ‘that is enough. One must pay for being great.’ ‘But what good can my misery do to any one?’ I cried. ‘None,’ she said; ‘but it is that to which you were born. You are fulfilling your destiny, you are avoiding a scandal, you are obeying the traditions of your house. Where a low-born girl might flinch, a Princess of Weldart must go on to the bitter end. Noblesse oblige.’ She stood looking at me again as I lay and sobbed, and then said sharply, ‘But don’t let me see you hugging your chains. You have been warned, and there is no excuse for further blindness. It is your husband’s place to suffer as well as yours.’ Then she went away, and left me in the dark.”

“It was infamous!” cried the Princess hotly. “If your mother’s own married life had been miserable, she might at least have allowed you the chance of doing better.”

“You must not say that. I am convinced that the strain of watching the preparations which she could not interrupt had told upon her mind for the time, and made her persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing in warning me of what lay before me. I think that perhaps she had expected me to perceive the truth by some intuition, and rebel against my fate, and that she was disappointed by my satisfaction with it. But you know as well as I do that she could not have been actuated by malevolence.”

“Her kindness was most cruel, then. But tell me what followed.”

“I shuddered and sobbed myself to sleep when she was gone. In the morning my cousins exclaimed at my looks when they came to wake me. I told them that I had had bad dreams, and all the time they were helping me to dress they were disputing whether it was a good or a bad omen. My mother came in several times, and altered the draping of my train, or suggested to the hairdresser a slight rearrangement of my crown or my myrtle-blossoms, which would improve the general effect. She would not allow me to speak to her, and I could scarcely believe that her visit in the night was not a dream. I tried to catch her eye—to give her an imploring glance—but she met me with a cold hard look that offered me no sympathy. When I was quite ready, grandmamma came in to see me before starting for the chapel. My cousins were giving the finishing touches to their own dresses in another room, and for the moment we were practically alone. I seized the opportunity. ‘Grandmamma,’ I said, clasping my hands, ‘save me, I entreat you. I do not want to marry the King. The very thought terrifies me.’ She looked at me keenly, and said in her hardest voice, ‘What has terrified you, Ernestine? Who has been calumniating your bridegroom to you?’ I dared not betray my mother, and all that I could do was to falter out that I was frightened, and could not the ceremony be put off? Then she laughed and pinched my cheek, and said playfully, ‘Foolish little wild-flower! of course it is frightened at the thought of being transplanted into the great world. I should think very poorly of you, little one, if you could part without a tremor from a home and parents such as yours. But remember, say nothing to any one else of this, for they might not make allowances for you as I can.’ ‘Grandmamma!’ I cried, springing towards her as she gathered up her train to leave the room, ‘It is not that——’ But she turned and said, ‘Whatever it is, Ernestine, you are too late now,’ and went out. I heard her say to Aunt Amalie at the door, ‘It is a good thing that the King is so much preoccupied with this affair of the Mortimer’s precedence, or he would notice that something was wrong. The silly child looks like a ghost.’ I knew the name of the secretary Mortimer. I had seen him constantly in attendance on the King, and heard of the difficulties as to precedence which had sprung up between him and my cousin Sigismund’s Hercynian officers; but I realised now that he had come between me and my last hope of safety, and that is only an image of what he has done ever since.”

“Good!” cried the Princess; “I also hate him. But go on.”

“What is the use? You know well enough that no miracle happened to save me. In the chapel, when they put my hand into that of the King, I fainted where I stood. They said that it was owing to the weight of my dress and jewels; but it was through sheer horror. They revived me in some way, and the service was finished. At the wedding banquet I was so dazed by the strong restoratives they had given me, that I could only sit silent and look straight before me; but I still remember the dreadful smile on my mother’s face when the Emperor Sigismund, in proposing the health of the bridal pair, said that my parents could give me with absolute confidence and joy to the amiable and chivalrous monarch who had been his father’s comrade on many a battlefield. I suppose that my cousins took me up-stairs, and changed my wedding-gown for my travelling-dress; but I don’t remember it. I only know that the day was getting darker and darker when we started for the Lustschloss, although it was only three in the afternoon. There was some talk of our waiting until the storm was over; but we had only about five miles to go, and they thought we should arrive before the rain came on; so we drove out through the decorated streets into the gathering blackness. The King said something kind and reassuring to me; but I did not understand, and could only stare at him stupidly. He thought I was overdone, or affected by the weather, and advised me to lean back and try to sleep a little; but I could not. As I sat looking out, there came a great flash of lightning, and almost immediately we were in the midst of the most tremendous thunderstorm I ever saw. Presently Count Mortimer, who had been riding with the other attendants, came to the window of the carriage and suggested that we should take refuge in an inn close at hand, as the horses were alarmed by the lightning. We did as he advised; and the passing through the rain from the carriage to the house seemed to remove the paralysis from my mind. I felt myself awake again; and the moment I was alone with the King, I threw myself at his feet, and implored him with tears to allow me to return to my mother. I don’t know what I said, or what wild promises I made him; but I know I caught at his sword and entreated him to kill me if he would not let me go. He must have been utterly amazed, for I saw him look round helplessly (I suppose he wished to consult Count Mortimer), but he raised me up and led me to a chair, and entreated me to sit down. Then he took another chair beside me, and begged me to listen to him. He said that if he had had the faintest idea that the marriage was disagreeable to me, he would never have proposed it; that he felt he was far too old for me, but that my kindness to him had encouraged him to hope that he might succeed in making me happy. He could only ask my forgiveness for the suffering he had caused me, and promised to do all that he could to lighten it. But (and he was very firm in this) it was too late now to undo what had been done. To allow me to return home would be to inflict a deadly and most undeserved slight on my family and on all the royal personages who had been present at the wedding, besides bringing very injurious suspicions on myself. We were bound together now; let us both resolve to make the best of it. He comforted me so kindly and so delicately that my terror began to diminish, and I reflected that death would soon release me from my troubles, since no one could live long in such misery. You see what a baby I was, Ottilie; I thought one could die when one wished.”

“Forgive my saying so, Ernestine, but you had no excuse for quarrelling with a husband who could speak to you so gently after the outburst of loathing to which you had treated him.”

“One excuse you know; it was Count Mortimer. Sometimes I think I had another, but you shall hear. I became partially reconciled to my lot when I realised that there was no escaping it, and the King left no effort untried to comfort me and keep me contented. We left the Lustschloss—I was glad of it, for it was horrible to have continual visits from all my relations, spying, remarking, criticising, trying to find out how the slave they had just sold got on with her master—and came to Thracia, where every one was prepared to welcome me with the greatest delight and kindness. Not a wish that I could express was ungratified, and new pleasures were suggested every day. I was beginning to look back with shame upon my fears on the wedding-day, when in some way everything went wrong once more. When we had been married rather more than a month, I received a letter from my mother, written evidently in great excitement. ‘At last,’ she said, ‘I have torn off the mask which, for your sake, I have worn so long. Your father and I have come to a definite agreement to separate, and I have bidden farewell to Weldart for ever. I am now a wanderer, unless my daughter will offer me a shelter for the remainder of my miserable life.’ What could I do, Ottilie? I ran sobbing to the King and showed him the letter, demanding that he should join his entreaties with mine to induce my mother to come to us at once. He consented, but without enthusiasm, as it seemed to me, and came to me about half an hour later, when I was writing my letter in transports of grief and indignation.”

“Ah, he had been consulting Count Mortimer, I suppose?”

“Undoubtedly. ‘You are entreating your mother to pay us a visit, little one?’ he said. ‘Not a visit,’ I answered in astonishment; ‘I am inviting her to make her home with us.’ ‘We must not be too precipitate,’ he said, ‘for this climate may not suit her, or she may not care for our ways, and yet she might feel a delicacy in telling us that she would prefer to move. I think, Liebchen, that it will be well to ask her simply on a visit at first. A visit can always be extended, but it is not so easy to break off an established custom.’ ‘But that is nothing,’ I said; ‘it is a home that I wish to offer her, for she is homeless. She might go to any number of places on a visit.’ ‘Have you thought that this will mean an absolute rupture of relations with your father and grandmother?’ he asked. ‘I don’t care about them!’ I cried; ‘I want my mother. We were never separated before, and you cannot tell how lonely I have been without her. I shall die if you will not let her come.’ The sight of my tears moved him, and he told me to do as I pleased——”

“It was a great pity,” said the Princess.

“Ottilie!” cried the Queen resentfully, “it is evident that you do not know that my mother has been almost my only comfort all these years. If she disturbed the tranquillity in which we were living, it was merely because she saw it was a fool’s paradise. On the very evening of her arrival, when we were alone together, she said to me, ‘So you are hugging your chains, as I foresaw you would do!’ I asked her how this could be, and she replied, ‘It is simple enough. You are the King’s slave, and he is the slave of the Mortimer.’ She would not say any more, but I saw the truth of her words. It flashed upon me all at once that Count Mortimer directed the whole course of our lives. It was he who suggested all our plans, who encouraged the King to accompany me on all occasions, who kept him continually up to the mark, if I may say so. It flashed upon me also why he did this. He knew my wretched story, knew the way in which I had been bought and sold—nay, he had probably taken a chief part himself in making the bargain, and he wished to see the prisoner content with her captivity. If I could be brought to seem happy there would be the less likelihood of scandal, and the more chance of his appearing a skilled diplomatist. From that moment I hated him. I resolved to thwart his schemes, and I did so. I refused to accept his suggestions; I did not welcome the King’s company when he offered it. I made it very clear that any plan in which Count Mortimer’s influence could be traced was displeasing to me.”

“Foolish child!” cried her cousin; “was there no one to warn you?”

“I was frightened myself sometimes when I saw that I was alienating the King from myself instead of from Count Mortimer, but that made me only the more determined to succeed. I tried tears and reproaches, and entreaties and ridicule, but my husband was not to be moved. He told me plainly that I was seeking to banish the man who could do most to smooth my path, and was most willing to do it. When I persisted, he said that Count Mortimer was indispensable to him, and that he never went wrong except when he was too lazy or too soft-hearted to follow his advice. I knew what he meant; but I would not cease from my attempts, although they only tended to make the King spend less time in my society, and more in that of Count Mortimer. So the time dragged on until Michael was born, and then I determined, as my mother advised me, to make one great effort to oust my enemy. The King was delighted with his son, and became once more as kind to me as he had been at first. On the day of the christening, when he was sitting alone with the baby and me after the ceremony, I appealed to him suddenly to dismiss Count Mortimer. In his first astonishment he refused point-blank, and left me in displeasure. I was determined not to yield, for I could not bear that he should be able to comfort himself with the society of his friend when I was angry with him. If Count Mortimer were gone, my mother and I should find it much more easy to deal with the King.”

“In other words, he would be at your mercy? Oh, Ernestine, I must say it, what a little fool you were!”

“Probably. If it was so, I have been punished for my folly. My husband came to me again the next morning, and said that he was about to make a proposal to me which he begged me to consider calmly and without prejudice, since he was convinced that the happiness of our married life depended upon it. Nothing would induce him, he said, to dismiss Count Mortimer; but Count Mortimer himself was prepared to retire from the Court in the hope of restoring peace between us. Only, the King said, he would not accept this sacrifice except upon one condition—that my mother also should leave Thracia. He would not mince matters, for he was convinced that our unhappiness was due to her, since I had shown no dislike to Count Mortimer before her arrival. Once rid of the two elements of discord, we would start afresh, and try to be as happy as such an ill-assorted couple could be. Well, you do not need to be told that I rejected the proposal with horror. I told the King that it was an outrage and an infamy, and that I would suffer anything rather than yield. He left me again, and we resumed our double life, the King and Count Mortimer against my mother and me. I would not quit Thracia, as my mother advised, for I could not endure to let Count Mortimer triumph in the idea that he had driven me away; but it could not be expected that I should assist in any of his schemes. He and the King had the idea that Thracia was for the Thracians, and should be kept as Thracian as possible, and my mother and I did what we could to introduce German customs and habits instead.”

“You can scarcely expect me to agree with you there,” said the Princess, “since my husband and I have always aimed at carrying out in Dardania the methods which the King thought best for Thracia.”

“We were not thinking of what was best for the country,” explained the Queen innocently. “We wanted to have everything as it ought to be—as it is in Germany—and also to make the King angry.”

“Well, it is quite evident that you were successful in that part of your wish.”

“Yes; we were all very unhappy. Then, as you know, my mother was forced by the intrigues of the Ministry to leave Thracia, and I was so lonely and miserable that once or twice I even tried to make friends with my husband; but he either pretended not to notice my attempts, or he laughed at them, so that I left off trying. And then Count Mortimer went to England for a holiday, and I thought there might be some chance for me, but I saw even less of the King than before, and he would scarcely speak to me. Then he was taken ill, and you know that on his death-bed he made me promise not to dismiss Count Mortimer, and so he was left to tyrannise over me still. Can you wonder that I hate him?”

“You do hate him?” asked the Princess, with interest.

The Queen’s face flushed hotly. “You would hate him in my place,” she said. “He thwarts all my plans, and he is always justified by the result. He is continually putting me in the wrong, and no one who sees it can have a doubt but that he is right. I make a great effort to take him by surprise, and it is evident that he knew of my intention as soon as I did. I would give anything to be able to turn the tables on him!”

“I don’t wonder you get into trouble if that is your feeling.”

“At any rate, I can do one thing. I know that after to-day Count Mortimer will try to make me return to Bellaviste, for neither he nor M. Drakovics wished us to come here, but I will not go.”

“What a rebellious little person you are, Ernestine! But I do most earnestly advise you to get rid of Count Mortimer before your boy is old enough to marry, unless you want your own story repeated.”

“I shall take care that does not happen.”

“Well, his father’s story, then—a marriage without love or even liking on either side, arranged purely as a matter of state. What else can you hope for from Count Mortimer? I don’t doubt that he has a suitable alliance in view already. There are your cousin the Emperor Sigismund’s twin daughters, the little Princesses Hermine and Frederike of Hercynia—either of them would be an excellent match for Michael.”

“That I would never allow. I have always disliked Sigismund, and I should refuse to welcome either of his children here.”

“Even if Michael fell in love with one of them?”

“Oh, that would be different, of course. But I shall take good care that he has no chance of falling in love with them.”

“Then is he to be permitted to select his own bride? That might lead to complications—if he preferred a pretty bourgeoise, for instance. The marriage could scarcely turn out a success, and moreover, your family and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus would not allow it to take place.”

“He could not marry below his own rank, naturally. But there must be ways of bringing the right people together.” She paused, and her eyes followed those of her cousin to the corner in which Princess Ludmilla was dispensing imaginary tea in dolls’ cups to a select detachment of the King’s tin soldiers, while the host was crawling round the table on his hands and knees, and propping up the guests as they slipped down. “Ottilie!” the Queen cried, with a gasp, “your little Lida! She is just the right age, and she is dark and he is fair.”

“My dearest Nestchen! What would Count Mortimer say?”

“What does it signify what he says? And Lida is so sweet and gentle, and Michael so masterful already! Let us make a compact, Ottilie, and educate them for each other. They shall grow up together as much as possible—we will come here, or you will come to Praka, once a-year—and when the time comes they will fall in love, and all will be well.”

“Are you really serious, Ernestine?”

“Of course I am, if you agree.”

“Is it likely that I should refuse? It is a compact, then?”

“Between us two mothers. Naturally the children must know nothing, or it would make them self-conscious when they are older. And of course there is no need to tell any one else for years and years yet.”

“Will you leave that to me, Nestchen? If we are to bring our scheme to pass, I must be free to enlist allies as opportunity offers. But if you will put the matter into my hands, I engage that we shall succeed.”

“Yes; I will leave it to you, Ottilie. You are so clever, you never blunder.”

“You have paid a long visit to your cousin,” said the Prince of Dardania, as he helped his wife out of the carriage on her return to their country-seat. “I hope it has been a pleasant one?”

The Princess made him no answer, but pointed to the little girl, who was being carried off by her nurse. “We must take care of her,” she said. “She will wear a crown one day.”

“What! have you betrothed her to his Majesty King Michael?” cried Prince Alexis, with a burst of laughter.

“Exactly. Ernestine and I have agreed that they are to marry when they grow up.”

“Poor babies! You have settled their future early. May I ask whether our friend Count Mortimer was consulted?”

“He was not. But I have no reason to be afraid of him. I have outwitted him once.”

“They say that there are few people who can say that, and none that have outwitted him twice.”

“Nevertheless, I intend to do so. What can a man effect against two determined women? Not that I depend much on Ernestine’s powers of resistance. Her proposing the match has given me the standpoint I want; but I foresee that I shall have to do the fighting. She would not dare to oppose him seriously.”

“What?” the Prince raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

“Oh no; it is merely that he has a fascination for her, for he knows how to manage her, and he is the victor in every battle that they fight. She was eager to assure me—and herself—that she hated him, and she seizes every opportunity of revolt; but it is because she finds herself succumbing to his influence. She feels that she ought to obey him, which makes it worse.”

“And you encourage her to go on resisting him?”

“Of course. It will all help towards the great object.”

CHAPTER IX.
“WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN.”

Although he remained unconscious of the plot which was forming against the ultimate triumph of his policy, Cyril was not long in discovering that his daily task was not destined to be made lighter by any gratitude for the signal service he had been the means of rendering to his royal mistress and her son. He had been so short-sighted as to believe that the alarm produced by the near approach of such extreme peril would make it easy to induce the Queen to return to Bellaviste at once, or even to accept the despised Praka as her residence for the remainder of the winter, but he found himself mistaken. Queen Ernestine knew that he had averted the threatening danger not only without her help, but in spite of her unconscious opposition, and this was unpardonable. Moreover, although she was not one of the people who become the deadly enemies of any one that has the misfortune to do them a service, she knew that she had misjudged her Minister, and she could not forgive him either for allowing himself to be misjudged, or for failing to justify her bad opinion of him. It seemed to her, therefore, a pleasant piece of revenge to assure him that while he remained in attendance, she felt so safe that she had no intention of leaving the Villa before the spring. Cyril urged in vain that on another occasion he might not have the good fortune to discover the existence of a conspiracy in time to prevent its taking effect: the Queen replied that this might be a reason for added vigilance on his part, but not for the withdrawal of her confidence in him.

This peculiarly irritating conduct on the part of his liege lady Cyril attributed, rather unjustly, to the influence of the Princess of Dardania; for although Queen Ernestine saw her cousin frequently at this time, they disagreed almost invariably when they touched upon the subject of the Minister of the Household. As the sharp-eyed Princess had discerned, the Queen was divided between the desire of defying Cyril and the fear of alienating him from her son’s cause, between dislike of his tutelage and confidence in his guidance. Her cousin urged her to dismiss him, and thus avenge her wrongs, upon which Ernestine brought forward immediately her husband’s wish and her own promise. Torn in this way between willingness and reluctance, prudence and rashness, it is not surprising that she did not succeed in disguising all outward traces of her mental struggles. In other words, Queen Ernestine’s temper was very bad at this time, and not only Cyril, but the other members of the household, from Baroness von Hilfenstein to the youngest dresser, had it forced upon their notice that her Majesty was extremely hard to please. As it happened, one of these fits of ill-temper was destined to have far-reaching consequences.

It was a mild day in winter, and Cyril was leaving the Villa after his morning’s work. As he passed along the terrace, the little King ran out from the open French window of one of the Queen’s rooms, and demanded a game. Cyril had scarcely seen the child for some days, and turning at the clamorous summons, held out his hands and helped King Michael to climb up him and seat himself triumphantly on his shoulder. Before he had taken a single step, however, the Queen dashed out of the house and snatched the child from his arms, her eyes blazing with anger.

“You stole my husband from me,” she cried. “At least leave me my son!”

Answer was impossible, and Cyril was about to retire; but the little King did not see the matter in the same light.

“Let me go, mamma!” he cried, wriggling violently. “I want to play with the Herr Graf. I am tired of Lida and nothing but girls. Put me down! put me down!” and he began to kick and struggle, finally striking his mother in the face with his little fist.

“Majestät!” said Cyril reprovingly; but the Queen turned upon him again, with the red mark on her face showing plainly where the blow had been delivered.

“I may be forced to allow you to govern my kingdom, Count, but I do not need your assistance in controlling my own child.”

Cyril bowed and turned away, and the Queen carried the struggling boy back into the house. The incident had not been witnessed by any of the Court, and Cyril found some consolation in this fact, but he was none the less seriously disquieted. He had been much worried of late by what seemed to be signs that the accord between himself and M. Drakovics was less complete than it had been. When the conspirators whom he had baffled by arresting them so unceremoniously were set at liberty, and assured that they were the victims of a mistake in identity, he had been anxious to reduce the O’Malachy’s power of doing harm for the future by having him conducted to the frontier, and warned not to re-enter Thracia. This he had suggested to the Premier, only to receive in reply a telegram, couched in needlessly emphatic terms, refusing him permission to do anything of the kind for fear of offending Scythia. Moreover, there had been unnecessary delay several times in answering his telegrams, while one or two small requests which he had made were disregarded, and these various indications, taken together, led him to surmise that something was wrong. He did not actually suspect M. Drakovics of intriguing either with Scythia or with the Queen against him; but it was quite possible that some one in the Premier’s entourage might be thus engaged, and a personal interview was extremely desirable. He would have asked permission of the Queen to visit Bellaviste weeks ago if it had not been that he foresaw the delight with which she would grant him leave of absence, for who could say to what use she might put her unaccustomed freedom from his guidance? But now he began to think that it might be as well to disregard this risk, since a short absence would lessen the tension which prevailed between them, and perhaps allow the Queen to realise how ill she could do without him. His half-formed resolution was dissipated for the present, however, by an intimation that the Queen could not safely be left to manage her own affairs. He was sitting in his office on the afternoon of the day which had witnessed the scene on the terrace, when a knock at the door announced the advent of Mrs Jones, the little King’s nurse, who came to ask his advice as to the best way of returning to England.

“Which I’ve give the Queen notice, my lord, and good reason, too, and I looks to your lordship to get me my rights, and not see me cheated out of them by no foreigners.”

“I am very sorry to hear this, Mrs Jones; and Lady Caerleon will be very much disappointed to know that you are leaving, I am sure. If it is any little unpleasantness with the other servants, which I could arrange——”

“No, my lord. Not that I haven’t put up with a deal from them, knowing they were foreigners—which they couldn’t not to say be held responsible for—and so didn’t know no better. But when it comes to her Majesty herself callin’ me names, and usin’ language which no lady should use, then, I ask you, my lord, would you have me lay down at her feet to be trampled upon?”

“Oh, come, Mrs Jones; there must be some mistake. Her Majesty is a foreigner too, you know, and doesn’t speak English perfectly; but, as you say, it is not her fault. You must have misunderstood her.”

“There was no misunderstandin’, my lord. It was as plain as the nose upon your face, as they say, not intendin’ anything personal to your lordship. And I’m sure,” here Mrs Jones looked mysterious, “as there ain’t no call, my lord, for you to be defendin’ them as worrits your life out with doin’ their work, and then turns round and stabs you when you ain’t there, so to speak.”

“If I can do anything for you,” said Cyril, his curiosity not stirred even by the complicated operation described, “I shall be glad to do it; but I can’t listen to complaints of your mistress.”

“And who talked about complaints, my lord, may I ask? I was settin’ by my fire, and little King Michael, as was tired after his play, on my lap. ‘Tell me a ’tory, nursie,’ he says, and I tell him the one he always likes best, of the time when you and the Markiss was young gentlemen at school, and made raftses on the lake when you was home for the holidays. I was just gettin’ to the part where your lordship was tryin’ to smoke the old swan off of the rock you wanted for a desert island, when I heard a rustle, and there stood the Queen, her eyes glarin’ at me. ‘Woman!’ she says, ‘how dare you worm yourself in here to turn my child’s heart against me?’ ‘And who may your Majesty be callin’ wormses?’ I says, and I don’t deny, my lord, my temper was up, to be spoke to in that way in my own nursery, and before the child. ‘You are a creature of Count Mortimer’s,’ she says, ‘and he has hired you to tell these tales.’ ‘Me a creature!’ I says; ‘me that’s always lived in the best families, and kep’ myself respectable! That’s a name I don’t allow no one to call me, not even Queen Victoria herself, as would know better than use it to a honest widow woman, as has always paid her way, and brought up four sons and three darters to be a credit to the estate, and one of them dead in Egypt, and two in service at the Castle, and one of them her ladyship’s own maid! I’ll ask your Majesty to please suit yourself this day month, and you may be sure that the names of their lordships shan’t never cross my lips again in this house, as ain’t fit to be honoured with them!’ But there, my lord, when her Majesty was gone, as she did go pretty soon when I up and spoke my mind like that, and the child put his little arms round my neck and says, ‘Finish the ’tory, nursie dear,’ what did I do but finish it? But for all that, I leave this day month, if you please.”

“I hope you will think better of it, Mrs Jones. The Queen seems rather worried just now, and perhaps a little vexed with me. I fancy I must have got upon her nerves. So you mustn’t think she meant all she said; and if she asks you to stay, I hope you will. After all, you really are a woman, you know.”

“And if I am, my lord,” returned Mrs Jones, with great dignity, “it ain’t for any other woman, nor yet for your lordship, to cast it up to me. Will your lordship be good enough to help me with my journey, or must I write to Sir Egerton Stratford at Bellaviste?”

“Don’t trouble the British Minister, certainly. I will give you any help you need. Good afternoon, and pray think better of it.”

Mrs Jones departed, with her head high in air, and Cyril rose from his chair, and took one or two turns up and down the room.

“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “The Queen must be getting up a perfect monomania about me, if she flies out at the servants for merely mentioning my name, and it will grow into a scandal if it goes on. It is quite evident that it’s no use speaking to her; I must get at one of the people who know the ropes. Either the Princess of Dardania or the Princess of Weldart would answer the purpose, but it would be a long job. And then, the price to be paid for the support of either of them would be so heavy that the game would certainly not be worth the candle. One owes something to one’s own self-respect, and I don’t propose to efface myself politically because an ungrateful little termagant refuses to see when she is well served. No. I must have a try at the nearest wire-puller. I never knew the woman yet whom there was no way to get round, and I shall be surprised if Fräulein von Staubach is an exception to the rule. But we must go to work carefully. It would be no good to ask her for an interview, for nothing would give her greater pleasure than to refuse. She must be caught with guile. Ah!”

He touched a bell, and one of his clerks appeared.

“Have the repairs yet been put in hand which Fräulein von Staubach asked for in her maid’s room, in which the snow came through the roof?”

“Not yet, your Excellency. It appears that the roof is very much out of repair, and that more work will be needed than we imagined.”

“Very good. Bring me the estimates here, and see that the repairs are not begun until I give you orders. If Fräulein von Staubach should inquire the cause of the delay, refer her to me.”

“At the orders of your Excellency,” and the clerk retired, after a puzzled glance at his superior’s face to discover whether he could be joking. But Cyril knew now a good deal more about the lady with whom he had to deal than he had done at the time of their former acquaintance. Then he had regarded her as a singularly uninteresting girl, who seemed to have no tastes or interests of her own, and whose views were coloured by those of any one who came near her. Now he recognised her as a sentimentalist of the most pronounced German type—and when a German is sentimental he carries his favourite quality to such a pitch as to astonish the less impressionable Englishman. Fräulein von Staubach lived in the joys and sorrows of others; it would almost be correct to say that she enjoyed both equally. Her tears and her laughter, her sympathy and her condolences, were always at the service of her friends, or even of her enemies, if they could once succeed in obtaining her ear. Her mood was that of her companion at the moment, but carried to its highest degree; her hopes were the brightest, her despair the deepest, her misery the most uncontrolled, in any society. In the same way, she could be absurdly credulous among trusting people; but once let a suspicion be suggested to her, and she would speedily astonish its author by her absolute persuasion of its truth. She called herself a “child of nature,” in the full belief that she was laying claim to the highest possible honour, and she hated with a bitter hatred the artificialities of courts and of polite society generally, after the manner of the leaders of a minor romantic reaction which had afflicted various exalted circles in Germany twenty or thirty years before, and which had also influenced the Princess of Weldart in the education of her daughter.

It was no surprise to Cyril, therefore, when an imperative knock at his office-door the next day announced the arrival of Fräulein von Staubach, who entered the room in a state of the loftiest moral indignation.

“I have been extremely astonished, Count,” she said severely, as Cyril rose to receive her, “to hear that you have not only taken no steps to remedy the inconvenience from which my servant is suffering, but have even given orders that nothing should be done.”

“I fear you have been misinformed, Fräulein. Nothing could be further from my mind than to wish to cause inconvenience to any member of the household. The delay of which you complain arises from the fact that two alternative schemes have been proposed by the Works Department, and I am glad to have the opportunity of consulting you on the subject. Perhaps if you have a minute or two to spare, you will sit down and look at these estimates. The one provides merely for repairs, as you will see; the other involves an alteration of the shape of the roof, which would be an improvement, but would require a good deal of work and some changing of rooms.”

“I do not wish my maid’s room changed,” said Fräulein von Staubach, falling into the trap, and accepting the offered chair. “It is very conveniently situated, and she can talk to the Queen’s dressers if she feels lonely when I am busy with the King. Still, I will look at the papers, Count.”

A very short examination of the estimates served to confirm Fräulein von Staubach in her preference for the simple repairs, which was what Cyril had intended; but the courtesy shown in allowing her a choice in the matter worked a distinct change in her manner.

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Count,” she said, as she handed the papers back to Cyril. “I see that I misjudged you when I thought you had arranged this delay for the purpose of vexing me. My maid is a faithful servant, and I could not endure to see her badly treated.”

“No, indeed; I am only sorry that every one is not so considerate as yourself, Fräulein. Faithful servants are hard to find, and should be prized.” A pause, and then Cyril went on, “That is why I am so sorry to hear that Mrs Jones intends to leave the Queen’s service almost immediately.”

“You cannot regret it more than I do, Count. Since she saved the King’s life in that attack of croup, one has felt it impossible to value her too highly. Again, she has such an excellent influence over his Majesty.”

“True, and such an influence is much needed. But what gives me even more concern, Fräulein, is the cause of her departure. Mrs Jones is not a tell-tale; but she is certain to be asked why she resigned her post, and when it comes out that it was because the Queen, in a fit of ill-temper, called her names, the impression produced cannot fail to be a most deplorable one.”

“Count!” Fräulein von Staubach sat erect, but her tone was one of consternation rather than anger, “You are right; that had not struck me. Her Majesty has undoubtedly been imprudent.”

“We may find some difficulty in filling Mrs Jones’s place, I fear. But then, of course, it is possible——;” Cyril fell into a reverie.

“Possible? what?” asked Fräulein von Staubach anxiously.

“It is possible that the nation may think it desirable that the King should be removed from the sole care of ladies sooner than was originally contemplated. I tell you this in confidence, of course”—“in full confidence that the Queen will hear every word of it at the first opportunity,” he added to himself.

“It cannot be! You would not have the heart to separate so young a child from his mother?”

“I said nothing about separation, Fräulein. What I was thinking of was merely the provision of a suitable household of his own for his Majesty, and the appointment of a state governor and tutors.”

“But it would all come between them. You could not be so cruel. It would kill the Queen.” Fräulein von Staubach’s tones thrilled with anguish.

“I am proposing nothing, Fräulein. My duty is merely to act as a member of the Ministry, and the duty of the Ministry is to do what is best for the kingdom. Consider a moment. You will scarcely deny that his Majesty is developing a very imperious and violent temper. I myself saw him strike his mother in the face yesterday, when she thwarted some whim of his.”

“You saw it? The Queen was cry——talking about it last night, but she did not say you were there. But who can wonder that the King should have an ungoverned temper, Count? Think what his mother’s life has been!”

“I am not now discussing past history, which is unhappily beyond mending, Fräulein. If the King’s disposition is not to be ruined, he must be taught to control his temper and keep it in check. Since the one person who treats him sensibly is leaving him, I fear the council of Ministers will feel it necessary to place him under a stricter rule.”

“Sensibly! You are using very strange language, Count.”

“It is quite possible, Fräulein; but I mean what I say. To Mrs Jones it is all the same whether a child is a King or a beggar. If he is in her charge, she makes him ‘mind’ her, as she calls it. Now I ask you, as a conscientious woman, is not her method more likely to produce good results than that of—another lady—who alternates between humouring his most unreasonable wishes, and thwarting his most innocent ones because she is—well, angry herself?”

“I cannot remain here to listen to such words about the Queen, Count.”

“Forgive me for wearying you, Fräulein. I am afraid I am rather an enthusiast on the subject of education. But I won’t bore you any more with my theories.”

“You are trying to revenge yourself upon the Queen by torturing her through her son!” burst from Fräulein von Staubach.

“Surely, Fräulein, you must be aware that her Majesty makes my post such a delightful one, and responds with so much alacrity to the slightest suggestion I may venture to make for her guidance, that the feeling at which you hint would be entirely out of place and uncalled for?”

“She—she has not perhaps treated you as graciously as you may have expected; but then, is it noble—is it even manly—to act in this way? To work upon an unhappy mother’s feelings——”

“Fräulein, permit me to remind you that you are speaking of her Majesty in terms for which there is no justification. If I had any wish for revenge—to which you seem to consider I am entitled—I could find no better way of wreaking it than by simply resigning my office and returning to England. I am actuated by no feelings but those of the greatest respect and kindness towards the Queen, who was left in my charge under the most solemn circumstances by my dead friend. It is not my fault, but I fear it will be her own great misfortune, that she herself is the worst enemy of her son’s kingdom.”

“I wish I could trust you!” she cried with a gasp. “But no, you must have some other motive. You could not endure her coldness, her childish peevishness, her foolish little affronts, as you do, unless you had some end in view.”

“My end is solely to see King Michael seated safely on his father’s throne, Fräulein. I have given up my life first to Otto Georg and now to his son, and it strikes one as a little hard that the sacrifice should be supposed to be made for the sake of some personal advantage. If you can suggest one, I should be glad to hear it, for I confess it has occurred to me more than once that I am wasting my pains on an ungrateful family.”

“I long to believe you,” said Fräulein von Staubach. “I might be able to make your path easier, but how can I, knowing what I know? I remember you of old—your intrigues, your deceptions, all the course of trickery you carried on when your brother was King. I do not—I cannot—believe that you have really changed.”

“Perhaps, Fräulein, you will believe in my disinterestedness when the kingdom is ruined in spite of my best efforts. Pray don’t misunderstand me. I am not uttering any threat, for I shall continue to do my best for the King, for his father’s sake. But I cannot hope to succeed, and you know to whom my failure will be owing.”

“I wish I could trust you!” she said again, as she passed out of the door he held open for her, and Cyril went back to his desk well pleased.

“Now she is divided in mind,” he said to himself. “The new light is beating fiercely on all her preconceived notions of a martyr Queen persecuted by a revengeful Minister. She will do all she can to reconcile the two views, and meanwhile she will improve matters a little.”

And Cyril turned his attention to other subjects, feeling perfect confidence in his new agent. It was no surprise to him a few days later to receive a visit from Mrs Jones, who entered the office with a face wreathed in smiles.

“You’ll be pleased to hear as I’ve changed my mind about goin’ home, my lord,” she said. “I hope as your lordship haven’t give yourself no trouble about findin’ out trains for me?”

“I am extremely glad to hear this,” returned Cyril. “You decided that you had been a little too hasty, I suppose?”

“No, my lord, that I never will give in to. Them as was hasty has made amends, as was proper. Her Majesty come into my nursery this mornin’, and I stood up very stiff-like, as my feelin’s bein’ hurt. But she speaks to me very pleasant, and says, says she, ‘Mrs Jones, I spoke hasty to you a short time ago, and it may be that through ignorance of your language I said more nor I meant. I hope very much that you have made no other arrangements, and will stay with us. I ask it as a favour to myself, and also to the King, as will break his heart if you leave him.’ There, my lord! I was all in a flutter to think of a crowned Queen talkin’ to me of favours, and the little King come runnin’ and says, ‘Nursie not goin’ away. Nursie stay and tell stories,’ and I burst out cryin’ like any old crocodile, as they say, and told the Queen that my heart was just about broke to think of leavin’, and that I asked no better than to stay. And this afternoon her Majesty have sent me a beautiful gown-piece of black silk, that thick you might use it for a parachute if you wanted to, and so I’ve took back my notice, my lord.”

This was extremely satisfactory so far as it went, but Cyril was not long in discovering that the part he had played with respect to Mrs Jones’s remaining a member of the royal household was not appreciated by the Queen. It was tolerably clear that Fräulein von Staubach had repeated verbatim, or, at any rate, rather in an exaggerated than a diminished form, the conversation she had held with him, and that the Queen had taken it to heart. She was very careful in these days to entrench herself behind an impassable barrier of etiquette, and she indulged in no freaks and no outbursts of temper, while yet she kept Cyril at a distance, and made it evident that he was in disgrace. This little exhibition of spite could do Cyril no harm, for he still held the reins of authority and controlled the purse-strings; but it was a very uncomfortable state of affairs for the other members of the Court, who were obliged to do their utmost to keep in favour with both parties. In these circumstances, Cyril thought it a suitable opportunity to ask for a few days’ leave of absence in order to pay his projected visit to Bellaviste, and the permission was granted with a most unflattering readiness, which, however, only caused him amusement.

“I don’t think she’ll be up to much in the way of tricks while I’m gone,” he said to himself; “this last pulling-up has taken her rather aback. She must know that I shall hear of all that goes on, and hurry back if there is anything wrong. I don’t really like going, and yet I must have a word or two with Drakovics. He shall learn to understand that our partnership is not to be all on one side. If he is not going to back me up, he may look out for some one else to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him. And I’m not sorry to have a little change from this wretched place. I wonder whether there would be time to run up to Vienna for a day or two? Oh no; my precious charge would be getting into mischief, and, after all, Bellaviste is better than this dull hole. Nothing much can happen in five days. The servants know that I am master, and Stefanovics and the Baroness will keep me posted up. If any one launches out on the strength of my being gone, I shall be able to deal with them when I come back.”

But on the day before that fixed for his departure, he discovered that his authority in the household was not quite so firmly rooted as he had imagined. It happened that in the course of the morning a telegram arrived for him, and was brought into his office by one of the royal footmen. The telegram was of little importance, but something unfamiliar in the aspect of the bearer struck Cyril.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as the man was leaving the room. “How is this? You are not Alexander Sergeivics, but Peter, and you were one of the servants left at Bellaviste to look after the Palace.”

“Yes, Excellency; but my brother’s wife is dangerously ill at Bellaviste, and I am taking his place that he may be with her.”

“Indeed! an excellent arrangement; but you will have to learn, and so will your brother, that servants in the royal household are not at liberty to exchange their posts to suit their own convenience.”

“Not if they have her Majesty’s sanction, Excellency?” There was triumph clearly visible under the man’s deferential manner.

“Her Majesty’s pleasure overrides all regulations, of course. I am to understand that your brother obtained her consent?”

“It is so, Excellency. Having obtained leave of absence, I came to Tatarjé to tell my brother about his wife, and her Majesty, on hearing the news, granted him permission to return to Bellaviste immediately. When my brother ventured to suggest that it was requisite for him to obtain leave from your Excellency, her Majesty was pleased to say, ‘What has Count Mortimer to do with it? I have told you to go, I the Queen. That is enough.’”

“Quite enough,” returned Cyril genially. “Ask M. Paschics to step this way, and to bring with him the household book. The change and the reason for it must be entered.”

The man departed, and Cyril walked to the window.

“There’s something fishy about the business,” he said; “but the Queen has made it next to impossible to clear it up. I am pretty sure I remember that there was something suspicious about this man Peter. Come in, Paschics.”

M. Paschics, who entered in response to the invitation, was ostensibly Cyril’s most confidential clerk, and there were only a few who knew that he was in reality a member of the Secret Police, specially detailed to watch over the royal household. The book which he brought with him was to all appearance merely a record of the comings, goings, and conduct of the domestics attached to the Court; but by means of a series of private marks, the meaning of which was known only to himself and Cyril, it contained also an account of their political opinions and personal histories.

“You have heard that Peter Sergeivics is at present taking his brother’s place,” said Cyril. “Turn up his name, and let me see what there is against him.”

“He is a member of the Golden Eagle Society for the study of Scythian literature, your Excellency, and has been heard on several occasions to express approval of the sentiments uttered on St Gabriel’s day by his Beatitude the Metropolitan.”

“I knew there was something wrong. Those literary societies are invariably political clubs in disguise. Well, Paschics, this man is to be watched. Notice his resorts and his associates, and let me know the result of your shadowing.”

“Yes, your Excellency. He is not on duty this afternoon and evening, and I hear that he is going into the town. As a stranger, he wishes to see what the place is like.”

“And very natural too. If he finds any friends here, it is as well that we should know it. That is all for the present.”

Paschics retired, and Cyril returned to his accounts. Later in the day he was witness of a curious little incident which he did not at the time connect with Peter Sergeivics and his suspicious record, but which proved afterwards to have a bearing upon it. Standing at a window which overlooked the approach, Cyril saw, to his astonishment, the O’Malachy advancing to the door of the Villa. His clothes were faultless, his moustache waxed; there was something jaunty about his very limp. A stranger would have taken him for a prince travelling incognito, or at the least for an exquisite of the Pannonian Court; and Cyril, who knew him only too well, wondered what on earth he was up to now. The door of the room was slightly ajar, and he heard the familiar voice, with its rich rolling intonation, asking leave to see over the Villa. The obvious answer was returned that sightseers were not admitted at present, to which the O’Malachy appeared to reply by producing the local guidebook, which mentioned that visitors were allowed to go through the State apartments on two days in the week. On being assured, however, that this did not apply to the times at which the Court was in residence, he perceived his error, and retired, with profuse apologies, to view the Villa from the gardens, admission to which was practically unrestricted.

“Pretty cool cheek of him to come here!” said Cyril to himself. “I wonder he didn’t make use of my name as a reference. Now, what was the object of this, I should like to know?”

But his curiosity remained unsatisfied, and he thought no more of either the O’Malachy or Sergeivics until Paschics presented himself as soon as he entered his office the next morning. A glance at the detective’s face showed Cyril that he was bubbling over with news, and he looked about for eavesdroppers, and made sure that the door and windows were shut, before he would allow him to tell his tale.

“According to your Excellency’s orders, I shadowed Peter Sergeivics yesterday,” began Paschics. “In the afternoon I saw him leave the Villa by the servants’ entrance, and take the road to the town. While still in the grounds, however, he was met by an elderly gentleman of military appearance, walking with a slight limp.” Cyril uttered an exclamation. “As your Excellency has surmised, I recognised this person as the Scythian officer who was arrested by mistake some time ago, and set at liberty immediately afterwards. Perceiving by his livery that Sergeivics belonged to the household, he stopped him, and apparently requested him to point out to him the principal architectural features of the Villa; for Sergeivics gave up his intention of proceeding to the town, and escorted him round the gardens, exhibiting the chief points of interest. I must confess with regret that I could not succeed in following them sufficiently closely to hear their conversation. At last Colonel O’Malachy presented Sergeivics with a handsome pourboire, and departed. I discovered afterwards that he had tried to gain admission to the interior of the Villa, but had been refused an entrance.”

Cyril nodded. “I saw that myself,” he said.

“After this, your Excellency, Sergeivics returned to the servants’ quarters, and did not go out again until the evening. Following upon his steps, I tracked him to a tavern in a low part of the town. Having seen him seated at one of the tables, I hurried to the lodging of an acquaintance of mine near at hand, and borrowed from him the long coat, high boots, and fur cap of a droschky-driver. With the aid of the wig and false beard which I always carry about with me, my disguise was complete, and I entered the tavern and sat down at the same table as my quarry. I then noticed that the table was close to the end of a passage, in which was a door. From time to time one of the men in the room would enter the passage and disappear through the doorway. Again, several persons came in one by one from the street, and, believing themselves unnoticed, also slipped through. Among these, I am certain, was Colonel O’Malachy. He was disguised in a country cloak and cap; but I could not mistake his limp, nor his white moustache. I observed that all who passed in at this mysterious door were subjected to some test. They knocked, I think, in a peculiar scraping manner; but I cannot be sure of this, owing to the distance and to the noise around me, and also to the necessity of not appearing to watch too closely. Moreover, certain questions, which also I could not hear, were asked and answered before the door was opened. Then, as it seemed to me, a badge of some kind was exhibited, which was worn on the under-side of the left-hand lapel of the coat, and admission was immediately granted. All this time, your Excellency, I was behaving as though I had already drunk too much brandy, and offering to treat Sergeivics and the other guests. The Thracians, as your Excellency knows, do not become hilarious when excited by liquor; but I was talkative and inclined to be quarrelsome. Sergeivics tried to shake me off, and when he thought he had directed my attention to a group of fresh arrivals, rose and endeavoured to slip down the passage. But I caught him by the coat, and said in a drunken voice, ‘Not so fast, my friend. There seems to be something interesting going on in there, and I should like to come too.’ He looked at me as though he could have killed me, but bent over the table and fixed me with his eye. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I have no business to tell you what it is; but you have been so liberal with the brandy that I don’t mind letting you know in confidence. You have heard of the Freemasons?’ ‘Oh yes,’ I said; ‘they worship the devil, and their rites are proscribed.’ ‘Stuff!’ he said; ‘that is what the priests tell you. Count Mortimer himself is a Freemason, and therefore the police have orders to wink at their doings, in spite of the law. This is one of their lodges, and I am a member, so you see I can’t take you in, much as I should like.’ I gave a tipsy grunt, and let him go, when he vanished down the passage at once. I sat there some time longer, talking and treating, and saw other people go in, some of them officers, as I knew by their walk, and others, I am sure, priests. Then, fearing to arouse suspicion, I staggered out, and, taking up a position from which I could watch the place, tracked Sergeivics back to the Villa about an hour and a half later. That is my report, your Excellency.”

“And a very good one it is. I shall require you again presently, Paschics. You can go now, and tell Sergeivics that I want him.”

“But your Excellency does not intend to tax the man with his treachery? He will be desperate—and he is probably armed.”

“So am I,” was the brief response; and Paschics retired. When Sergeivics entered the room, Cyril was seated at his writing-table, looking for something in one of the drawers.

“Ah, Peter Sergeivics—wait a minute,” he said, glancing up. “By the way, what’s that on the left-hand lapel of your coat?”

The man’s face turned pale, and his hand went up in a terrified snatch. Finding nothing, he recollected himself immediately.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me what is wrong there, Excellency?”

“Nothing—now,” responded Cyril; “but something very wrong was there last night.” There was a sudden movement of the footman’s arm, but Cyril was too quick for him. The right hand which had been hidden in the drawer came up suddenly, holding a revolver. “Throw up your hands this moment, and stand where you are, or you are a dead man!” were the words which smote upon the ear of the astonished Sergeivics, as he found himself covered by the weapon.

“You will not murder me, Excellency?” he faltered.

“Not on any account; but I shall have no compunction in killing you in self-defence. Peter Sergeivics, you came to Tatarjé under the orders of a revolutionary committee, charged to help them in carrying out their schemes. By an ingenious device, you obtained an opportunity for receiving orders from the Scythian agent here and furnishing him with information. Last night you attended a meeting at which the final plans for the outbreak were agreed upon, and the parts to be played by the various conspirators assigned to them.”

“What does your Excellency want with me?” whined the luckless man.

“I want nothing, as you see. If you care to offer any information, the fact will be taken into account in deciding your sentence. If you do not, you will merely be dismissed from the royal household, and it will become known that you have retired with a pension, awarded in consideration of the loyal assistance furnished by you to the Government, which has led to the detection of the plot.”

Sergeivics writhed. “You know that I should be dead within an hour, Excellency,” he whimpered. “If I tell you all I know, will you guarantee that I shall be saved from the vengeance of the rest?”

“Stay where you are, if you please,” as the wretched man made a movement as though to throw himself at Cyril’s feet. “It will be just as uncomfortable for you to be shot by me as by your fellow-conspirators. I have said that I do not ask you for information; but if yours should prove to be of any value, I will guarantee that you shall be sent to Bellaviste under a sufficient escort to protect you from the vengeance of your friends. This is showing quite undeserved mercy to one who has deliberately plotted to murder the Queen and the young King——”

“Never, Excellency! There was no thought of murder. We merely——”

“Ah, your information differs from mine, then?”

“Your Excellency must have been misinformed. Our object was simply to secure the persons of the King and Queen, and to induce the Queen to consent to the King’s conversion to the Orthodox faith.”

“To induce her? yes. And when persuasion failed——?”

The man’s face grew pale again. “There was something said about a few days without food for the Queen, and the knowledge that her child and attendants were suffering in the same way,” he muttered.

“Exactly; and what would that have meant but murder, in the case of delicate women and a child? And this precious scheme was to be carried out to-night, was it, that you might have at least three clear days before I should begin to feel surprised at receiving no news from Tatarjé? or perhaps you would like to set me right on this point also?”

“No, Excellency; your information is correct.”

“And the plot is supported by the garrison, the Church, and the townspeople, headed no doubt by the mayor?”

“Yes, Excellency; and as you know, of course——”

“Yes, I was waiting for this. By whom besides?”

“I—I fear your Excellency knows more than I do. The message which the head of our circle at Bellaviste gave me to bring here was merely that a certain person was propitious, but must not be too confidently relied upon.”

“Take care. To whom did you understand that message to allude?”

“To—to the Metropolitan, Excellency.”

“You are telling me lies.”

“No, no, indeed, Excellency. I will swear it by the Holy Fire, by all the saints! We of the lower levels are not admitted into the possession of important secrets, but we conjectured among ourselves that the Metropolitan was meant.”

“Well, be careful. To continue: the King and Queen were to be imprisoned in the Bishop’s Palace, which is capable of standing a siege; and when the conversion was effected, the Queen was to be further compelled to place the kingdom under the protection of Scythia, and request the favour and support of the Emperor?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“And if by any chance I did not start to-night for Bellaviste, I was to be killed?”

“That is only natural, Excellency.”

“Quite so. Well, I will take you with me to Bellaviste when I start to-night.”

“You start to-night, Excellency? But—the station is watched. Their Majesties will not be allowed to travel.”

“That need not interfere with my journey. I have unmasked plots before this one, my friend. You see this cigarette-case with the monogram in brilliants? I will place it on the edge of the table close to you. Lower your left hand—be careful, I am ready to shoot—take the case, and put it in your right-hand outside pocket. You understand? Good.”

He rang sharply the bell which stood on the table, and Paschics burst open the door and rushed in, followed by two or three servants, and pausing in astonishment when he saw the tranquil condition of affairs.

“I must have this man searched,” said Cyril. “I suspect him of being in possession of the cigarette-case presented to me by the Emperor of Pannonia, and bearing his Majesty’s cipher in brilliants. It is possible that you may find other stolen property upon him as well. I missed one of my revolvers the day before yesterday.”

In an instant Sergeivics was seized and held by two footmen while Paschics searched his pockets. The cigarette-case and a revolver were produced almost immediately, and laid in triumph on the table; but nothing else was revealed by the search. Cyril nodded pleasantly.

“I thought so,” he said. “Well, it is quite out of the question that I should postpone my journey on account of this, and therefore the man had better be taken to Bellaviste to-night by the train in which I shall travel. Instruct the police to provide a proper guard, M. Paschics, and report to me when you have made arrangements.”

CHAPTER X.
A NEW RELATIONSHIP.

Left to himself, Cyril rose from his chair, and began to walk rapidly up and down the room, maturing some plan in his mind as he walked. Once or twice his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a letter or a message; but he disposed quickly of these stray pieces of business, and returned to the consideration of his more important scheme. When Paschics came back, he sent him to summon M. Stefanovics, and then unfolded to the two men the tale of the conspiracy which he had forced from the wretched Sergeivics.

“But this is fearful!” cried M. Stefanovics. “Surely you have taken some steps, Count? Their Majesties ought to have left the town already.”

“The railway-station is watched, and even if it was too early to oppose the departure of the Court by force, nothing could be easier than to wreck the train,” said Cyril curtly.

“But why not telegraph for help to Bellaviste—or to Feodoratz, if M. Drakovics is too far off to be of any assistance?”

“Because I have for some time past suspected that some one was tampering with our telegrams, and now I am sure of it. I have just received a telegram which ought to have reached me three days ago, but which the operator says must have been delayed in transmission. It is from M. Drakovics, begging me not to leave Tatarjé until I have heard again from him, and if it had arrived in proper time it would have delayed my journey. Now, of course, it is too late.”

The eyes of the other two men met with a puzzled expression. “But if you suspect the officials here,” suggested M. Stefanovics, “why not despatch a telegram from some point outside the city?”

“Because the danger does not arise merely from treachery here. That would scarcely explain the delay in this telegram, and certainly not the confusion and omissions which have puzzled me in others. No; I believe that the conspirators are in the habit of tapping the wires between this and Bellaviste, and so reading, and occasionally altering, the telegrams which pass between the Premier and myself.”

“Then, you consider, Count, that to telegraph for assistance would simply defeat all our hopes of catching the miscreants unawares?”

“Exactly. Whatever is to be done must be done from this end.”

“You would perhaps suggest that their Majesties should cross the frontier, and take refuge in Dardanian territory?”

“No. I had thought of that at first; but besides producing an extremely unfortunate impression abroad, the attempt would be useless, for the Prince and Princess have left their country residence, and returned to Bashi Konak for the opening of the Legislature.”

“But still, would it not be advisable for their Majesties, under the pretext of a simple drive, to cross into Dardania, and then to make all speed for Bashi Konak?”

“It might be, except that everybody in the Villa and the town knows that no one belonging to the Court will drive to-day. You cannot surely have forgotten that the Queen is commemorating the late King’s birthday in retirement in her own apartments? If orders were given to prepare a carriage, it would instantly be surmised that something alarming had occurred, and a small band of resolute men could easily stop us at a dozen points between this and the Dardanian frontier. Moreover, we must not forget that the relations between the Scythian and Dardanian Courts are very close, and to my mind the message brought by this man Sergeivics to his fellow-conspirators here points to some knowledge of the plot on the part of Baron Natarin, if not of a more exalted individual behind him. It might even be a portion of the design to drive her Majesty into seeking refuge in Dardania.”

“One must hope,” said M. Stefanovics, with some pique, “that you have some plan of your own to propose for securing the safety of their Majesties, Count, since you see so many flaws in all that I can suggest.”

“Exactly; I have a plan—but I know that you will see innumerable flaws in it, although it is the only one that seems to me to offer a hope of success.”

“If it commends itself to your Excellency,” said Paschics stoutly, “that is enough for me.”

M. Stefanovics gave a nod of acquiescence, and Cyril brought out a map of the district and unrolled it. “You perceive,” he said, “that in this case the railway and the telegraph, instead of being, as usual, our friends, are our enemies, since they are in the power of the conspirators. My idea is, then, to avoid them altogether, and provide a means of escape for their Majesties by way of the old post-road, which takes quite a different route from the railway, and reaches at last the estates of Prince Mirkovics, whose loyalty no one can doubt, and who will provide us with a safe asylum until help can be obtained from Bellaviste.”

“But you forget, my dear Count, that spring can scarcely be said to have begun, and that the post-road passes through the forest and across the mountains before it reaches the Mirkovics domain.”

“I do not forget it; but this is a matter of life and death, Stefanovics.”

“But surely the presence of so large a body of travellers on the old road would create such a stir that it would be impossible for the Court to travel unnoticed, not to mention the difficulty of providing transport for so many?”

“You are right, and delay or recognition would simply mean that we should be pursued and brought back. No; I do not intend to conduct a Court progress, after the manner of a second flight to Varennes. My idea is simply that M. Paschics and I should smuggle the Queen, the little King, and one lady-in-waiting, through the country in disguise.”

The audacity of the proposal took away M. Stefanovics’s breath.

“And the rest of the Court?” he inquired blankly.

“I am afraid they must stay here, in blissful ignorance, until the escape of their Majesties is discovered. The conspirators are not likely to be bloodthirsty, except in the case of unfortunate suspects like myself.”

“We are to remain at the Villa, while you and the Queen—Holy Peter! do you imagine the Queen would ever consent to such a plan of escape, Count?”

“I trust she may, if it is put before her suddenly. If she had time to think over it, I agree with you that there would be no hope. You see how the thing works out. I must pretend to start for Bellaviste as I had arranged to do, in order to avert suspicion; but you must let me into the Villa again by the private stairway. Then we must lay the matter before the Queen, and prevail upon her to start at once. We can only count on being left in peace until the time when the Villa is usually quiet for the night.”

“The risk is terrible. And yet, what else——? But you will never obtain her Majesty’s consent.”

“Then her Majesty will have the pleasure of seeing me shot down before her eyes, I presume. But do you agree to the plan in so far as you are concerned?”

“How can I venture to object to it? It seems the only hope, and you are risking more than the rest of us. A few days’ imprisonment would be the worst punishment we should receive. But the hardships of your journey will be dreadful for women and a child.”

“Better than the dungeons of the Bishop’s palace—that is all one can say. The season is altogether on the side of the conspirators. Then you will come into the scheme, Stefanovics? Now, Paschics, for your part. You have some relations living not far off, I believe?”

“Yes, Excellency; a married brother, who farms his own land.”

“And you did not go to see them at Christmas, I think? Well, it will be convenient if you pay them a visit to-day. Start after lunch, and take a bag—full of presents for the children, or delicacies from the town, or anything of the sort. You may let it be known that you will not be back to-night. At your brother’s, hire his lightest cart, with the two best horses he has, and tell him he will find it the day after to-morrow left for him at No. 4 posting-house on the old road to Bellaviste. Put in some straw—as much as you can—and any rugs you can get to make it comfortable, and as soon as it is dark this evening, drive the cart to the spot where the corner of the Alexova estate touches the old road. Wait there under the trees and give your horses a good feed. If we succeed we will join you; if not, you had better get back to your brother’s as fast as you can, for your own sake. By the bye, could you disguise yourself as a courier?”

“With the greatest ease, your Excellency.”

“Then take with you anything you will require. You will be wanted to-morrow as courier to an English family whose carriage has met with an accident. I will see about the passport.”

“One moment, Count,” said M. Stefanovics, with some embarrassment. “I do not wish to interfere with your excellent plans; but you are, after all, a young man and unmarried. Would it not be more suitable—less open to unfavourable remark—if Madame Stefanovics and I undertook the responsible task of conducting her Majesty’s flight, in conjunction, of course, with M. Paschics?”

“It would simply be putting my neck in a noose,” muttered Paschics, gazing apprehensively at the placid face and comfortable girth of the worthy chamberlain.

“I have no objection whatever,” returned Cyril. “You must see for yourself that I risk my life in coming back at all, and the slightest misfortune or accident might lead to our being hunted down like wolves. By all means carry the thing through, Stefanovics. No doubt you have more influence than I have over the Queen, who is not exactly the easiest of ladies to manage.”

“True,” remarked M. Stefanovics sadly. “Count, I have done you an injustice. You alone can carry out this scheme, if any one can do it. I will not venture, for I should only fail, and do harm to others.”

Cyril laughed silently to himself as the two men left the room, and then turned his attention to arranging several matters of importance connected with the great scheme. It was necessary first to write to M. Drakovics; but when the letter was finished he put it into his pocket, and did not post it. Next he busied himself in drawing up a passport for the party of English travellers of whom he had spoken to Paschics, and who comprised a Mrs Weston, her brother, her little son, her nurse, and an Italian courier. The document did not leave Cyril’s hands; but when he had finished with it, it bore other signatures than his, carefully copied from a genuine passport which lay before him on the table. There was one thing which he did not attempt to imitate—the stamp of the frontier official whose duty it was to see that all passports were in order. Cyril had not a stamp at hand, and it would risk suspicion, and certainly cause delay, to send for one, while a bad imitation might arouse doubts as to the genuineness of the whole thing. It went to his heart to set out with the document incomplete; but he knew that it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice technical perfection to practical utility, and after drying his handiwork carefully in the sun, he put it by safely. He had intended after this to take advantage of Dietrich’s absence at dinner to go to his own quarters and pack a small bag with necessaries, hiding it in his office, where the valet would not be likely to find it; but he decided that it was improbable he would be able to carry it, and contented himself with putting two or three indispensable articles in his pockets. There were still various things to be arranged in view of his impending departure, and he spent the afternoon in attending to these. He had his farewell audience of the Queen, dined with the household, and drove to the station with Stefanovics, who was deputed to see him off. There were several dignitaries on the platform, who had come for the same purpose—the mayor of the town, the commandant of the garrison, an archdeacon to represent the Bishop, and one or two others. It was only right that they should be there; but Cyril felt sure that some of them would have found excuses and stayed away if it had not been that they were eager to assure themselves of his departure by the evidence of their own eyes. He stayed on the platform talking to them for some minutes, and then entered his carriage, which was one of those belonging to the royal train, but had been detailed for the service of the Minister of the Household.

“It’s a blessing all that fuss is over!” he said aloud, as the door was shut after he had shaken hands with the officials outside. “Now that we are left to ourselves, Dietrich, I think I will change my things. What is the good of a holiday if one doesn’t wear holiday clothes?”

To Dietrich, who knew that his master shared the incomprehensible dislike of most Englishmen for livery of any kind, it was quite natural that he should be anxious to change his official uniform at once for a suit of ordinary clothes, and the transformation was quickly effected and concealed by the regulation overcoat which had been worn in driving to the station. It was well that this precaution had been taken, for before long a sudden hubbub arose on the platform, followed by a visit of the mayor to the carriage. Sergeivics, with his escort of police, had just been conducted to a third-class compartment, and the gentlemen on the platform were anxious to know of what crime he was accused. Happily Cyril was able to gratify their curiosity by a vivid description of the theft of the cigarette-case, aggravated, as it was, by the possession of the revolver, which had, no doubt, also been purloined, and his account interested them so much that they all crowded into the carriage to hear it. Cyril began to fear that they would insist on travelling with him as far as the next station, which would have complicated matters seriously; but it was as important for them to be in Tatarjé that night as to see him out of it, and they returned to the platform precipitately when the bell rang. The moment for Cyril’s great coup was close at hand; but there was not the slightest trace of excitement visible in his manner as he stretched himself in an arm-chair, and raised his arms behind his head in a long yawn.

“I shan’t want you any more to-night, Dietrich; and don’t come bothering me at every station. Get a good night’s rest; I shall ring fast enough if I want you. And, by the bye, if I don’t call out to you when we get to Bellaviste in the morning, don’t come in and wake me. See that the car is shunted into the siding, and take this letter straight to his Excellency the Premier. You understand? You are not to lose a minute. Then go home: if I have got there before you, it will be all right; if not, wait for orders. You can go now.”

But Dietrich had failed fully to comprehend the order, and it was necessary to repeat and emphasise it, so that the train was already in motion when he betook himself to his own compartment. Cyril, who had drawn up one of the blinds, and was bowing his farewells to the group on the platform, turned with a sudden quickening of the heart as he heard the door shut behind the valet. The speed was increasing; in another moment his time for action would come. He threw off his overcoat, and felt mechanically in his pockets to see whether he had transferred to them everything he wanted. The train moved slowly out of the lighted station into the dark night, and Cyril opened the door of communication, and stepped out on the gangway between the two carriages. Climbing over the railing, he remained for a moment holding to its outer edge, then let himself drop. He fell clear of the line, and rolled out of the way of the train, remaining prostrate at the side of the road until the last carriage had passed, then climbed the bank (the station stood outside the town), and plunged into the wood which fringed it. He had studied his route carefully on the map, and carried a compass on his watch-chain, which he consulted every now and then with the help of a match, so that he succeeded in making his way safely round the outskirts of the town without approaching any house. He was tired, wet, and muddy when he reached at length the wall which surrounded the grounds of the Villa, and he felt it to be an additional grievance that he failed to strike the gate exactly, and had to make a considerable circuit before he came to it. The gate was reached at last, however, and it responded easily and noiselessly to the well-oiled key which he took from his pocket. Crossing the grounds, he came to the shrubbery opposite the terrace, and for some few minutes watched the sentry pacing up and down. Then there came the sound of the opening of a door, and the little red ball of light from a cigar became visible. This was the signal which Cyril had agreed upon with Stefanovics, and the next time that the sentry’s back was turned he crept across the terrace, and arrived in the doorway so suddenly as to startle the chamberlain almost into a cry. Leaving the door ajar, they crept up the narrow winding staircase on which it opened, and which was a relic of the days of the last king of the house of Franza. It communicated with a room which had been used by King Peter for receiving his Ministers—and other persons—and which now served the Queen for holding private audiences. She disliked the secret stair on account of its associations, and had wished to have it bricked up; but Cyril had succeeded in persuading her that it was an interesting historic survival, and might possibly prove useful again, little thinking how soon he was to discover the truth of his own words. One of the only two keys which fitted this door was in his possession by virtue of his office, and the lock moved easily.

“Ask to speak to Baroness von Hilfenstein,” he whispered to Stefanovics, as the latter preceded him into the room; “but on no account let out that I am here until you are sure that no one else can hear what you have to say.”

He waited in darkness behind the partially closed door until the sound of voices showed him that Stefanovics had succeeded in finding some one; but still he was not summoned, and time was flying. Pushing open the door, he appeared in the room, to the accompaniment of a little scream from the Baroness, and an outpouring of self-justification from Stefanovics.

“The Baroness refuses to admit us to her Majesty’s presence, Count, although she tells me that the Queen has sent away her maids, and is talking over the fire with Fräulein von Staubach. It is in vain that I——”

“Consider the hour, my dear Count,” said the Baroness reprovingly. “I must beg of you to retire immediately. It is in the highest degree irregular for you to seek an audience of the Queen at such a time.”

“My dear Baroness,” returned Cyril, “you know me pretty well by this time, and will believe me when I tell you that my business is of such importance that if you won’t consent to inform her Majesty of my desire to see her I must announce myself.”

After a glance at his face to assure herself that he was in earnest, the Baroness withdrew without a word, and the next sound that reached his ears was the Queen’s voice in the adjoining room.

“Count Mortimer here again? I thought we were free from him for a week at least! He asks to see me at this hour? The man must be mad. Most certainly I refuse to see him, Baroness. Be so good as to tell him that I shall know how to resent this intrusion.”

A low-toned remonstrance from the Baroness and a frightened murmur from Fräulein von Staubach followed, interrupted ruthlessly by Cyril.

“Madame,” he cried, approaching the door of communication, “I have returned at the risk of my life to bring you news of a plot which aims at the forcible conversion of your son to the Orthodox Church, and the subjugation of his kingdom to Scythia.”

“A plot to convert my son!” The door was thrown open, and Cyril had a momentary glimpse of a figure with terrified dark eyes, and rippling chestnut hair flowing over a white dressing-gown. Then the Baroness dashed forward, shutting the door in his face, and he heard her agonised voice—

“Madame, remember your position! I entreat your Majesty——”

The rest was inaudible, and Cyril stood fuming over the precious time which was being lost because the old woman would not allow him to see the Queen in a dressing-gown. But the door opened again almost immediately, and the Queen stood on the threshold, pale and calm. The other ladies had clad her in a loose black gown, and hidden away her hair under the flowing crape veil she wore in the daytime, and she looked a different being.

“Tell me, Count,” she said, “when is this plot to be carried out?”

“To-night, madame; and I believe very shortly. You and the King were to be seized in your beds and carried off to the Bishop’s palace, there to be starved into compliance with the demands of the conspirators.”

“And you would advise us, no doubt, to take refuge in the castle immediately?”

“I fear, madame, that you would only be running into danger. The garrison is honeycombed with disaffection.”

“Then there is only one chance left, for I know well that it is impossible to defend this house. We must go to the municipal offices, and throw ourselves on the protection of the burghers.”

“Unfortunately, madame, there is no safety there. The whole of Tatarjé is utterly disloyal.”

“Then what are we to do?” Her voice rang piteously in his ears; but she dashed the tears resolutely from her eyes. “Count, I rely upon you to help me. This plot threatens my son’s honour—not only his kingdom. You have not come here simply to warn us of the approach of inevitable danger. You have a plan to save the King. Tell me what it is. I will follow your advice.”

She had risen so completely above her usual level that for the moment Cyril was tempted to forget her inveterate distrust of him. He answered promptly—

“There is one way to save the King and yourself, madame. If you will consent to adopt a disguise, and to start immediately upon a somewhat troublesome journey, with your son and one lady in attendance, I will do my best to conduct you safely to Bellaviste.”

“Ah! you have made plans for this journey?”

“One does not generally undertake such a venture at haphazard, madame. I have done what I could to ensure success, and I may say that I have good hopes of attaining it.”

“And what,” she demanded, in a voice that made him jump, “is there to assure me that this is not a plot of your own, invented for the purpose of making me ridiculous or even humiliating me in the eyes of the world? Where are the proofs of the conspiracy you have discovered?”

“I have none,” said Cyril laconically. Her change of tone had restored his mind immediately to its usual balance. “If you will wait half an hour or so, madame, the proofs will probably arrive in the persons of the conspirators; but it will then be too late to save your son.”

She bit her lips with vexation. “It is useless to ignore the fact, Count, that the relations between us have not been wholly amicable of late, and you are popularly supposed never to let slip an opportunity of revenging yourself.”

“A guilty conscience is usually an unpleasant companion, madame; but on this occasion it is also an untrustworthy adviser.”

“How? Do you venture to imply—— You must be aware that you are asking me to repose an extraordinary degree of confidence in you, Count.”

“Not more than your husband reposed in me, madame. Have I ever betrayed that confidence? Even when you most disliked my measures, have they not proved to be advantageous—even necessary?”

“Unhappily they have. But this case is wholly without precedent.”

“It is for you, madame, to decide whether you prefer to be saved in an unprecedented way, or ruined in a manner which is unfortunately not entirely new. If your son is to be rescued, I must ask you to make up your mind quickly now, and to be obedient afterwards.”

“Obedient! That is a strange word to use to me!”

“I have no doubt that the action is equally new to you, madame.”

She turned from him with a gesture of disgust. “How am I to decide?” she asked angrily. “On the one side I risk my son’s kingdom, on the other my good name. If I could only trust him! Baroness, I will not appeal to you. If Count Mortimer suggested a journey to the moon, you would only inquire mildly, ‘By what route does the Herr Graf propose to conduct us?’ Sophie, you are not a blind idolater. Tell me quickly—shall I trust him?”

Poor Fräulein von Staubach, finding herself thus appealed to, turned first red and then white, twisted her fingers painfully together, and sought inspiration in the corners of the ceiling. Her advice came suddenly, accompanied by a rush of tears and a great gulp: “Trust him, madame. I believe you may.”

“Then you also have gone over to the enemy!” said the Queen sarcastically, as she turned again to Cyril. “I congratulate you upon your convert, Count. I wish you would exercise the same influence over me; but as you have not thought fit to do so, I am afraid I must ask you to swear that you have told me nothing but the truth, and that your motives are what you represent them to be. Will you do this?”

“No, madame, I will not swear. If you cannot accept the word of a man who has endangered his life in order to serve you, you must drag him down to destruction with yourself.”

She looked up in alarm, and caught sight of the repressed fury in his face. She gave a little gasp, and her eyes fell before his.

“Forgive me, Count. I do trust you. I will obey.”

Cyril’s heart leapt within him, but he betrayed no sign of exultation over his victory. His tones were sternly business-like as he said—

“Then, madame, I must beg of you to disguise yourself as an Englishwoman. Put on a tailor-made gown and a small felt hat, if you please, and a short straight veil à l’anglaise, covering only the upper part of the face. It would make it less easy for you to be recognised if the dress was not black, but of some coloured cloth. Bring also a fur cloak, for you will find it very cold. Which of the ladies is to be summoned to attend you?”

“Pardon me, madame; that is my place,” said Baroness von Hilfenstein, as the Queen looked round helplessly.

“I cannot consent to that, Baroness,” said Cyril. “You could not support the fatigues of the journey, and moreover, your presence will be needed here. Have you any preference as to your attendant, madame?”

“I should like to have Fräulein von Staubach if—if you—if it would not do any harm,” faltered the Queen.

“That is the very selection I would have ventured to suggest, madame. Fräulein von Staubach speaks Thracian well, and although the passport is made out for a German, we may find it desirable to change our disguise after a time. May I beg of you, Fräulein, to dress yourself to play the part of a nurse, and to see that the King is warmly wrapped up? Will you also pack a small bag with necessaries for her Majesty, and another for yourself. They must not be too large to be carried conveniently in the hand, for we have to cross the park on foot before we can reach the vehicle which is awaiting us. And pray waste no time. Every minute is precious.”

The three ladies disappeared promptly, and Cyril stood waiting for what seemed to him to be hours. He curbed his impatience, and whiled away the time by making one or two final arrangements with M. Stefanovics; but they had both relapsed into an uneasy silence before Baroness von Hilfenstein entered the room, and beckoned Cyril out of earshot of the chamberlain.

“You think success is possible in this enterprise of yours, Count?”

“Certainly possible, Baroness; and possibly certain.”

“I did not come to ask you to play upon words,” very severely.

“I ask your pardon, Baroness. The danger has excited me. I think I must be fey.”

“I do not know that word, my dear Count.”

“It only means that some one is walking over my grave, Baroness.”

“Do not speak in that way,” said the old lady, looking at him with alarm not unmixed with tenderness. “Count, I cannot forget to-night that you are a young man, although it has never struck me before. Can I depend upon you to take such care of the Queen as I myself should take were I with you?”

“I promise you, Baroness, that I will take as much care of the Queen as she will allow me.”

“She will prove somewhat trying, I do not doubt. But you have mastered her to-night, and that may change her manner towards you. I cannot tell—I am afraid——”

“Are you afraid of her Majesty or of me, Baroness?”

The sudden question recalled the Baroness to her duty. “I am not afraid of either of you; but I am very much afraid of circumstances,” she replied, looking straight at Cyril.

“I have always aimed at moulding circumstances, Baroness, and not at allowing them to mould me.”

“That is very well, but circumstances are sometimes too strong—— But guard well the proprieties, my dear Count. Maintain the niceties of etiquette with even unusual care, for they will form a barrier to protect the Queen from her unfortunate surroundings. You will promise me this?”

“Anything in reason, Baroness. I will do my best, certainly. But,” changing the subject with some impatience, “may I remind you that our escape will largely depend upon you? Of course it is impossible to defend this house; but the longer you can keep the conspirators in talk before they discover the Queen’s absence, the better for us.”

“You are right. I will meet them and argue with them, refuse to allow them to proceed, and retreat only inch by inch before threats of violence. And then, Count, I will try another expedient. When they insist on seeing the Queen, my daughter shall personate her Majesty. They are about the same height, and through the crape veil it will be impossible to detect the difference.”

“It is an excellent idea, Baroness, if Baroness Paula has the nerve to carry it out. But what about the King?”

“We will dress up a pillow in his clothes, and Mrs Jones shall carry it. If we are hurried away to the Bishop’s palace at once, they will not detect the trick until the morning, which will—— Oh, is that you, Mrs Jones?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is; and hearin’ no good of myself, as they say no eavesdroppers don’t. I think I see myself carryin’ about a pillow dressed up in his Majesty’s clothes, and the precious lamb himself left to that there Frawline!”

“Mrs Jones, we cannot take you with us.” Cyril spoke sharply, noting that Mrs Jones was ready equipped for the journey. “You would be recognised anywhere,” for tales of the magnificence of demeanour of the King’s nurse, and her unbending deportment towards the natives of her land of exile, circulated wherever the Court moved, “and that would ruin the whole scheme. You must stay here, and obey the orders of the Baroness, and so help us to save the King.”

“Thank you, my lord; and what if I declines to stay here?”

“Then you will have the responsibility of destroying the King’s only chance of escape. We are in your hands, Mrs Jones. If you will stay behind, it will help to gain time for us to get beyond the reach of pursuit; but you may as well go and inform the conspirators at once that we are trying to escape as insist on coming with us. Which is it to be?”

“My lord, if me stayin’ here can help the King and your lordship to escape, I’ll stay here till Doomsday, and no one shan’t drag me from the house, not if wild horses was to try it. I thank you, my lord, for talkin’ to me like a reasonable Christian woman, and here I stays, and no thanks to no one else, neither!”

And Mrs Jones retired with added dignity, just as the Queen entered the room, looking absurdly young and girlish in her grey tweed dress and simple hat, and followed by Fräulein von Staubach, with the little King, well wrapped up, fast asleep in her arms.

“One moment before we start, madame,” said Cyril. “From this time forward you are an English lady, Mrs Weston, and I am your brother, Arthur Cleeves. Your Christian name is Lilian. The King is your son Tommy, Fräulein von Staubach is his German nurse Julie, and my clerk Paschics, who is waiting for us on the other side of the park, is Carlo, an Italian courier. We are travelling by road, and our carriage has broken down, which makes it necessary for us to hire a country cart to convey us to the next posting-station. Let me impress upon you the necessity of speaking nothing but English, and of keeping to our assumed names, even when no strangers are present, for the sake of practice. I think you had better give me the child, Fr—Julie, and I will take my sister’s bag, if you can manage your own. Now we had better start—Lilian.”

The Queen gave Baroness von Hilfenstein a half-tearful, half-smiling glance, for the old lady’s face was a study when she heard Cyril’s words, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from insisting, even at this late hour, on the abandonment of the scheme. “Take care of her Majesty,” she whispered anxiously to Fräulein von Staubach, holding her back from descending the stairs after the other two; “remind her constantly of her position. Maintain all the restraints possible, and remember that if anything happens, I shall never forgive you or myself.”

Very much flurried, and totally unable to comprehend the full force of the warning, Fräulein von Staubach nevertheless promised faithfully to observe it, and hurried down the steps after her mistress, who had reached the door at the foot of the staircase. Here the fugitives stood for a moment in the shadow, listening to the beating of their own hearts, while M. Stefanovics, emerging from the doorway, joined the sentry in his walk, and accompanied him to the end of the terrace, where he directed his attention to an imaginary glare in the sky over the city, which he suggested was due to a street-fire. While the sentry, deeply interested (for he knew something of the plot, and was watching for any sign of its being carried out), was doing his best to see the remarkably faint and fitful glow pointed out to him, Cyril directed the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach to cross the terrace as quietly as possible, and conceal themselves among the shrubs on the farther side. The next moment he followed them; but the interval had been long enough to allow a fear to seize him which covered his brow with cold sweat. What if the conspirators were already in hiding among those very bushes? But no one appeared, and no movement was made, and he led the way through the gardens, walking on the grass wherever he could so as to avoid making any sound, and then through a wicket-gate into the park. Here their progress was much more satisfactory, for they were quite out of sight from the house, and could walk rapidly over the turf, although it required some care to avoid coming into unpleasantly close and sudden contact with the trees. But when the more open ground was left behind, and it was necessary to plunge into a thick wood, the ladies found their difficulties greatly increased, and the more so that Cyril, encumbered as he was with the sleeping child and the Queen’s bag, could do little to aid them. They made no complaint, and toiled on bravely through briers and wet bushes, which had a perverse way of springing back and striking the unwary traveller on the face; but it was no small relief to Cyril when they reached the boundary of the estate, and a whistle from him brought up Paschics to relieve him temporarily of the burden of the little King, and to help the ladies over the fence. They descended the steep bank to the road, where the Queen stopped suddenly, aghast at the sight of the vehicle awaiting them, and then laughed until the tears came into her eyes. It was the usual light wooden cart of the more advanced among the farmers, without springs or tilt, and provided with a board by way of driving-seat. The floor was covered thickly with straw, and there were several rugs stowed away in the front, while the two rough, stout little horses had had their bells carefully removed.

“Come, Lilian, let me help you up,” said Cyril briskly, handing the little King to Fräulein von Staubach, and mounting into the cart. “I can make you and Tommy a most comfortable nest in the straw, and there is a rug for Julie as well. Give me your hand, and Carlo will show you where to put your foot.”

The Queen, with the tears still in her eyes, allowed herself to be helped in, and sat silent as Cyril lifted the child and laid him in her arms; but when Fräulein von Staubach had been established beside her, and Paschics had produced a piece of tarpaulin, which he fastened to the sides of the cart so as to shelter the inmates, she put out her hand suddenly and laid it on Cyril’s.

“Don’t think I am ungrateful,” she said; “it is all so strange. I feel as if I were in a dream. But I will do all I can to avoid being a trouble to you.”

CHAPTER XI.
WAYFARING.

When in after-days Cyril looked back to the events of that night, they seemed to him like the course of a bad dream. The first part of the journey was easy enough, for the road was good, and he occupied the driving-seat with Paschics, exchanging a word with him occasionally, and keeping him supplied with cigars, for the Queen had entreated them to smoke. But when some ten English miles had been covered without interruption, it became necessary to leave the road for an old and almost disused cart-track, leading through rough and hilly country. By this means the first three posting-stations on the road would be missed altogether, a step which was imperative unless the fugitives were simply to be traced from point to point along their way; but time was so precious that Cyril would have been inclined to try whether it was impossible to slip past them unnoticed, if it had not been that the hill-track, though rough, was far shorter than the post-road. There was no more easy driving now. Cyril and Paschics spent the greater part of the night in walking up and down interminable hills, sometimes dragging the horses on, sometimes holding them back, and varying these occupations by pushing at the cart behind, or lifting the wheels out of pits of mud. The two women and the child were so completely tired out that they were scarcely awakened even by the most tremendous jolts, and descents which would have appeared impossible in daylight were attempted confidently by the light of the lantern which Paschics carried, and which was constantly in request for the purpose of consulting the map or the compass. At length the worst and longest hill, having been successfully passed, proved to be the last one, and the two men and the worn-out horses stumbled painfully into the highroad. Looking at one another, in the grey light of the March morning, Cyril and Paschics became aware that they both presented a very disreputable appearance, and the short interval which was granted to the horses for rest and refreshment was utilised by their masters in getting rid of as much mud as possible from their own persons and the wheels of the cart. This was to avoid attracting attention by the amount of soil they were carrying with them, as the mud on the highroad differed in colour from that of the hill-track, besides being much less abundant.

This necessary operation finished, the weary horses were urged on again, Cyril taking his turn of driving, purely for the purpose of keeping himself awake. Happily there was little chance of meeting any one on the road, for the traffic between Tatarjé and other large towns was now carried on almost entirely by means of the railway, and there were no isolated houses or small hamlets to be passed. In the districts nearer to the capital the confidence born of a settled government showed its results in the shape of scattered farms and country houses; but in the province of which Tatarjé was the centre things were not so far advanced, and the fortified villages still occupied points of vantage on the hillside, or hid themselves in secluded valleys, as they had done in the days of Roumi domination. After a time Cyril gave up the reins again to Paschics, and was actually sleeping on his uncomfortable seat, when a voice from behind aroused him.

“Oh, how funny!” it said. “What is we doing, Herr Graf?”

Looking round, he saw the little King kneeling on the straw, and peering up at him from under the edge of the tarpaulin. Thinking that it would be a good thing to caution the child, for fear of his betraying the party, Cyril turned and held out his arms.

“Take hold of my hands, Majestät, and you shall come and sit between us here. Don’t make a noise, or you will wake your mother. That’s it!”

“But where’s nursie—and everybody? And there’s no breakfast. And why are we driving in this funny thing? And the escort has got left behind; but we aren’t going very fast.”

“No, this is a new game,” said Cyril, as the child wriggled from side to side in making these discoveries, “and if you will sit quiet, I’ll tell you about it. We are playing at being English people, and we all have different names. You are a little English boy, and your name is Tommy Weston. Fräulein is pretending to be your nurse, and I am your Uncle Arthur. M. Paschics is called Carlo.”

“Carlo,” repeated the child meditatively. “And what is mamma?”

“She is your mother still; but her name is Mrs Weston.”

“But what is the game, Herr Graf?”

“You must call me Uncle Arthur, not Herr Graf. We are playing at enemies, don’t you see?—travelling through their country; and if they once find out that we are not English, we shall be killed. So you must never speak anything but English, remember, and never call any of us by our old names, because it would do a great deal of harm—I mean it would spoil the game.”

“I don’t think it’s a very interesting game,” said the little King dolefully. “The enemy ought to be coming after us, or hiding behind the hedges to shoot as we go by.”

“I hardly think you would like it if they did,” remarked Cyril.

“No; because we couldn’t run away very fast in this cart, could we? We should have to ride away on the horses,—and there are only two of them.”

“Yes, and they are very tired, too. But I hope in a little while we shall be able to get a carriage, and travel comfortably.”

“And shall we have breakfast too?”

“I rather think Carlo has some provisions that you can begin upon at once. There! will that keep the wolf from the door a little?”

“Oh, it’s just like a picnic!” said King Michael ecstatically, looking at the coarse dark bread and flabby ewe’s-milk cheese which Paschics produced from a bag and handed to him. “Thank you, Carlo; thank you, Uncle Arthur.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said Paschics to Cyril, when the child was engrossed with his frugal meal, “that we may not find it as easy to obtain a carriage and horses at the posting-station as you expect. When I was at my brother’s, and it was too late to let you know, I heard that the traffic by this road had fallen off so much since the construction of the railway, that the regulations were not enforced, and the people at the stations had almost given up keeping horses in readiness. I fear we shall meet with delay, at best.”

“Well, we can’t help it,” returned Cyril, after a moment of dismay, due to his perception of the truth of the detective’s words. The road had been constructed purely for military and strategical purposes, to relieve Tatarjé from the isolation caused by its position as the most outlying portion of the kingdom, and did not follow any of the native trade-routes. The inns and posting-stations maintained by Government had thriven so long as the road presented the swiftest means of communication with the capital; but as soon as the railway was opened, they lost their principal raison d’être.

“After all,” Cyril went on cheerfully, “a little rest will do none of us any harm, and we have a good start. The conspirators have no means of knowing what route we have taken, and I hope that our avoiding the first three post-houses will prevent them from discovering it by accident. There is only treachery left, and if we are to be betrayed we may as well be captured sooner as later.”

“Uncle Arthur,” said the little King, “mamma is awake: I think she would like some of this nice bread and cheese.”

“I’m afraid she is not so hungry as you are, Tommy; but take her the bag, by all means, and ask her whether she would not like to have the cover taken off the cart, so that she can sit up.”

The Queen accepted the offer willingly, and she and Fräulein von Staubach straightened their hats and picked a few stray pieces of straw out of their hair before partaking of the bread and cheese. The Queen laughed merrily as Cyril handed her the bag, which proved too heavy for King Michael to carry.

“We will look as respectable as we can,” she said, “even if we are travelling like gipsies. I feel quite excited with wondering what extraordinary thing we shall have to do next.”

“What a blessing that she takes it in this way!” thought Cyril, reflecting on the inevitable unpleasantness if she had chosen to behave with the austere dignity which had characterised her manner of late; “but what would the Baroness say?”

It was not necessary, happily, to settle this point, and Cyril devoted himself to trying to cheer the tired horses to greater exertions, to the end that as little time might be wasted as possible. When the posting-station was reached, the fears expressed by Paschics proved to be only too well founded. True, it was possible to obtain a carriage; but it was old and dilapidated, and needed a thorough cleaning, and the only horses that could draw it were engaged in farm-work at some distance off, and must be brought in by the man who was to act as driver. All this would take some time—so long, indeed, that, as the post-keeper shrewdly observed, it would be as well for the travellers to wait a little longer and lunch before starting, since there was no inn to be found until they reached the little town where they would probably wish to spend the night. Cyril communicated this piece of advice to the Queen, and she begged him immediately to act upon it. Somewhat surprised by her tone, he obeyed.

“And now,” she said, when he returned after making the necessary arrangements, “I insist that you and Carlo shall take possession of that room,” pointing to the solitary apartment devoted to the accommodation of travellers, “and get some rest. Do you think I do not know that you have had no sleep all night?”

“In your service it is our duty never to feel fatigue,” said Cyril, with a bow.

“Then it is quite clear that neither of you is equal to his duty. Suppose you find it impossible to sleep again to-night, in what condition will you be? I shall refuse to intrust my life to your care. Come—Arthur—you will be able to get nearly three hours’ rest, if you don’t waste time. I command you, Count.”

“Madame, I obey, if it is only to keep you from such imprudences as that last speech.” The Queen, who had stamped her foot vehemently as she spoke, looked nonplussed for a moment, and then blushed hotly, and Cyril went on. “I must warn you again that the slightest indiscretion may ruin our chance of escape. And how do you mean to pass the morning, Lilian, if we take possession of the only room?”

“Oh, we will sit in the kitchen with the post-keeper’s wife,” she replied, recovering herself quickly, “and help her to prepare our lunch. You need not be afraid of my being indiscreet, for you know that I speak no Thracian, and Sophie—Julie, I mean—is much too prudent to interpret anything dangerous. I promise you that we will not go out in front of the house—we are far too much frightened. Now au revoir, Monsieur my brother!”

Cyril retired obediently, and she turned in triumph to Fräulein von Staubach.

“Do you say I am selfish now, Sophie?”

“I am sure, madame, that I have never ventured——”

“Oh yes, you have. You venture to say a good deal sometimes. But you will never be able to say that again, at any rate. Do you know that I am in such a state of terror that I could almost scream? My nerves are all on edge, and I feel as if the only thing that would calm me would be to make Count Mortimer talk to me the whole morning, and yet I have sent him to rest.”

“Madame, if your brother heard you, he would scarcely feel able to rest.”

“True, but how is one to remember? Oh, Julie, I wish we could have gone on, however slowly, rather than waste time like this! Every sound terrifies me. If a band of pursuers were to appear, I believe I should die on the spot, simply of terror.”

“Madame, be calm. You are trembling from head to foot, and your brother’s task will be made almost impossible if you allow yourself to get into this state. Come into the kitchen, and we will talk to the woman, and ask her to find us something to do.”

In the primitive kitchen, where King Michael was lying flat on the earthen floor investigating the mysteries of a rat-hole behind the flour-bin, the two ladies spent an uneventful if anxious morning. So lonely was the place that only one wayfarer passed by, and he was going towards Tatarjé, not coming from it, but his arrival roused the Queen to fresh alarm. While the woman of the house was supplying the traveller with a glass of spirits in the rude verandah in front, King Michael was astonished to find himself seized and clutched fast by his mother, whose pale face and wild eyes filled him with amazement. As soon as he could he wriggled out of her grasp and returned to the rat-hole, while the Queen, in obedience to a warning look from Fräulein von Staubach, resumed her task of plucking a fowl, which she did very badly. As a patriotic German, Fräulein von Staubach attributed this inexpertness, in her conversation with the woman of the house, to the lack of domesticity among English ladies, and illustrated her remarks by some awful examples, much to the edification of the Thracian dame. To the Queen, who understood scarcely a word—for she had obstinately refused throughout her married life to study the language of her adopted country—the talk failed to afford much amusement; but it helped to pass away the weary hours, and the difficulties incident to her occupation prevented her mind from dwelling exclusively on her many reasons for anxiety. Still, it was with heartfelt relief that she hunted out King Michael from his corner at last, and carried him off into the yard behind the house to have the dust brushed off his clothes, and his face and hands washed before lunch, for the horses had been brought in, and the driver was giving a somewhat perfunctory cleaning to the untidy old carriage. They would soon be on their way again, she thought, and her relief made her smile pleasantly at Cyril as he emerged from his room, looking as spick and span as if he had come fresh from the skilful hands of Dietrich. The luncheon was set out in the sunny verandah before the house, and the little party that gathered round the uncovered table took their seats upon the rough benches, prepared to do full justice to the meal. An involuntary smile crossed Cyril’s face when he found himself at the head of the board, with the Queen and her boy on either side of him, while at the lower end of the table, and on the same bench as the Queen, were Paschics and Fräulein von Staubach.

“What are you laughing at, Arthur?” asked the Queen.

“I was wondering what Baroness von Hilfenstein would say if she saw us now,” he replied.

“Oh, let us forget the Baroness for a little!” she said impatiently. “This is a picnic in a different world. We are quite another set of people, and it doesn’t signify to her what we do.”

Cyril smiled again, but said nothing, and they went on talking and laughing as they ate until the Queen dropped her knife suddenly.

“Listen!” she cried, turning pale. “I hear horses.”

“They are coming in the opposite direction,” said Cyril, after a moment of awful suspense, “and there are only two or three. Pull yourself together, Lilian, and play your part well. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She smiled rather forlornly; but her hand released its tight grip of the King’s, and she began to cut her bread resolutely into small squares, as though it was all important that the fragments should be exactly the same size. Meanwhile, the post-keeper’s wife, hearing the approaching sounds, came to the door to look out.

“It is the sub-prefect, no doubt,” she said. “He is visiting every house in the district to make some inquiry for the Government.”

As no house-to-house inquiry had been ordered from Bellaviste, the thought suggested itself to Cyril that the sub-prefect was probably in league with the conspirators, and had received his directions from Tatarjé; but he did not feel it necessary to alarm the Queen further with the idea. It was not long before the horsemen rode up—the sub-prefect, a stout man in an elderly uniform, very dirty and tarnished, and two followers who might have been stage cut-throats, but were probably privates in the Army Reserve. The woman of the house went forward to answer the official’s questions, and Cyril heard the words “English travellers” pass between them. Presently the sub-prefect dismounted and approached the group, his followers also drawing near and eyeing them with great interest.

“Why don’t they salute?” asked the little King indignantly, noting something military in the equipment of the gazers; “and why are they so untidy? Salute!” he cried, scrambling over the bench, and facing the men, to their no small amusement.

“Come here, Tommy,” said the Queen; “it is not for you to give orders. My little boy has always been accustomed to be saluted by his father’s soldiers,” she said graciously in English to the sub-prefect, to whom Cyril had just offered a share of the meal.

“Ah, the lady’s husband is a soldier?” replied the sub-prefect, seating himself, and letting his little eyes rove over the group, when Cyril, assisted by Paschics, had rendered the apology into halting Thracian. “The English have very few soldiers. You have travelled from Tatarjé this morning, I suppose?” turning to Cyril.

“No, indeed; through an awkward accident we have been obliged to come across country in a cart belonging to a farmer named Paschics.”

“Ah, I know Anton Paschics. But the proceeding is irregular—very. You have a passport, I suppose?”

“We could scarcely have got so far on our journey without one,” replied Cyril, producing the document.

“Signed and countersigned quite correctly, I see. But where is the frontier official’s stamp? You came by Velisi, I presume?”

“You really can’t expect a foreigner to know the name of every place he passes. I know one has to go through any number of formalities. Do you mean to say that this thing is not correct?”

“Very far from correct. It lacks a most important verification. I cannot accept this passport. We are warned to be very careful about foreign travellers.”

“But surely that warning was directed against possible Scythian spies?” objected Cyril, who began to find the measures of precaution, the adoption of which he had recommended in his official capacity, recoiling on his own head.

“Yes, to please you English—at least, your countryman, Count Mortimer—and therefore it is only fair that I should use it against you. I must insist on your returning to Tatarjé with me, in order that this matter may be inquired into, instead of continuing your journey.”

The blow was a crushing one; but Cyril allowed no stronger feeling than natural irritation to appear in his face as he turned from the sub-prefect, dressed in his little brief authority, to the Queen, who had been listening anxiously.

“It’s a horrid bother, Lilian; but this fellow talks of taking us back to Tatarjé with him, because of some informality in this wretched thing.”

To his delight she neither shuddered nor changed colour, but replied promptly in English with an unmistakable pout, “Oh, Arthur, how awfully tiresome! We shan’t be able to get to Bellaviste for Easter, and it’s all through your insisting on coming this way. Can’t you give the man something to make him hold his tongue?”

“And the unprincipled little wretch calmly proposes to bribe her own officials to wink at an infraction of her own laws!” was the ecstatic thought that passed through Cyril’s mind as he turned again to the sub-prefect. “Look here,” he said, “the lady is very anxious to get to Bellaviste for Easter. Can’t we arrange this somehow? Perhaps”—he drew the official away from Paschics, and took from his pocket an Anglo-Thracian phrase-book to help him in his assumed difficulties with the language—“Perhaps you could affix a stamp to the passport which would help us in future? Of course, the fee would have to be paid.”

The sub-prefect’s eyes gleamed for a moment; but there was real sadness in them when he answered, much more politely than before.

“Alas, no! I have no stamp that would answer the purpose.”

“But perhaps with your assistance we might tide over this difficulty, and get on afterwards as we have done hitherto? Come, monsieur, I think I cannot be mistaken,—have I not heard of you as a collector of coins?”

“You have heard of me?” The sub-prefect was puzzled, but interested and eager.

“It is possible that I might be able to assist you with some specimens for your collection. The English sovereign, for instance—it is generally regarded as rather a handsome coin. I hope you are not already possessed of an example?”

This time the sub-prefect understood perfectly. “I have not got it,” he said. “But it is of little use to obtain a single specimen. One desires a duplicate—perhaps also one or two for purposes of exchange.”

“I fancy I could manage to let you have three.”

“I fear that I could not well do with fewer than six.”

“Oh, come now, five; and you will countersign the passport, so that we may escape trouble in future?”

“Five be it, then. The coinage of your country is quite admirable, both as to design and weight, and I am glad to obtain specimens. I cannot say that I had realised its full beauty hitherto.”

He stood testing and scrutinising with the eye of a connoisseur the five sovereigns with which Cyril, who had provided himself with a certain quantity of English money for the purpose of supporting his assumed character, presented him, and then turning again to the table, scrawled a huge “Examined and found correct,” with his signature, across the passport, which he folded up and returned to Cyril with a bow. The carriage was ready by this time, and as none of the party felt inclined to linger at the table, the luggage was brought out and they started, leaving the sub-prefect bowing on the verandah, and his henchmen saluting with broad grins.

“Courage, madame!” said Cyril in a low voice, leaning across to the Queen, who looked ready to faint now that the immediate danger was over. “You did that admirably, but we must keep on the mask still. Remember that we have the driver with us.”

She roused herself with a low shuddering sigh, but Cyril did not allow her to bear the strain unaided. There was scarcely a man in Europe who could talk more brilliantly than he could when he chose, and this afternoon he threw himself into the breach as though his whole aim in life was to enthral his hearers by his conversation. The anxious look faded gradually from the Queen’s eyes, the colour came back to her face, and before she had time to think she was engaged in an animated war of words. Cyril was instructing her in English ways, in case of their meeting any travelled official who knew England, and she, in self-defence, was displaying the knowledge of them which she already possessed, and which, if extensive, was certainly also peculiar, being derived largely from the didactic novels of half a century ago, which she had read in German translations. Thanks in some degree to a prejudice against England on the part of her mother, and also to her own past dislike of Cyril, she had no acquaintance whatever with modern English literature, and despised what she knew of English customs, so that there was ample material for conversation and also for controversy. They talked almost unceasingly for hours, interrupted only by occasional changes of horses, and by the more frequent interpellations of the little King, who listened eagerly for the illustrative anecdotes, but rejected mere information with scorn, and could only be kept in a good temper by being allowed to walk up the hills with Paschics and race down them behind the carriage. This healthy exercise tired him out at last, and he fell asleep, leaning against his mother, while the Queen and Cyril continued their discourse in lowered tones. Both were so deeply interested that it was only an irrepressible yawn from Fräulein von Staubach, for which she apologised with extreme contrition, which aroused them at last to the fact that it was already growing dusk.

“It must be nearly six o’clock,” said Cyril. “Ask the driver whether we have much farther to go, Carlo.”

“He says that we have passed the last hill, sir,” responded Paschics, after conferring with his companion upon the box, “and that there is only now a level stretch of good road between us and our stopping-place.”

“Ask him whether he can’t get a little more speed out of his horses, then. Mrs Weston is beginning to feel very tired.”

The driver whipped up the horses in obedience to the suggestion, and the carriage was going on its way at a respectable pace, when there was a sudden ominous crack. The horses swerved half across the road, and the carriage lurched violently and then seemed to settle down in front, throwing its occupants into a heap. Cyril heard the driver invoke a malediction upon a certain defective axle-tree, and was conscious that Paschics threw himself from the box, and rushed to the heads of the startled horses; but his own duty left him no time to do anything until he had extricated his frightened companions from the medley of luggage and rugs which had overwhelmed them, and set them in safety at the side of the road. Both the ladies were very much shaken, and the little King was crying lustily; but as soon as Cyril had ascertained that none of them had received any actual injury he returned to the carriage, which Paschics was examining with the aid of one of the lamps, while the driver held the horses. A very cursory examination was sufficient to convince all the three that the axle-tree, which had been spliced, braced, and strengthened many times already, was quite beyond remedy with the means at their disposal, which amounted solely to the ropes doing duty as harness, and the straps upon the baggage.

“I suppose it is out of the question to hope to find a wheelwright anywhere about,” said Cyril; “but we ought to be able to get hold of a blacksmith or carpenter who could patch this up sufficiently for us to reach the town. Ask the driver whether there is any village about here, Carlo.”

Paschics interrogated the driver, and returned to Cyril. “He says that there is no village nearer than the town, sir; but there is a large farmhouse about half a mile away across the fields. We could reach it by a cart-track which turns off from the road about a dozen yards farther on, and they would be able to give us accommodation for the night, besides helping to mend the carriage.”

“Does he think it impossible to reach the town to-night?”

Paschics translated the question, and the surly answer, “The carriage will take so long to mend, sir, that it would be impossible unless we went on travelling until after midnight, and that he will not do. He is afraid of evil spirits.”

“Then I suppose we must make the best of a bad job,” said Cyril. “Anything like our persistent ill-luck on this journey I never saw. Well, we must drag the carriage to the side of the road, and mount the ladies on the horses. You can lead one and I the other, and he shall go in front with the lamp and show us the way to the farm.”

The driver demurred at first to the idea of leaving the valuable remains of the carriage unguarded; but when it was pointed out to him that he would otherwise be separated from his still more precious horses, he acquiesced sullenly in Cyril’s decision. The horses were brought to the side of the road, and the bags and rugs tied on their backs with the harness-ropes in such a way as to form some approach to a saddle. Then the Queen mounted one, with the little King perched before her, and Fräulein von Staubach the other, and the melancholy procession started in the direction of the farm, traversing a lane in which the ruts bade fair to beat the record for depth and intricacy. When the lights of the house were seen in front, and the driver went forward to announce the plight of the party, Cyril took the opportunity of saying—

“I don’t want to frighten you, Lilian; but I don’t feel easy about this delay, following upon our meeting with our friend the sub-prefect. If he receives news from Tatarjé of our escape, he will spot us at once, and perhaps block the way in front. I think we ought to have some other disguise to which we can resort if we are hard pressed, and it might be as well if there were native clothes for all of us. Perhaps you might be able to buy one complete costume here to-night, and another in the town when we get there to-morrow morning. Carlo and I might rig ourselves out at Ortojuk, which we expect to reach at mid-day, and then we shall all have something to take to if necessary, without arousing suspicion by buying a lot of clothes all at once. What do you think, Carlo?”

“I think the idea is excellent, sir. I see no reason to apprehend treachery, but I am disturbed by this second misfortune.”

“I will certainly buy a dress if I can,” said the Queen. “I suppose there would be no harm in getting two if they were willing to sell them?”

“None whatever; only then you will have to invent some excuse for wanting them. One you might wish to take home as a curiosity, but you would scarcely—— Ah, here is our friend returning, and not alone. I hope the people are hospitably inclined.”

But there was no need for apprehension as to the welcome to be found at the farm. The family which inhabited it, and which was patriarchal in extent and in variety of ages, came out in a body to greet the travellers and assure them of hospitality, and escorted them into the high-walled courtyard which enclosed the house and outbuildings. Supper was already over, but a supplementary meal was quickly prepared; and when it had been consumed, the men of the family accompanied Paschics and the driver back to the road, to see what could be done for the carriage, while the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach were taken possession of by the women. Cyril was lounging in front of the house with a cigar, and endeavouring to draw some comfort from the different misfortunes of the day, when the Queen came out from the passage behind him.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Arthur,” she said, “but would you mind fetching Tommy for me? He has slipped out into the yard to play with the farmer’s grandchildren, and he ought to go to bed. We are doing our best to induce the women to sell us some of their clothes. They were very unwilling to part with them at first; but now the younger ones are beginning to think that they could buy themselves Western costumes with the money we should pay. Some of the things are most beautifully worked—there is a little embroidered suit belonging to one of the boys which looks as if it would just fit Tommy, so please bring him in.”

Smiling to himself at her complete absorption in the matter in hand, Cyril went in search of King Michael, whom he discovered snugly ensconced on the top of a partially demolished corn-stack, in company with the children of the farm. They were talking eagerly as he approached.

“The little stranger boy shall be the king, because he is the youngest, and has such pretty yellow hair. I will be the old queen, his mother.”

To Cyril’s horror King Michael’s voice answered in Thracian—

“I mustn’t be king, because mamma wouldn’t like it. She made me promise never to say——”

“Tommy, where are you?” interrupted Cyril, as the other children looked curiously at their new playmate. “Your mother wants you.”

“I don’t want to go to bed!” protested the little King tearfully, while the tall girl who had spoken first, and who had been winding one of his curls round her finger, laughed.

“We thought he was such a good little boy!” she said.

“I hope you always remember what your mother tells you,” said Cyril, in laboriously bad Thracian. “Come along, Tommy. Give me your hands, and I’ll jump you down.”

But the little King drew himself up. “You are not to talk to me like that,” he said. “It isn’t play, it’s rude.”

This was alarming, but Cyril laughed it off as well as he could.

“Speak English, Tommy. How am I to know what you are saying? You see that he has picked up your language from his nurse,” he explained to the other children; “I hope he has not learnt his naughtiness from you. Now, Tommy, come at once,” he added sharply.

But King Michael still refused to come, and when Cyril carried him off bodily, stiffened himself like an animated ramrod, so that it was almost impossible to hold him. Happily it was beneath his dignity to struggle or scream, and Cyril got him into the house, landing him finally at his mother’s side in the large kitchen where the women were displaying their finery. To Cyril’s intense amusement he overheard, as he came along the passage, the Queen drawing upon her imagination in picturing a gathering to be held “in the village schoolroom when we get home,” at which “my brother” would give an address on Thracia and the Thracians, illustrated by magic-lantern views, and “you and Tommy and I, Julie,” would appear on the platform in Thracian costume in order further to elucidate the lecture. The women were listening with delighted interest to Fräulein von Staubach’s rendering of her words, and it was evident that she had them all at her feet.

“I have bought two dresses, Arthur,” she said, turning to him, “and I am sure this little suit will fit Tommy. I wish we could have bought a suit for you. It would make the lecture so much more complete, wouldn’t it? And now you must give me some more money.”

“I believe she really imagines herself a travelling Englishwoman for the moment,” said Cyril to himself, as he returned to the front of the house after furnishing the Queen with a handful of Thracian silver, judiciously “salted” with English coins, “and that she is looking forward to a real penny reading when she returns to her imaginary English village. It’s queer, but at any rate it shows that she appreciated my lesson on manners and customs to-day, and it’s all the better for our purpose.”

Hearing the voices of the men returning from the highroad, he walked to the gate to meet them, and was relieved to learn that they had succeeded in effecting the necessary repairs to the carriage. On thanking the farmer for his timely help, it seemed to him, however, that his words were not received with the same bluff frankness as before; but he could perceive no reason for the change until Paschics directed his attention to a new member of the party, an unkempt-looking youngish man with waving hair and beard, and the bright, restless eyes of the fanatic.

“That is the farmer’s youngest son. He is a theological student, and has just arrived. He is on a pilgrimage, and comes from Ortojuk by way of the town we were to have reached to-night,” said the detective in English, pointing smilingly at the young man; but Cyril guessed that there was more behind.

“Tell the farmer, Carlo, that we are sorry to intrude upon a family gathering of this kind, and ask if he will allow us to smoke out here while his son has supper and they talk a little.”

The old farmer granted the request with some compunction, as it appeared, and went into the house with his family, while Cyril turned to Paschics.

“Is this another piece of ill luck?” he asked.

“Your Excellency, that man suspects us. I saw him questioning the driver, but I cannot make out how much he knows. You will remember that Ortojuk is connected with Tatarjé by telegraph, though not by railway. It seems to me that the conspirators, on discovering the escape of the King and Queen, must have circulated some account of it which is calculated to stir up the fanaticism of the people. This man, who was at Ortojuk at mid-day, seems to have carried on the news to the town at which we were to have spent the night, and if we had arrived there we should have found ourselves, as it appears to me, in the lion’s mouth.”

“Then our break-down was a piece of good luck, at any rate,” said Cyril; “but it’s not much to be set against the balance on the other side. Well, Carlo (it would be advisable to continue our precautions, in spite of all this), what do you say they will do?—arrest us themselves, or fetch the police?”

“Neither, sir; I imagine that some of them will accompany us to the town upon some pretext or other, and there inform the police of their suspicions. They will not violate the hospitality of their own roof, and they would be afraid of getting into trouble if they brought about the arrest of English travellers on a false charge.”

“That is just what I should imagine, but unhappily the other plan will be equally fatal to us. We must get away in the night.”

“Are you serious, sir? How are we to bring the horses out without waking these people?”

“We must abandon the carriage, and walk.”

“With two ladies and a child, sir! It is impossible.”

“Nevertheless, it must be done, if for nothing else, because it’s a case of dear life for you and me. But the—Mrs Weston’s resolution won’t need that spur. She would walk barefoot across Europe to keep the boy a Lutheran. And walk we must, if we are to get off.”

“But how far, sir? and what is the good?”

“We must get to Ortojuk and across the river. You know that the city commands the only bridge for many miles. If they can hold that, we are trapped. But my plan is, that we should start before these people here, and do the journey in the disguise of peasants. The ladies have the dresses they have just bought, and you and I must manage to get hold of some peasant clothes somehow, even if we have to waylay passing travellers and effect a forcible exchange. Our great safeguard will be that they cannot tell that we have changed our disguise, and we may slip through unsuspected.”

“But they will find out that you and I have purchased clothes, sir—or requisitioned them, which would be worse.”

“My good Carlo, I am not seriously proposing that we should embark upon a course of highway robbery. I merely intended to imply that we must somehow or other procure peasants’ clothes. As to the shopkeepers’ suspecting us, we must do our best to disarm their suspicions by only buying one or two things at a time—and perhaps making use of Julie as the purchaser until we have got together one complete suit. I don’t say it’s a perfect plan, Carlo; but I can’t think of a better. We must make a spurt and get across the river, and it is quite certain that we can’t do it in our own clothes. When we are over on the other side, we may get a breathing-space; but if we stop now we lose everything.”

“I know of a place of refuge over there, sir. An old cousin of my mother’s is a charcoal-burner in the forest; and my brother described to me the spot where his hut is situated. If we could reach it, we could remain hidden there for a day or two to rest and make fresh plans.”

“Good; it is a goal to aim at, at any rate, and you shall mark the place for me on the map when we get to our room. But for goodness’ sake, if you have any other plan, suggest it. This is a very forlorn hope, I know—— Listen! what is that moving in the passage?”

CHAPTER XII.
METAMORPHOSES.

Paschics literally sprang away from the doorway as Cyril asked the question; but a low voice speaking in Thracian from the darkness of the passage speedily allayed their alarm.

“Please stand as you were before,” it said, “so that if any one notices you they may not know that you are talking to me. I am Olga—you saw me on the stack with the others before my uncle came home—and my mother has sent me to warn the English gentleman. I am hiding behind the door, so that even if any of them come into the passage they will not see me; but you must speak very low, and keep your faces turned the other way.”

“Very well, mademoiselle. We are now arranged as you dictate,” said Cyril. “Pray proceed.”

“My grandfather and the rest are saying that there is something wrong about you, and they are going to tell the police to-morrow. My mother says that she cannot say what you may have done; but she doesn’t want any harm to come to the young lady or to the little boy with the pretty hair, and she advises you to get away in the night. The house-door is never locked, and she will oil the hinges to make it open easily; but she cannot do anything to the yard-gate, for it is always locked and barred, and takes two men to open it. You will have to escape over the wall; but our people all sleep soundly, so you will not wake them unless you make a great noise. The corner where there is a crooked tree close to the wall is the easiest place to climb.”

“Many thanks, mademoiselle. Your mother’s forethought is marvellous. Does her kindness extend to offering us any further assistance—in the way of disguise, for instance?”

“She says that she dares not sell you any of the men’s clothes, because they would be angry; but in the room where you will sleep there is a carved chest, with some clothes belonging to my eldest brother in it. He leaves them here because he is studying law at Bellaviste, and wears town clothes there. My mother cannot sell you his things, but——” an expressive pause.

“If you find the clothes gone in the morning, and some money in their place, you will not consider us thieves, nor think it necessary to inform your grandfather immediately of the exchange?” A giggle was the only answer, and Cyril went on, “Is there any possibility of our finding two suits in that chest, mademoiselle? for I fear we both need a change of attire.”

“Alas, no! There may not be even one complete suit, and there is certainly only one winter coat. You must apportion them as you can, gentlemen. The English gentleman needs the disguise most.” Another giggle, as the speaker evidently surveyed Cyril’s tourist suit and soft felt hat through the crack of the door.

“Mademoiselle, we lie under an unbounded obligation to your mother and yourself. Would it be possible for you to add to our load by conveying a message to the young lady or to her maid?”

“Oh yes, I could do that. They have gone to their room; but they asked me to bring them some hot water—to drink, I suppose, but it seems a funny thing to want—and I could take them a letter with it. My mother told me to tell you that they would have the room of my three aunts—that is the first door in the passage which turns off from this one at the back of the house. You have the guest-room, which is nearest to this door.”

“The arrangements of your dwelling seem a little complicated,” observed Cyril.

“Ah, that is because my grandfather has been obliged to build on a fresh piece so often when my uncles got married. But we have more rooms than any other house in the district. We are not like the people who have only one sleeping-room, and share that with the cattle—pigs, I call them.”

“Far from it,” returned Cyril. “But in England we should have given the guest-room to the ladies.”

“And put you and your servant in the worse room of the two? What a funny idea—to treat women better than men!”

And she broke into a long noiseless fit of laughter, during which Cyril tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and scribbled on it a message to the Queen:—

“Read this when none of the people of the house are with you. Some of them suspect us, and we must escape to-night. Put on the Thracian dresses you have bought, and lie down in your clothes. Get some sleep if you can; we will inform you when it is time to start. Carry your boots in your hands when we call you, and bring your own clothes in a bundle, as well as the luggage you brought. Don’t be frightened; there are friends even here. The girl Olga and her mother are to be trusted.”

He folded up the paper, and passed it in through the crack of the door, accompanied by a coin or two. He heard the girl’s gasp of delight, and a sudden swift rustle as she crept from her hiding-place; then a quick whisper reached him as she remembered something and turned back.

“When you are over the wall, don’t take the cart-road by which you came, but the right-hand one. It will lead you into the highroad a good deal farther on; and on the opposite side you will see a wood, where they have been cutting down trees lately. You might take shelter among the stacked wood until daylight. My mother feels sure that she can keep them from discovering your escape until seven o’clock.”

Then she was gone, and although Cyril caught a momentary glimpse of her in the back passage a little later, bearing two steaming wooden tumblers of hot water to the Queen’s room, she came no more to the door. When she had passed out of sight, he turned to Paschics.

“Well, Carlo, we have our work cut out for us to-night, that is evident. I think it will be well to represent that we are tired with our journey, and ask leave to go to bed as soon as possible. Then we can perfect our plans. By the bye, have you looked in at the horses at all?”

“No, sir,” responded Paschics in surprise.

“Then we will go and do it now,” and they crossed the farmyard and entered the stable. Here Cyril found a state of things which threw him into a towering passion, and made him despatch Paschics to fetch their driver, who was enjoying a pleasant evening with the two or three men employed on the farm.

“What do you mean by leaving the horses like this?” he stormed, when the man appeared, surly and reluctant. “You have not even rubbed them down, and the mud is literally caked on their legs. The black can’t reach the manger, and there is something seriously wrong with the grey’s off fore-foot. Do you imagine that I would drive about behind cattle like that? Perhaps you counted on having time to clean them in the morning, but I can assure you that we shall start too early for that. By eight o’clock we must be upon the road, and it will be the worse for you if the horses are not fit to be seen.”

Cowed by the rebukes translated to him by Paschics, the driver attempted various excuses. The horses were his own, they were not accustomed to be groomed, no travellers had ever said anything of the kind before, and so on; but Cyril cut him short, and reiterating his last warning, turned on his heel and went back to the house with Paschics.

“How is that?” he asked him. “I fancy our friend will have a pretty clear idea as to our intention of starting in good time in the morning, will he not?”

“No doubt, sir; but was it worth while to awaken the man’s enmity merely for that? I saw him scowl at you as you turned away.”

“You are right; it would not have been worth while merely for that. But while you were fetching him from the house, I took the opportunity of examining the corner of the wall by the stable, which is the very corner Miss Olga mentioned to us. Thanks to the crooked tree and the roughness of the stones, we shall be able to get the ladies over with no great difficulty, if one of us is at the top to receive them and the other at the foot to help them up.”

“I must say I wish we were safe outside, sir.”

“Why not say at once safe at Prince Mirkovics’s castle or in Bellaviste itself? But here is our venerable friend the farmer. It would be as well to ask whether he has any objection to our retiring to rest now.”

The farmer, who met them with a somewhat shame-faced countenance, offered no opposition to their wishes, and they were conducted to the guest-room, where the rugs from the carriage had been arranged so as to make a bed for Paschics on the floor.

“No bed for us to-night, Carlo,” said Cyril, catching the look of pleasure which his weary follower cast at the lowly couch. “First of all, while this primitive candle lasts, do you mark on my map the spot where your cousin the charcoal-burner lives, while I hunt for the chest of clothes. Ah, this must be it!”

But the result of a search in the chest was not wholly satisfactory. The sheepskin-lined kaftan of which Olga had spoken was there, and so were a pair of high boots and a fur cap, and also several gaily embroidered shirts and the short decorated jacket which is worn to display them; but there was not one complete suit to be found, much less two.

“Well, we must divide the things, and do what we can,” said Cyril.

“No, sir,” said Paschics, firmly; “you must disguise yourself as thoroughly as possible. You are far more necessary to—to Mrs Weston than I am, and in far more danger. I can alter my present appearance sufficiently to pass muster in my own clothes, and if we have an opportunity to-morrow I will buy a disguise in one of the towns we must traverse.”

Cyril yielded to the good sense of his follower, and proceeded to array himself in the Thracian garments, supplementing the deficiencies with his own; but, happily, the coat was so long, and the boots so high, as to make it most unlikely that he would be perceived to be wearing tweed trousers instead of the baggy knickerbockers proper to the costume. When his toilet was complete, he turned to Paschics for his approval, but met instead a look of absolute consternation.

“It is impossible, sir—quite impossible. You look no more like a Thracian peasant than—the Emperor of Scythia. You have the air of a blond Hercynian officer at a fancy dress ball. To pass through the country in that costume is simply to court disaster. You would be arrested as a Scythian spy by our own people if the conspirators had not seized you first.”

“We have plenty of time before us,” said Cyril, forbearingly, “and it is your business to use it in fitting me to the costume. Pull yourself together. You can do it if you try: I won’t believe that such a master in the art of disguise could be beaten in such a comparatively simple problem. Sit down and consider carefully what is wrong. Then we will see what can be done to remedy it.”

Paschics obeyed, and before long his face lighted up.

“You are right, sir. I had forgotten this,” and he produced something from his pocket. “You may remember that I once told you I always carried a wig and false beard about with me. They will work wonders.” He fastened on the beard, and arranged the wig on Cyril’s head, pulling forward the unkempt hair over his forehead, so as to shade his eyes. “Now for a few strokes of the brush,” and by means of a small bottle of pigment he altered the shape of the eyebrows, and added various lines and wrinkles to the face. “If you will be so good as to dip your hands in the mud of the road when we are outside the walls, sir, I think you will be quite unrecognisable.”

“But what about you?” asked Cyril. “You should have kept the wig and beard for yourself.” But his success in transforming the appearance of his employer seemed to have stimulated Paschics, for he next proceeded methodically to disguise himself. He did not change his clothes, except that he took Cyril’s hat, which he moulded into a different shape, instead of his own; but when his preparations were complete, he was no longer the smart, bustling, business-like Italian courier, but an idle Thracian down on his luck, and only half at ease in his shabby Western garments. His coat was stained and partially buttonless; his hat, placed at what ought to have been a rakish angle, had an air of indescribable melancholy, owing to the fact that its brim was turned down on one side instead of up, and his very hair and moustache, which had been gaily curled, now hung dank and despondent.

“Bravo!” cried Cyril. “It will take a knowing fellow to recognise you, Carlo. Now let us pack up our possessions, and then I think it will be time to be off.”

Their preparations had taken a considerable time, and the house had long been silent. They rolled up the rugs and Cyril’s discarded garments into a bundle, which Paschics was to carry, and placed a gold coin in the chest from which they had obtained the clothes. The money due to the driver was also wrapped in paper and placed in a conspicuous spot; for, although it might have been good policy to aim at being taken for mere thieves instead of more important fugitives, Cyril did not wish to give the man an additional reason for pursuing the party with his enmity. They then carried the bundle out into the yard, and Paschics, climbing the wall, lowered it to the other side, remaining at the top himself to help the rest. The door opened easily, as Olga had promised it should, and beside it they found a little pile of barley-cakes and an old brandy-bottle filled with rye-beer. Having secured these, and given them into the charge of Paschics, Cyril returned noiselessly into the house. It was necessary to move with the greatest caution, in order to avoid disturbing the sleepers whose snores were audible from the rooms on either side; but Cyril had paced the passage carefully when he went to bid good-night to the farmer, and knew exactly how far to go. Arrived at the door which Olga had indicated, he scratched on it very lightly with his nail, and it was opened immediately by Fräulein von Staubach.

“We have been expecting you for hours!” she whispered reproachfully. “Neither Mrs Weston nor I could bring ourselves to close our eyes; but Tommy is fast asleep again, although we had to wake him to dress him.”

“Give him to me just as he is, and do you and Mrs Weston bring your things and follow me,” Cyril whispered back. The Queen laid her son in his arms without a word, and he led the way down the passage. The floor was of beaten earth, so that there were no boards to creak, and the two ladies were carrying their boots in their hands, in accordance with the directions they had received, and thus not the slightest sound was made. While they paused outside to put on their boots, Cyril secured the door noiselessly, and then noticed that the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach were not carrying the bundles of clothes he had expected.

“What have you done with your own things?” he asked, in a low voice, but with some irritation, of Fräulein von Staubach.

“We have got them on under these,” she whispered. “The Thracian dresses are so thin and loose that they would be too cold alone, and so we put them on over those we had.”

“Then you were not able to buy pelisses?” said Cyril, as he led the way to the corner where Paschics was waiting. “However, the weather is mild, and these women are wonderfully hardy, so that your being without them will not excite remark.”

They had reached the crooked tree by this time, and the ladies were a little appalled to behold their means of escape. The Queen insisted on being the first to tempt the perils of the climb, and Cyril, intrusting the sleeping form of the little King to Fräulein von Staubach, assisted her to reach the top of the wall, climbing up after her himself to help her to lower herself on the outer side until Paschics could guide her feet to the crevices in the stonework. The King was next conveyed across, still without being awakened, and then Cyril descended again to help Fräulein von Staubach, whose transit was the most difficult of all. She had not the Queen’s agility, and she was painfully nervous; but by dint of superhuman efforts on her part and on Cyril’s, she was at last able to join the group outside. The luggage was next passed over, and then Cyril let himself down, to be met by a little shriek from the Queen as he did so. In the shadow inside she had not noticed his disguise, and for the moment she believed him to be one of the enemy. Paschics viewed her alarm with equanimity, as a tribute to his skill, and in the midst of whispered explanations a start was made, Cyril again carrying the King. The ladies had been left unencumbered; but before they had gone more than a few steps the Queen snatched her bag from the hand of Paschics.

“You shall not carry everything for us!” she cried. “Sophie, take your own bag immediately. M. Paschics is heavily laden already with that great parcel.”

“Prudence, madame!” remonstrated Cyril. “I fear that in the morning we may be compelled to support our assumed characters by leaving you to carry your own luggage; but at present we are still civilised beings. That does not allow us to consider ourselves in safety, however.”

The Queen laughed and blushed, and they went on in silence along the muddy cart-track. The heaviness of the ground made their progress very difficult, and the ladies were manifestly relieved when the wood of which Olga had spoken was reached, and Cyril announced that they were to rest there for a few hours. He himself would have been inclined to press on at once; but he realised that the endurance of the party was limited by that of its feeblest members, and that it was better to rest now and start at daybreak than to undertake the greater fatigue of a night-journey, and perhaps find the ladies unable to proceed when in a hostile neighbourhood. Accordingly, he and Paschics hunted about in the wood until they came upon the clearing made by the woodcutters, where the poles which had been cut were piled up against one another to season. The shelter thus formed needed only to have its open ends filled in with branches to form a very passable hut for the ladies, and when the rugs had been spread on a carpet of dry leaves and twigs, the interior was voted by common consent to be positively luxurious. The Queen and Fräulein von Staubach took grateful possession of their new abode, while Cyril and Paschics camped outside, and in spite of the unwonted nature of the surroundings and the alarm of their position, there was not one of the party that did not sleep well.

It was one of Cyril’s enviable characteristics that he could awake at any hour he pleased, and this stood him in good stead the next morning, although the rest were scarcely disposed to rejoice in his possession of the faculty when he called them before daybreak. He hastened to explain, however, that they ought to be on the road as soon as it was fairly twilight, and that there was a good deal to do first, and they partook meekly of the frugal meal he served out, and awaited his orders.

“It is my painful duty to announce that we must lighten the ship,” he said. “We brought away all our luggage from the farm in order to puzzle the enemy, but we can’t carry it with us. It would be too heavy, and it would arouse suspicion. Everything that cannot be carried in your pockets, ladies, or in a large pocket-handkerchief, must be left behind.”

“But if the enemy find the things, it will help them to track us,” objected Fräulein von Staubach.

“I propose to bury everything we leave,” answered Cyril. “It is evident that this spot is not often visited now that the woodcutting is over, and the dead leaves and light soil are easy to move.”

“But you would not bury the Queen’s sable cloak?” in a tone of horror. “It was the Emperor of Scythia’s wedding present to her, and it is priceless.”

“Nonsense, Sophie!” said the Queen. “What is a fur cloak compared with honour and safety? You shall bury anything you like, Count—Arthur, I mean. We are all forgetting our noms de guerre.”

“We must change them again now,” said Cyril, “in accordance with our changed position. From this moment we are merely Thracian peasants. If you will call yourself Anna, madame, and Fräulein von Staubach Maria, M. Paschics shall be Nicolai, and I will be Ivan. The King we may call Sascha. May I entreat you all to speak nothing but Thracian when we are upon the road? As for you, madame, I fear you must pretend to be dumb. To be overheard speaking any language but Thracian would be fatal.”

“Very well,” said the Queen; “from this moment I am dumb.”

“Then shall we now proceed to get rid of our surplus possessions?” asked Cyril. “As my luggage has consisted since the beginning of this trip of a toothbrush, a pocket-comb, and a piece of soap, I have a good deal of room left in my pockets, and I shall be glad to carry anything I can for any one, and so will Nicolai, I am sure. To work, ladies, if you please!”

With heroic calmness the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach proceeded to select the most necessary or most portable of their belongings, and dispose of them as best they could about their persons, while Cyril and Paschics, with the aid of some broken branches, were digging a hole in the ground, in which they laid the Queen’s cloak and the other rejected treasures. This operation was finished by the pale light of the spring morning; and as soon as the leaves and soil had been replaced, Cyril ordered a start. They walked as far as possible through the wood, and only quitted it when it would have taken them away from the road, to which they returned at a spot some four English miles beyond that at which they had left it the night before in order to reach the farm. The order of their march had now to be adapted to their supposed circumstances. Cyril and Paschics walked in front in lordly style, while the two ladies came humbly behind, according to Thracian custom, carrying, when there was any one to see them, the one the little King and the other the bundle of rugs, although when the road was empty they were immediately relieved of their burdens. It was only occasionally that they fell in with country-people, who exchanged a bucolic greeting with the two men and took no notice of the women, and to their great relief they were not overtaken by any one from the farm they had quitted so unceremoniously. At about eight o’clock in the morning they came in sight of the little town, or rather large village, at which they were to have spent the night; and Paschics proposed that the rest should make their way round it without entering, while he went boldly on to purchase food and, if possible, a suit of country clothes for himself. Cyril was loath to lose such an opportunity of gauging personally the feelings of the inhabitants; but his common-sense told him that in the uncertain condition of affairs Paschics was a safer messenger than he was, and he led his charges into a field-path which, as his map showed him, would rejoin the road later on, while the detective walked on towards the town. At the point at which the path returned to the road Cyril and his party halted and, concealed by a clump of bushes, waited for Paschics. It was some time before he came in sight, and when he saw Cyril awaiting him he made him a hasty sign to withdraw behind the bushes, and looked up and down the road anxiously. Then he turned aside, and, sitting down on the bank, began to eat some food which he took from his pocket. Presently Cyril, who had been watching him through the bushes in surprise, saw the reason of this strange behaviour, for another wayfarer came round the turn of the road, and, after exchanging a greeting with Paschics, limped on his way. It was not until this man had passed out of sight that Paschics rose and approached the rest, and they saw as he came that his face was very gloomy.

“Then you could not get any other clothes?” Cyril asked him, as he distributed the coarse bread and slices of sausage which he had brought in his handkerchief.

“I found the shopkeeper so inquisitive, sir, that I did not venture to do anything that might arouse his suspicions further. He asked me any number of questions—who I was, whence I came, where I was going, whether I was travelling alone, and if so, what I wanted with such a store of food. My answers did not throw much light on our circumstances, as you may guess; but the fact of his asking the questions was in itself unpleasant.”

“But was the man merely inquisitive, or did he know anything to make him suspicious?” demanded Cyril quickly. The detective’s eyes met his meaningly, and he was about to suggest a private conversation, when the Queen, seeing his intention, interposed—

“Allow us to hear what new danger threatens us, Count. We are all exposed to the same peril, and we have a right to know its nature.”

“I find,” Paschics went on unwillingly, in response to a sign from Cyril, to whom he persisted in addressing himself, “that our friend the farmer’s son passed through the town last night on his way from Ortojuk to the farm. He rested a short time at the tavern, and told the people the news which he had heard in Ortojuk, whither it had been telegraphed from Tatarjé. It seems (this is what he said) that an arrangement had been arrived at between her Majesty the Queen and our Holy Synod for the conversion of the King to the Orthodox faith. It was for this reason that the Court was spending the winter at Tatarjé, which is at once a stronghold of the Orthodox and remote from the capital, for the conversion was to be kept a secret until it had actually taken place, on account of the opposition which would be raised by the Queen’s mother and the Hercynian Imperial family generally, and by the other Western Powers. Meanwhile, Bishop Philaret of Tatarjé had been instructing the King diligently in his new faith, and the ceremony of receiving him into the Orthodox Church by the rite of confirmation was arranged to take place on Friday—yesterday. But on the night of Thursday his Majesty was kidnapped by some person or persons unknown, presumably foreigners in the employ of the Princess of Weldart, and had utterly disappeared. A strict watch had been set on the frontier, and it was known that no suspicious characters had crossed it, so that it was evident that the abductors had turned their steps into the interior of the country, and measures were at once taken to discover and arrest them. This was done by order of the Queen, who remained at Tatarjé in the greatest distress and anxiety; but my informant did not hesitate to add that he believed she had only been half-hearted all along, and was a party to the plot——”

“But,” exclaimed the Queen, breaking the stunned silence, “how could I be at Tatarjé when I am here? What can they mean?”

“I am afraid Baroness Paula has played her part a little too well,” said Cyril. “I arranged with Baroness von Hilfenstein that in case of need her daughter should personate you, madame, for a short time, in order to give us a better opportunity of escape; but now it seems that we have been too clever by half. But no! it is impossible that they could have been deceived when it was daylight. They have taken advantage of our ruse for their own purposes. You think that they have not discovered who took part in their Majesties’ flight, Paschics?”

“How could they, Excellency? You had left for Bellaviste, and I had gone to visit my relations. Fräulein von Staubach is the only person they could make sure of. But what I fear is that some chance—or possibly merely his own suspicions—may take our friend the sub-prefect to Tatarjé. When he heard what had happened he would instantly remember the English travellers, and his description of you would be recognised by some one, and the identification established by showing him one of your photographs. Then he would be after us like a bloodhound, enraged at having allowed such a prey to slip through his fingers.”

“And you think that the results might be unpleasant if he once came up with the abductors of his Majesty?” asked Cyril.

“Your Excellency, they are all to be brought back to Tatarjé, dead or alive; and I gathered from the shopkeeper that if the matter were left in the hands of the people they would take care that it should be dead.”

“Count!” said the Queen quickly, as Cyril sat with his chin on his hand, plunged in meditation. “Count!” she said again, as he did not answer her, “what are we to do?”

“I was just considering the advisability of our all going quietly to the next police-station and giving ourselves up, madame.”

“You would not do it?” she cried, her eyes dilating with horror.

“I am almost convinced that it is our proper course, madame. I have known all along that failure in this enterprise meant death to Paschics and myself; but I thought that you and Fräulein von Staubach would at any rate be free from bodily peril. But don’t you see the diabolical cunning of these fellows? It would be easy enough to get up a scuffle in arresting us, in which both of you might be killed by accident, and there they are, with the King in their hands! They have only to make a dramatic discovery of Baroness Paula’s imposture and proclaim it, convert the King, and, using him as a hostage, make terms with Drakovics. The ball is at their feet in that way. Whereas, if we surrender to the police, they are bound to protect you two ladies from the mob, whatever happens to us.”

“Yes, and what is to become of us?” cried the Queen, in a harsh, strident voice. “Is my boy to be given up after all to the tender mercies of these vile conspirators? After all that I have risked to save him, is he to be forced into an alien Church before he is old enough to make a choice? I tell you, he shall not be! Give yourself up at the nearest police-station, Count, if you like; I will kill my son and myself before you shall surrender us!” She made a sudden spring forward, and snatched the keen, broad-bladed Thracian knife from Cyril’s girdle, holding it poised ready to strike at her own heart.

“This is no time for scenes, madame,” said Cyril irritably. “We are not strolling players, but sensible people consulting together as to the best means of averting a great danger. Have the goodness to give me back that knife.”

He took it from her unresisting hand as he spoke, for his words and tone came like a dash of cold water on the fire of her passion, and she was already ashamed of the momentary frenzy which had seized her. But when he had returned the knife to its sheath, she caught his hand in both hers.

“Count, I have trusted my son’s life and honour and my own to you. You will not fail us?”

“I have no present intention of doing so, madame. Can you not trust me yet?”

His words stung her like the lash of a whip, and she drew apart with a crimson face, while Cyril turned to the other two.

“We are wasting time here,” he said. “Our business is to reach Ortojuk and cross the river as soon as we can. How we are to pass through the city I don’t know. We must find out when we get there.”

“I heard in the town that to-day is market-day in Ortojuk,” said Paschics, “so that the place will be full of peasants from the country round.”

“But we have seen no one coming from here.”

“No, sir; they left early in the morning. But we are sure to fall in with some coming from the more distant villages, and arriving later, and we must mingle with them, and so slip into the city.”

“Good; we will divide our party when we get a little nearer, so that there may be a chance that some of us, at least, may get through. Now, ladies, we will start, if you please.”

He took the little King in his arms, and they walked on resolutely and almost in silence for nearly two hours. The Queen was flagging painfully towards the end of the time; but she would have died rather than complain after the words Cyril had addressed to her, and she even objected when he called a halt on a grassy bank opposite the point at which a by-path joined the main road. He took no notice of her remark, however.

“We will join the next company of peasants that comes along,” he said, as Paschics distributed a meagre lunch from the food he had brought, “but we must divide. Remember that we are peasants from one of the mountain villages across the river, and have been to Tatarjé on a pilgrimage to the tomb of St Gabriel. Our aim on reaching the town is to get through it as quickly as possible, and cross the river; but we must meet at a spot near the bridge, and reconnoitre before venturing upon it. It is almost certain to be watched, and once upon it there would be no hope of escape.”

“Except the river!” said the Queen, the wild look returning to her eyes.

“Madame!” said Cyril reprovingly. “If your Majesty will leave the choice to me, I should prefer a boat. But as regards the order of our progress, I think that you, Fräulein, should go first, carrying his Majesty, and keeping his face hidden as far as possible. Paschics shall follow, not looking as though he had any connection with you, but ready in case you find yourself in any difficulty. The Queen and I will come last.”

“No!” cried the Queen, “I will not be separated from my boy. Why should Sophie carry him? It is my place, and I will do it.”

“Madame, it is impossible,” returned Cyril, not unsympathising, but unmoved. “You have been photographed so often holding his Majesty in your arms, and the photographs are so well known throughout the country, that the juxtaposition of the two faces would attract notice at once, and that would mean instant discovery. You must allow Fräulein von Staubach to take this post of honour, and remember that your own name is Anna, and that you are unfortunately dumb.”

The Queen subsided into instant silence, and Fräulein von Staubach and Paschics, at Cyril’s suggestion, moved farther along the bank, that they might not all appear to belong to the same party. He had heard the voices and laughter of a band of peasants as they came along the by-lane, and presently they emerged into the road, and took the direction of Ortojuk. It was evident that contingents from several villages were present, for they were divided into four or five parties, each of which kept religiously to itself, and discussed its own subjects of interest, the men in front and the women behind. Fräulein von Staubach, with the little King in her arms, found a welcome among the women of the first party, Paschics slouched with the gait of the professional vagrant into the ranks of the men of another, and Cyril and the Queen, rising slowly and painfully, as though scarcely able to walk any farther, found a place in the last. Cyril knew the temper of the Thracians too well to expect to be greeted with curiosity or even interest. One or two languid questions were put to him as to his starting-point and his destination; but the announcement that his home lay across the river chilled any semblance of friendliness that might otherwise have been forthcoming, and his companions returned to the discussion of their own village politics without paying any attention to his presence. The women behind were more inquisitive, and Cyril could hear them questioning the Queen. What was her name? where did she live? had she any children? was her husband kind to her?—questions to all of which she answered by shaking her head and pointing to her tongue. Then the women drew away from her, and whispered together, and again some of their words were audible to Cyril. Dumb, poor thing! and apparently deaf too. No wonder she seemed sad! And besides, it was quite clear that her husband beat her. Cyril wondered vainly from what premisses they deduced this inference; but there was no doubt that it seemed to satisfy them.

After another hour’s walking the walls and cupolas of Ortojuk came in sight, and Cyril felt an involuntary tightening of the throat as the band of peasants approached the gate. The guards gave them a very cursory inspection, however, being chiefly interested in inquiring whether they had passed or met on the road a posting-carriage containing some English travellers, who were said to be escaped criminals, and to have succeeded in eluding justice wonderfully hitherto. Cyril recognised the hand of the sub-prefect in this piece of intelligence, and it caused him additional uneasiness to remember that the official was probably in the town at this moment; but there was no opportunity for deliberation now. The sole way of escape lay through Ortojuk and across the river, and to pause or turn back was to be lost. He pushed his way through the gate with the rest, made sure that the Queen was close behind him, and submitted to be swept along in the company of his peasant-friends towards the market-place in the middle of the town, on the opposite side of which lay the streets leading down to the river.

It was now considerably past noon, and as many people were leaving the market as entering it; but the sellers, who had been disposed to take things easily and eat their dinners, were stimulated by the arrival of the fresh band of customers, and prepared to seize upon them with effusion. The company of peasants divided on reaching the market-place, each man seeking the special row of stalls of which the contents interested him most, while Cyril and the Queen pressed on across the open space in the midst, which had been used earlier in the day as a horse-fair, in the wake of a few earnest souls who desired first of all to perform their devotions at the great church on the opposite side. Some way in front of him Cyril could see the hat which Paschics was wearing, conspicuous among the caps of the other men and the handkerchiefs of the women, and he breathed more freely, for it seemed as though the first danger of Ortojuk were already past. But his joy was premature. From the direction of the municipal buildings, which lay close to the church, but at right angles with it, came three men on horseback, pushing their way roughly through the crowd, and he recognised them immediately as the sub-prefect and his two ragged followers. He had barely time to reflect that the sub-prefect was still searching for English travellers, and was looking far too glum to have met with any success in his efforts as yet, when the official rose in his stirrups and looked over the people’s heads. Whether it was that he regarded any wearer of a hat as a suspicious person, or that he actually recognised that which Paschics had on, he shouted to the crowd to make way, and riding up behind Paschics, tapped him smartly on the shoulder, asking him some trivial question at the same time. Involuntarily Paschics looked round and up at his questioner, who uttered an exclamation of delight.

“It is the courier who was with the English!” he said to his henchmen. “Arrest him instantly, and bring him before the mayor for examination.”

There was a wild rush to the spot on the part of the crowd, and as the people swayed hither and thither, Cyril caught a momentary glimpse of Fräulein von Staubach, with the child still in her arms, disappearing down the street next the church, which he had pointed out to her on the map as the nearest way to the river, without even turning her head to ascertain the cause of the commotion. He blessed her for the stolidity or presence of mind which had made her obey him so implicitly; but the next moment he was recalled to the perils of the position by feeling the Queen’s agonised grasp on his arm. Even now she remembered her part sufficiently not to attempt to speak, but her tortured eyes gazed into his in mute anguish.

“Maria and Sascha are safe,” he said to her, not venturing to use any other language than Thracian, lest the unwonted accents should attract the notice of the crowd, but trusting that she would be reassured by the tone, “but Nicolai is taken.”

Her grip on his arm relaxed, but she still held convulsively to his coat as he thrust himself into the crowd, battling apparently to gain a front place, but in reality to force his way across the market-place. There could be no safety or shelter until they had gained the narrow streets again. After a few moments, his struggles brought him fairly near the prisoner and his guards, and he heard Paschics protesting vigorously against his arrest, in scraps of various languages. But his words were not all those of protest.

“It is an infamy, an outrage! I will complain to the Italian Minister! Don’t stay here; go on, and never mind me.” This was in English. “By what right is a peaceable Italian citizen arrested when he has done no harm? Get out of the city, and into the mountains; go quickly. You shall pay finely for this! Save them now; it is your only chance. Oh, you dogs of Thracians, you shall see what will happen!”

He was dragged away, shouting as he went, and Cyril, obeying his injunctions, broke through the crowd, and hurried across the rest of the market-place, the Queen still clinging to him. It was impossible now to reach the street down which Fräulein von Staubach had disappeared, and they turned down another and hurried along, Cyril revolving in his mind the route they must take in order to reach the river.

CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE GREENWOOD.

“We must go this way in order to get back to our proper road,” said Cyril in a low voice, as they reached a street running at right angles to that in which they were, and they walked briskly along it for some little distance. Presently, as they passed the end of another street leading from the market-place, they met a crowd of people, talking loud and eagerly.

“He says they must be somewhere in the town, and all the inns are to be visited.” “They say that if they are not discovered in that way no one who cannot produce his credentials will be allowed to leave the city.” “The search is beginning already, I hear.”

Looking towards the market-place, Cyril caught sight again of the forms of the three horsemen. He knew that the Queen and he could not be distinguishable in the crowd at this distance; but if the sub-prefect should come up and question them, his suspicious eyes could not fail to recognise the English lady of the previous day. The threat of closing the gates was serious enough; but the danger of the moment was so pressing as to exclude any thought of the future. Cyril led the way a little longer in the direction they had been taking, then turned sharply down a narrow back-street, silent and deserted. Just as they entered it, the sound of horses’ feet became audible in the street they had that moment left, and the Queen turned pale again, and clung to Cyril’s arm. She had not understood the words of the crowd; but she had seen the sub-prefect and his followers, and knew that their appearance boded no good.

“Keep up!” whispered Cyril; “they may not come down here, or we may find a doorway or an empty house to hide in. There is a gate open in that wall. Come on quickly.”

But the gateway to which they hastened was that of a stonemason’s yard, and the dazzling array of tombstones and obelisks afforded no chance of concealment. Moreover, the sounds of conversation near at hand showed them that the proprietor and his men were sitting in the sun on the inner side of the wall eating their dinner, and it was impossible to confide in them. But the sound of the horses’ feet was now close upon them. Once let them turn that corner, and—Cyril paused and glanced into the Queen’s white face, and an idea came to him suddenly. The rickety old gate which had first attracted his notice, and which opened outwards into the street, was swaying and creaking on its hinges in the light spring breeze. He pulled it forward, pushed the Queen into the angle of the wall behind it, followed her himself, and pulling the gate back again, held it fast with all the strength he could command. Scarcely had they taken their stand when they heard the horsemen turn the corner and ride down the street. The Queen’s hand gripped Cyril’s with a painful pressure, but neither of them uttered a sound. There was a poster on the gate in front of them, evidently fastened up in the early morning, before the yard was opened, and Cyril’s eyes studied it without his understanding a word of what it contained, while his ears were occupied in listening to the enemy without. They came past the hiding-place, looked in at the yard, and called out to the proprietor to know whether he had seen any strangers about, then rode on, knocking now and then at the door of a house, and questioning the inmates. Then the sounds of their horses’ feet died gradually away, and Cyril ventured to push the gate forward a little and look out cautiously in the direction they had taken. There was no sign of them, and although there was a danger of their returning, it was all-important to reach the river as soon as possible, and the fugitives quitted their place of refuge and pursued their way; but not before Cyril had realised that the bill posted on the gate contained offers of reward to any one who should kill or capture the abductors of the King, and that it purported to be signed by the Queen, Bishop Philaret, and the Mayor of Tatarjé.

“When this is all over, and we are safe again, I shall buy that yard, and build a memorial church there,” said the Queen, a little hysterically.

“A most laudable resolution, madame; but at present, permit me to remind you, we are very far from safe, especially when a presumably dumb lady speaks German in a hostile town.”

Much confused, she followed him in silence, and they penetrated through several winding lanes until they came out on the banks of the river. The first sight that greeted their eyes was the comfortable form of Fräulein von Staubach, sitting at her ease on a heap of planks, with the little King asleep in her arms; the next, the bridge, a short distance to their right, with a strong body of soldiers guarding its approaches. Several peasant families, coming from the market-place and wishing to cross, were turned back, and at last Cyril approached the man who seemed to be the head of one of them, and asked what the difficulty was.

“They will let no one cross without a passport,” replied the man, “and as, of course, mine is at home, I have to go and look for the headman of our village, who travelled to town with us this morning, to come and identify us as belonging to the commune before we can cross.”

He passed on, and Cyril meditated upon this unwelcome intelligence. The passport which he had drawn up at Tatarjé, and which had been countersigned by the sub-prefect, would naturally, under present circumstances, be worse than useless, and he had buried it in the wood with the other things abandoned in the morning; but now it appeared that without a passport, and with no one to testify to their identity, or rather to disown it, he and his charges would be in a position every whit as bad as if the compromising document were still in their possession. It was clearly out of the question to attempt to cross the river by means of the bridge, and he began to wander down the bank, followed at a short distance by the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach, examining the boats that were moored there. Most of them were empty and untenanted, and for a moment the thought crossed his mind of stealing one and escaping in it; but he reflected quickly that it was unlikely such an easy means of evasion should have been left unguarded, and that so larcenous an attempt would only precipitate the catastrophe he dreaded. It was necessary, then, to turn to the boats with people on board, in the hope that it might be possible to arrange the terms of a passage. After passing several craft in review, Cyril stopped before a boat loaded with bales of flax, on the deck of which a shock-headed elderly man was walking up and down and talking angrily to himself.

“Do you want a hand with your boat, father?” Cyril asked him politely; but the politeness appeared to be wasted.

“No, young man, I don’t,” was the snappish answer. “Do you think after I have brought this load of flax down the river for the merchant Alexandrovics, only to be told by that dog of a Jew his clerk that I have mistaken the day, and that it was next market-day he meant, that I am likely to be able to waste money in hiring help?”

“But surely it will be a hard pull against the stream if you have to take it back?”

“Of course it will; but that is nothing compared with losing a whole day and having nothing to show for it. At any rate, it is a comfort that I would not allow my son to leave his work on the farm when he offered to come and help me, though it will be hard enough with the loaded boat.”

“But why not land the flax and leave it at the merchant’s house?”

“And find next week that half the bales were under weight, and that the flax in the rest had been filled with stones and mud by that Jew thief? A plague on these Jews! It is they who have kidnapped the King, and his mother knows it. Birds of a feather flock together. You know that she is secretly a Jewess?”

“The Queen? No?” replied Cyril, with as stupid an expression of wonder as he could command. But his surprise seemed to offend the old man.

“Where have you been living, not to know that? And now, young man, you can be off. I have no time to waste in talking to you.”

“I thought you might be willing to put us across the river for a piastre or two,” said Cyril sadly, jingling the coins in his girdle.

“Put you across? Why didn’t you say so at once, instead of talking nonsense about helping? But what’s wrong that you don’t cross by the bridge?”

“The soldiers are making some fuss about passports, and we have none. Who would take passports on a pilgrimage, to get them stolen? And there is no one from our village to testify to our identity; but if you took us on board you would be able to say that we were respectable people.”

“And how am I to know you are respectable people?”

“If you found us prepared to pay you a certain sum for putting us across, surely that would show we were respectable?”

“Ah!” cunningly; “that would depend upon the sum. How much?”

“Five piastres,” said Cyril, with the air of one making a tremendous offer. The sum named was somewhat under a shilling.

“Fifteen,” replied the man in possession, promptly.

“Ten,” said Cyril, with a lack of resolution which was quickly seen through.

“I can’t do it under fifteen,” was the reply.

“Eleven—twelve—thirteen,” counted Cyril, in a voice of despair. “That is my last piastre. We must look for some one else.”

“No, I’ll do it for that, since you are on pilgrimage,” cried the old man, as the would-be passengers turned away. “But you must lend a hand with the oars, and I can’t put you ashore at the bridge-end, for there is a danger of smashing the boat against the piers. You must land higher up.”

“That’s all right. Our road runs alongside the river for some distance,” returned Cyril. “Are you starting now, or is there time to buy some food?”

“Do you expect me to waste an hour while you go shopping, young man? Get on board at once, or lose your money. You have something left then, have you?”

“Only a few paras.” The para is about the twenty-fifth part of the piastre. “You don’t want to take our last copper?”

“No; but I would have sold you some bread if I hadn’t eaten all I brought with me, and I would have given you more for your money than you would get in any of the town shops.”

“You are not such a bad hand at a bargain yourself,” said Cyril morosely, as he helped the women on board, and the host began to loosen the rope by which the boat was moored.

“I shouldn’t do much business if I was,” was the dry answer. “Now what are those fellows shouting about? I knew they would come and interfere as soon as an honest man who has done no business all day tries to get home.”

The persons alluded to were three or four of the soldiers from the bridge, who came rushing down to the bank when they saw the preparations for the departure of the boat.

“Your names, all of you? and your village?” cried one of them, breathlessly. The owner of the boat drew himself up.

“My name and village you can see painted there, if you can read, Mr Soldier,” he replied; “and I should like to know why I should be catechised because I allow my son and his wife and child and his wife’s aunt to find seats on the flax there?”

“You are sure of their identity?” pursued the questioner, rather confused.

“Sure? My good young man, I think you must have been visiting the tavern too often lately to ask me such a question. Do you think I don’t know my own son, and daughter-in-law, and grandson, and—and sister-in-law? If you have come here to insult honest farmers, I’ll complain to the magistrates.”

“All right,” the soldier explained hastily. “It’s only a form; but we were ordered not to let any one pass without it. Good-bye, father, and your son, and your daughter-in-law, and your grandson, and your great-grandmother’s cousin’s aunt, good-bye!”

“Thracia is going to ruin,” observed the farmer solemnly to Cyril, as they got out the oars, “when any young jackanapes in uniform thinks he can make fun of a man old enough to be his grandfather. Move out of the way, young woman.” It was the Queen whom he addressed, and she turned mutely and pointed to her tongue. He looked at her with something like disgust.

“He wants you to move to the next bale, Anna,” said Cyril, in Thracian, but with an imperative gesture which she understood and obeyed.

“Dumb, is she?” grunted the old man. “Is she deaf as well?”

“She can understand me, as you see,” returned Cyril; “but I doubt whether you could make her hear.”

“How do you make her understand?”

“How does one make a dog understand?” asked Cyril, and the farmer laughed brutally.

“Boy dumb too?” he asked.

“Not a bit of it; only asleep. I would wake him up and let you hear how he can talk, but that he is tired and would be troublesome.”

The old man laughed again, and they rowed on in silence for a time. Then he said suddenly, “If you have been on pilgrimage, I suppose you saw the tomb of St Gabriel at Tatarjé? What is it like?”

“Of course we saw it,” returned Cyril indignantly, and he began to describe the shrine, which he and the other members of the Court had visited as the only show-place in Tatarjé. But his hearer’s attention wandered.

“What did you want to take her on pilgrimage for?” he asked, jerking his head towards the Queen. “Did it do her any good?”

“It hasn’t given her a voice, as you see. But the fact was, I wanted to take the boy, and he can’t look after himself. Besides, she wanted to come.”

“Ah, you don’t know how to manage a wife. The idea of letting a woman go anywhere because she wished it!” and the old man turned chuckling to his oars again, and chuckled until the boat arrived at the opposite bank.

“Now then, young man, out you go, and your relations too,” he said.

“Don’t you mean to take us any farther?” asked Cyril, in a tone of dire dismay.

“For thirteen piastres? No, my son. If you could make up the fifteen, now——”

But Cyril shook his head, and began to make fast the boat, preparatory to helping his charges to land. They would walk along the bank for a little, in order to throw the old man off the scent; but it was not worth while to run an additional risk for the sake of hoodwinking him further.

“I say!” cried their late host, as he pushed the boat off again, “surely you don’t carry your own parcels when you’ve got your wife with you?”

“How could I do anything but carry the bundle in the town, when she was gaping and staring about so that I knew she would drop it or let it be stolen?” returned Cyril sullenly. “Here, Anna, make yourself useful,” and he handed the parcel of rugs to the Queen. She gave him a look of astonished reproach, which he answered by a frown intended to counsel prudence. The old man, who had caught her expression but not his, laughed loudly.

“Lazy!” he cried. “After all, my son, I see that there is some advantage in having a dumb wife. If yours had possessed a tongue, you would certainly be making acquaintance with the rough side of it at this moment. But you and I know that there is nothing like a good thick stick for all of them—is there?”

“He is a detestable old man,” said Fräulein von Staubach to Cyril in a low voice, as they walked along the bank, the farmer’s loud chuckles still reaching them faintly across the water; “but I am sorry you thought it well to deceive him about the money. It would have been much pleasanter to go a little farther in the boat.”

“But I assure you there was no deception,” returned Cyril. “That was absolutely my last piastre. It is true that I have some gold; but if I had let him see it he would have been convinced at once that we were no better than we should be. And as for going farther in the boat, it would only have been waste of time. As soon as we are out of sight of our friend, we will turn off into the hills, and look for the charcoal-burner’s glen.”

But it was some time before this was possible, for the road ran parallel with the river, and every now and then their late host rested on his oars for a minute to take breath, and shouted some remark to Cyril. It was evident that he would have liked his help again in rowing, although he would not confess it, and was trying to tempt him to produce some hidden store of coin out of which to pay for a longer passage. But at length the bank became steep and rocky, and the road turned more inland, and Cyril waved farewell joyfully to the old man, and took a furtive look at the map to ascertain the right course. But the road was so completely deserted that he might have spread out the map and consulted it for an hour without danger, and he turned to relieve the Queen of the burden she had been carrying.

“We will return to the path we passed a little way back, madame. So far as I can make out, it leads just in the direction we wish to take. Permit me to carry the rugs.”

But to his surprise she looked him full in the face without a word, and declined to give up the bundle. Thinking that she wished him to relieve Fräulein von Staubach, he held out his arms for the little King, who allowed himself to be transferred from one bearer to the other without even waking. Going on in advance to find the path, Cyril turned to wait for the ladies, and observed in astonishment that the Queen was still carrying the rugs, in spite of all Fräulein von Staubach’s attempts to get possession of the bundle. Moreover, she still refused to speak, and Cyril led the way up the hill in silence, deciding in his own mind that she had taken it into her head to feel angry at being supposed to be dumb, and was trying to punish him by keeping up the pretence when it was no longer necessary.

The path led on and on, first uphill and then down, through patches of forest in sheltered spots and again over bare uplands; and still Cyril kept on his way, with occasional halts for the purpose of consulting the map, and still the Queen toiled on with the great bundle in her arms, although she could scarcely drag one foot after the other for weariness. Cyril was provoked by her obstinacy, and determined not to make any further advances. If she chose to behave like a sulky child, and punish herself, she should be allowed to do so. It was growing dusk by this time, and when the path led down into a wood larger than any they had passed hitherto, the trees overhead made it almost dark; but Cyril’s spirits rose, for he knew that they must be approaching the charcoal-burner’s hut. Coming to a spot where the fall of an old tree had brought down two or three others with it, making a little break in the blackness overhead, he advised the ladies to sit down and rest, while he went on to reconnoitre. There was no reason to suspect the loyalty of old Minics, since Paschics had declared him worthy of trust; but it was just possible that he might have visitors, whose discretion could not be so comfortably relied upon.

Still following the path, which was now barely distinguishable, Cyril came out at last on the edge of a cleared space, sloping down to a small lake. Close in front of him was a hut built rudely of logs and branches, and before it a large fire, beside which an old man was sitting with his dog. As he came forward, they both rose and looked at him, the dog suspiciously, the man with a good deal of interest.

“You are Yosip Minics, I think?” asked Cyril. “We are travellers who have been recommended to your kindness by your cousin’s son, Lyof Paschics.”

The old man nodded. “I have been looking out for you,” he said. “I went down into Ortojuk this morning to buy my week’s supplies, and I had word by a sure hand that Lyof might be here soon wanting help. When I heard what they were all saying in the town about the King, I knew what the message meant,” and he glanced not unkindly at King Michael, who, awakened by the voices, was now almost overbalancing himself in his efforts to reach down and pat the dog.

“But what do you know about us?”

“Only this,” and the charcoal-burner brought out a dirty envelope from his hut, and held the stamp towards Cyril in the firelight. “One can’t very well go wrong when his Majesty’s portrait is so close at hand, can one?”

“You certainly have an advantage there,” said Cyril with a laugh. “It’s a good thing for us that other people haven’t thought of it.”

“Oh, I had my message from Lyof’s mother to help me, you see. But what have you done with the lad?”

“I am sorry to say he was arrested in Ortojuk this afternoon.”

“But the royal party are safe? That is all right, then. He has done his duty, and God and the saints will see that he comes to no harm. But put the child down on this wolfskin here—I will look after him—and fetch the women. They are not far off, I suppose?”

“No, I will go back for them,” and Cyril retraced his steps, wondering the less, now that he had seen this shrewd and kindly old man, at the curious conditions of Thracian life, which had given Paschics a relative so low down in the social scale. But as he approached the spot where he had left the ladies, he forgot all about the charcoal-burner, for he could distinctly hear the Queen sobbing, and Fräulein von Staubach trying to comfort her in German. His first thought was that they had been tracked by the enemy and taken prisoners; but almost at the same moment he saw that there was no one there but themselves.

“I fear that you have been alarmed, madame,” he said, hurrying forward; “but I assure you that I have not been longer than I could help. The charcoal-burner is most willing to shelter and help us, and I have left the King in his charge while I came back for you.”

“I have not been alarmed,” said the Queen, rising stiffly. “Give me that bundle of rugs, if you please; I prefer to carry it.”

“Unhappily it is already bespoken, madame. May I be permitted——?”

He offered his arm to assist her, but she drew herself away. “I wish to carry the rugs,” she repeated, but her voice failed her.

“Madame!” said Fräulein von Staubach, imploringly.

“Be quiet, Sophie. I know that it is my own fault. I have placed myself in a false and degrading position, and Count Mortimer takes advantage of it to humiliate me.”

“Madame!” protested the maligned Cyril, in utter astonishment.

“You know it is true. You rejoiced when you ordered me, in the presence of that horrible old man, to carry the bundle.”

“You must know that it was merely to avert suspicion, madame.”

“It was not. You were repaying to me all the humiliations I have ever inflicted upon you. I saw it in your eyes.”

“Upon my honour, madame, the step was more painful to me than to your Majesty, but it was necessary to save the situation.”

“At my expense. Oh, I have put myself into your power, Count, I know that. But I did not expect——”

Her voice failed again, and Fräulein von Staubach cast a beseeching glance at Cyril, to which he responded instantly:

“If I may not have the honour of assisting you, madame, I will fetch the charcoal-burner; but you cannot stay here all night. Old Minics is rather grimy, but if you prefer his help to mine——”

Without a word the Queen took his arm, and he piloted her the rest of the way. Once arrived at the hut, she was too much exhausted to do more than partake of the soup and black bread which the host had prepared, and then sit leaning against the wall of the hut while Fräulein von Staubach made the best she could, with the aid of the rugs, of the primitive arrangements for the night. When the little King had been carried indoors, and the two ladies had also retired, Cyril and his host sat outside by the fire, smoking. The charcoal-burner had accepted, out of politeness, one of his guest’s cigars; but it was evident that he preferred his own clay pipe and coarse tobacco, to which he betook himself with zest as soon as he had finished it. Under ordinary circumstances, Cyril would have welcomed this divergence of tastes, since his remaining cigars were now very few in number; but to-night he felt too much depressed to be comforted even by tobacco, and he smoked on moodily until a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to find Fräulein von Staubach stooping over him.

“I wanted to ask you whether you were intending that we should continue our journey to-morrow, Count?” she said.

“I had thought of it, Fräulein; but you must surely know that I should not venture to recommend any plan of my own in opposition to the slightest wish of her Majesty. Her knowledge of affairs——”

“You are piqued, Count, and you speak with unnecessary sarcasm. Her Majesty is asleep, and has no idea that I am consulting you; but the fact is that she is quite incapable of performing a farther march without rest. Her feet are so fearfully blistered that I cannot imagine how she succeeded in getting here at all. Every step must have been agony to her.”

“It would be quite possible to rest to-morrow, Fräulein. The people would have more leisure to stare at us if we travelled on Sunday, and we might find it difficult to obtain food. By all means inform her Majesty that you will not leave the valley until Monday morning.”

“You speak as though you were intending to abandon us, Count.”

“I hope that the abandonment will be only a temporary one, Fräulein; but I fear that her Majesty would derive little benefit from her day of rest if I were in the neighbourhood.”

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“Go out into the world—back to Ortojuk, perhaps—and see what is going on, and whether our schemes have been penetrated.”

“This is quite unnecessary, Count, and you know it. You are going wilfully into danger—exposing us to danger, even—because you cannot make allowances for her Majesty’s hasty words spoken in a moment of weariness.”

“Make allowances? I have been doing nothing else since I have been sitting here. I was a little surprised at the moment, I grant; but since then I have reflected that I was a fool not to expect just what I got. It is not my first experience of her Majesty’s gratitude, you will remember.”

“Count, you are cruelly unjust. Think of the trials which have beset the Queen since we left Tatarjé; of all the vicissitudes——”

“I have thought of them all, Fräulein. The only thing I had not expected was to be abused for what I had not done, and for that I was a fool, as I tell you. Are you not satisfied with that?”

“Satisfied, when every word you say brings an accusation against her Majesty? You are casting the blame on the woman, as the men always do.”

“May I ask whether you think I am the person to blame, Fräulein?”

Fräulein von Staubach appeared to find the question a hard one to answer, for it was some time before she said unwillingly, as she went back into the hut, “No, Count; you are not to blame, and certainly her Majesty is not. It is circumstances.”

“Circumstances!” muttered Cyril to himself somewhat later, as he crawled on hands and knees into the little lean-to which he had assisted old Minics to build as a kind of spare bedroom to his log mansion, and made himself as comfortable as he could on a couch of branches very imperfectly covered with a rug. “That is what the Baroness said—‘I am not afraid of either the Queen or you; but I am very much afraid of circumstances.’ How long ago was it—a hundred thousand years? Is it possible that it was only the night before last? It feels as if I had lived whole lifetimes since then—since she said she trusted me and would obey me. And a pretty farce it is! She will obey me when she likes, and when she doesn’t she tries to make me feel like a blackguard for giving her orders.”

He laughed angrily, and turned over on his unrestful bed. But sleep would not come to him, in spite of the fatigues of the day and the disturbed character of his last two nights. The Queen’s face floated before him—now white and terror-stricken, as when they had hidden behind the gate; now rosy and confused, as he had seen it when she had made some dangerous blunder; now lifted to his in eager interest, and again suffused with tears, as when he had come upon her in the wood,—never twice the same, and at no time strictly beautiful, perhaps, but always fascinating from its ever-changing play of expression.

“Her infinite variety!” he said to himself sarcastically, remembering the line he had once quoted to Drakovics with reference to her; “infinite fickleness, I call it—wish she would cultivate a good serviceable workaday frame of mind, and stay in it, for once. And why—why, when I have been bothered with her all day, I should want to be thinking of her all night, I don’t know——” He stretched himself vigorously, and came into such violent contact with one of the poles of the lean-to as almost to send the structure flying; then resigned himself to lying passive and watching the stars through the crevices of the roof. “I really could not be more taken up with her if I was in love with her. Why—well, and what if I am in love with her?”

“In love—and with her!” The idea was so ludicrous, and at the same time so unwelcome, that Cyril could not contemplate it lying down. He sat up, leaning against the supporting wall of the hut, and regardless of the risk of fire, lighted another cigar to calm his nerves, and thus fortified, prepared to face the situation. That he—he, Cyril Mortimer, of all men—should have fallen in love, and that with a lady who had not merely done her utmost to testify her dislike to him, but who could, and doubtless would, ruin his career with a ruthless hand if she should gain the slightest inkling of the state of his feelings, was too utterly absurd. It must be that he possessed a double personality, and one self loved the Queen, while the other not only perceived how fatal to all his chances in life such an attachment would be, but actually disliked, despised, and disapproved of Ernestine and all her doings. But—double personality or not—he was in love with her, and, so far as he could tell, for no earthly reason. This consideration was peculiarly trying to Cyril. As he had told Caerleon long ago, he had had many love-affairs, but to have called them affaires du cœur would have been a serious mistake. They were purely affaires de la tête, political or social speculations deliberately entered upon with an eye to the realisation of an underlying purpose. Cyril undertook them with the same zest that characterised him in his schemes of a more purely political nature, and enjoyed them fully, without once losing his head. The ladies concerned enjoyed them also, of course—such of them, at least, as understood that a tendresse, and not a grande passion, was the utmost to be expected from him—and the affairs had never yet afforded occasion for scandal. Cyril was not the man to compromise any woman—and far less himself—unless he was playing for very high stakes indeed.

And now he was honestly in love—just as Caerleon had been! The thought was so exquisitely absurd that he laughed until the tears came into his eyes. No, not like Caerleon, very far from it. It had not been Caerleon’s misfortune to fall in love with his sovereign; his difficulty was just the other way about. And the avowal that his love was returned, the hope that one day he might call the loved one his own—these things, for which Caerleon had lived, Cyril did not even desire. If he should ever be so unfortunate as to come to desire them, it would be the signal for him to leave Thracia, and take his susceptible heart to some other country, where Queens were less attractive, or, at any rate, less given to demand knight-errantry from their followers. His susceptible heart!—the term in connection with himself struck him as so ridiculous that he began to picture himself as laying that heart at Ernestine’s feet. What would she do?—turn away from it in disgust, or take it up in her disdainful little hands and throw it down again, just for the pleasure of seeing it break? But that pleasure she should not enjoy. He could not secure his heart in his own keeping, it seemed; but at least he could prevent any one else from guessing that he had lost it. He smiled again as he thought how easy the task would be. There was not a man in the kingdom who would not be suspected of such folly before himself, not a man to whom the Queen was less likely to condescend by way of inspiring in him such dreams.

“I’ll go on,” he said to himself, “and so long as she treats me decently I’ll stay and look after her; but if she makes herself disagreeable I shall cut, and before I go I’ll tell her! That will punish her,” and happy in the thought, and also conscious that his cigar had gone out, he lay down again, and slept peacefully.

He did not wake until late in the morning; but the host was the only member of the party who was before him. He was busy making up the fire as Cyril went down to the lake for a hasty toilet, and received him with a friendly smile when he returned.

“Can you let me have a snack of some kind, Minics, before the ladies come out?” Cyril asked him. “I want to be off without their knowing it.”

“But where are you going?” asked the charcoal-burner.

“Out along the way we came yesterday, to reconnoitre.”

“But that is foolhardy,” said the old man solemnly.

“That is just how I feel—foolhardy—or perhaps restless, rather. But I don’t intend to run any risks. I shall stop on this side of the river and make sure that the soldiers are gone from the Ortojuk end of the bridge before I attempt to cross. If they are there still, I shall come back.”

“But what foolishness are you contemplating? You have some silly idea of gaining glory by running into danger.”

“I assure you that you were never more mistaken in your life. It is easy to see that you don’t know me, or you wouldn’t make such a suggestion. My errand is the very prosaic one of discovering whether we have been tracked across, or not. If I find that they think we are still on the other side, I shall venture on hiring a boat to-morrow, for the sake of the ladies, who are really unfit to walk. But if they are looking for us on this side, or along the river, walk we must.”

“Yes. I can show you a path across the hills, which is fairly safe, but very rough. Well, go and make your inquiries, my son. I wish I had something better than rye-bread and ewe-cheese to give you to take with you.”

“Nothing could be better,” said Cyril cheerfully. “Good-bye. Present my respects to the ladies when they appear.”

But as he turned towards the forest-path, stuffing the bread and cheese into his girdle as he walked, the Queen ran out suddenly from the hut, and caught his arm. She had no shoes on, and her feet were bound up in pocket-handkerchiefs; but it was evident that she had quite forgotten the fact.

“Where are you going, Count?” she asked imperiously.

“On a voyage of discovery, madame.”

“That means that you are rushing into danger?”

“The experiences of the last few days have made danger appear quite unexciting, madame—even monotonous.”

“Do you think I am a child, Count, that you try to put me off with such tales? You are not to go.”

“Your Majesty must know that it is my dearest duty to obey any wish of yours. Am I to consider myself under arrest?”

“Count!” she stamped her foot and burst into tears, “you are cruel, ungentlemanly! Is it generous to recall to me what I said last night? You will not make the slightest allowance for a woman who was half out of her mind with fatigue and the dangers of the day. How can you be so unjust?”

“Madame!” remonstrated Cyril, in alarm, “you mistake me. If I have given you cause to address such a reproach to me, I humbly entreat your pardon.”

“Now you are putting me in the wrong again,” she said, half-laughing through her tears. “Do not let us quarrel, Count. I do not command you to stay here, but I entreat you not to leave us to-day. Think of the fearful suspense we should endure—waiting hour after hour for your return. You don’t believe me,” catching the involuntarily sarcastic look upon his face. “Well, then, think of our horrible isolation; left here without you. What should we do if the enemy traced us to this spot? How could you answer to your conscience for abandoning us? Ah! you will believe that, I see. You will permit us to have some fear for ourselves, if we may not feel any anxiety for the safety of our friend, our leader. Mille remercîments, M. le comte! Come, you will not go? The charcoal-burner is going to church. He will make any inquiries with far less danger than you. You will remain here?”

“Little witch!” said Cyril to himself. “What does she mean by looking so distractingly pretty? I shall kiss her in another minute, and then there will be a nice row! I couldn’t very well plead that it was my other personality which had done it.” Aloud he answered formally, “Your commands shall be obeyed, madame. I am your servant.”

“You are not!” she cried. “Never say that again, Count. Do you think I am a stone, a block of wood—that I have no feelings, no gratitude? You are a dear and faithful friend to my son and myself, as you were to my husband; and if we ever return to—to everyday life, you shall see that I am not ungrateful. Come, I ask you as a friend not to leave us lonely here. You will not refuse?”

“You do me too much honour, madame. Naturally I will remain.”

“You are not enthusiastic, Count. You think that I shall quarrel again with you in an hour or so?”

This was exactly what Cyril did think, but he was not so rude as to tell her so. “If you have any further wishes, madame, pray command me,” he said.

“Yes, there is one thing,” she said quickly, trying to hide a little disappointment which had crept into her tone. “What are they saying about us in the world all this time? What of M. Drakovics?”

“In the suddenness of our departure from Tatarjé, madame, I ventured to take the steps which seemed to me to be advisable without consulting your Majesty. To my servant, who was proceeding to Bellaviste in the train supposed to be conveying me, and who is a staunch fellow, I intrusted a note to be given to M. Drakovics immediately on his arrival. In this note I informed his Excellency of the unfortunate events which compelled you to leave Tatarjé at once with the King, and added that you would travel incognito until you reached the castle of Prince Mirkovics. These facts I begged him not to make public, lest the conspirators should have sympathisers in Bellaviste; and I requested him also not to attempt to put down the rebellion by force until he knew that your safety was assured. I have no doubt that he is publishing daily special Gazettes detailing your Majesty’s journey by the usual route, with particulars of the decorations and illuminations at the towns passed on the way.”

“To throw the public off the scent?” asked the Queen, laughing, in spite of herself, at the idea. “But surely we are losing time frightfully? The rebellion will spread and consolidate itself while we are wandering about in these forests.”

“Your safety, madame, and that of his Majesty, is the paramount consideration. When M. Drakovics knows you are safe, he can put down the rebellion at his leisure. Any step that would direct attention to this district, or drive the insurgents from Tatarjé to take refuge among these hills, would be a grave mistake. And even at the worst, we are losing very little time, although I cannot flatter myself that my plans have succeeded as they would have done with ordinary luck. By to-morrow night—in four days from our leaving Tatarjé—I hope to see you in safety. Either by the river, if it proves prudent to hire a boat, or by a path across the hills which Minics can show us, we ought to be able to reach Karajevo long before sunset; and once there we are among friends, for Bishop Andreas is the brother of Prince Mirkovics.”

“It is my turn to ask your pardon, Count. Your foresight is marvellous. If we reach Karajevo safely, I shall begin to feel that there is something supernatural about the way in which your plans succeed in spite of all kinds of apparent failure. Well, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave this wandering life in the greenwood; and yet—— There has been much, very much, that was delightful in it, and, best of all, it has shown me a true friend whom I have hitherto been too blind to recognise.”

She went back into the hut, leaving Cyril speechless under the witchery of the radiant smile she turned upon him. As he shook himself, metaphorically speaking, to get rid of the spell, he heard Fräulein von Staubach say with some asperity—

“Was it needful to take quite so long to make your peace, madame? I do not know what it will lead Count Mortimer to think?”

“Think? Why, what should he think?” asked the Queen sharply.

“Exactly,” reflected Cyril; “what should he think? No; that further complication is mercifully avoided—although there are moments when one is inclined to wish that it was not.”

CHAPTER XIV.
THE JUDENHETZE.

The hours of that Sunday passed pleasantly enough by the side of the lake in the valley. The charcoal-burner donned his best clothes and started for church, going not to Ortojuk, but to a village on the nearer bank of the river, and Fräulein von Staubach found ample employment in putting the hut tidy and making preparations for dinner, interlarding these occupations with disparaging remarks on their host’s style of housekeeping, addressed to the Queen, who was acting as her assistant. Cyril, who had been peremptorily refused a share in their labours, lay upon the grass and watched them, keeping at the same time a vigilant eye on the little King, who was amusing himself at the water’s edge, and came to him now and then to propound conundrums in physics and natural history.

When the Queen had finished her household tasks she fetched the child away, and sat down with him under a tree at the farther side of the clearing. She produced a book from her pocket, and Cyril gathered that she was telling the King a Bible story and teaching him texts. Presently Fräulein von Staubach joined her, and they read verses alternately out of the Bible and repeated German hymns aloud. Cyril understood perfectly well the timid glance which the Queen cast at him; she felt that it would only be right to ask him to join them, but she was afraid of his sarcasm. The idea pleased him, for it was evident that she had no inkling of the power she possessed over him, and moreover, he much preferred to watch her from this distance “playing at being in Church,” as the little King, with no intention of being profane, designated her occupation. She was very pleasant to look at as she sat there, holding fast one of the child’s chubby hands lest his active little body should escape whither his mind had already gone, to the birds and squirrels in the woods, and Cyril, as he watched her, fell into a day-dream. Suppose that some unimaginable turn of affairs should prevent their returning to what the Queen called “everyday life,” and keep them imprisoned in the forest, how pleasant it would be! He saw himself returning after a hard day’s hunting or woodcutting to this glen (not to the charcoal-burner’s hut, it may well be understood, or at least to a glorified edition of it), and welcomed by Ernestine—this new and friendly Ernestine. He scarcely glanced, even in his dream, at the possibility of marrying her, for it seemed that it would be happiness enough to be permitted to live near her and enjoy her society, provided that her mood did not change. But at the thought his lip curled. If there was anything in past experience, she would be scolding and upbraiding him to-morrow as though she had never called him her friend to-day, nor sworn endless gratitude to him. Such was life! and after this return to hard reality Cyril’s day-dream passed imperceptibly into a real dream, from which he only awoke to find that the little King had been putting beech-nuts (uncomfortable three-cornered things) down his collar, and that the Queen was scolding the child for being so naughty.

Recalled to the prose of life in this practical manner, Cyril returned good for evil by taking his youthful tormentor to look for a squirrel’s nest, an unavailing search that lasted until old Minics returned, overflowing with the gossip gathered from his acquaintances outside the church. It was the general belief that the King and his abductors must have crossed the river, although nothing had come to light as to the means by which the crossing had been accomplished, and search was being made for them all along the stream, and also on the road which they had left to reach the glen. From this it was evident that not only was it unsafe to return to the river in the hope of proceeding by boat; but it was also advisable to start as early as possible on the morrow, lest the search should extend even to their place of refuge.

Shortly after sunrise on the Monday morning, therefore, the wanderers took the road again. Minics accompanied them for some miles, in order to make sure that they were in the right way, as he said; but in reality, as Cyril shrewdly suspected, because he could scarcely bring himself to part from the strangers who had brought so much variety into his lonely life. This feeling was entirely reciprocated by King Michael, who displayed a willingness to return with the charcoal-burner to the “place where all the squirrels were,” which rather wounded his mother. When he was carried off at last on Cyril’s shoulder, he kept his face turned persistently backwards until Minics was out of sight, and continued to wave his hand and blow him kisses as often as the old man looked round. It was not until a further view of his friend had become absolutely hopeless that the King consented to adopt a position more agreeable to the person who had the honour of carrying him, and Cyril was able to address the Queen.

“Do you dislike leaving the wood as much as his Majesty, madame?”

“Very nearly as much,” she said, with a sigh. “I think that when next the doctors order us into the country, I shall make the Court camp out in the woods, instead of hiring houses.”

“It would be quite Arcadian,” observed Cyril, meditatively. “I can imagine Baroness Paula and the other maids of honour enjoying it immensely as long as the weather was fine, with Parisian shepherdess costumes and high-heeled shoes, and gilt crooks with bows of ribbon on them—but the elder ladies, madame! It would be sheer cruelty. Think of Baroness von Hilfenstein!”

“I don’t want the Baroness or any of them,” said the Queen, hastily. “Of course I was thinking of merely the party we have here to-day. Any one else would spoil it—except poor M. Paschics. What do you think they will do to him?”

To this question, asked for the twentieth time, Cyril could only give the stereotyped reply that Minics believed that his cousin had been sent back to Tatarjé, there to be examined by the heads of the conspiracy, and that if all went well it might be possible to rescue him in the course of a day or two. But this reminder of their past and present perils checked any tendency to further trivial conversation, and they marched on for the most part in silence.

Throughout the day’s journey over these sparsely wooded uplands they scarcely caught sight of a single person, and in only one case were they themselves seen, when they met a goatherd who consented to sell them a cupful of milk for the child. Cyril had succeeded in obtaining from old Minics a further supply of piastres in exchange for gold, and the transaction aroused no suspicion. Their frugal mid-day meal was eaten on the roadside near a stream, and a long rough walk followed—so long that the Queen was flagging visibly, and King Michael asking plaintively for his tea, before they reached the brow of the hill beneath which lay Karajevo, with a lofty mountain, its summit still covered with the winter’s snow, and its lower slopes clad with thick forest, towering above it on the other side. Over the city hovered a cloud which Cyril pronounced to be smoke.

“Evidently there has been a fire,” he said. “I only hope that the Bishop’s palace has not been burnt out, just as we want to test his hospitality. Well, we are nearly safe now; but we will not relax our precautions until we have claimed the Bishop’s protection. We will take our Thracian names again, and speak nothing but Thracian. You, madame, must be dumb, I fear, once more.”

They went on down the hill, but before they had reached its foot Cyril stopped again.

“I don’t like the look of this,” he said. “There is certainly something wrong, for there are houses on fire in two or three parts of the town, and the people seem to be moving about in crowds. We will make inquiries at the gate before we go in.”

But the gate proved to be deserted and falling into decay, and Cyril, noticing a small inn just inside the walls, thought that it would be a good place for inquiry. Telling the two women to sit down on the stone bench in front, he went indoors and asked for a glass of rye-beer. The woman who was serving looked at him apprehensively when he entered, and was obviously relieved to hear that he was a stranger.

“Is there anything wrong in the town?” he asked, as he sipped his beer. “It looks as though the Roumis had been making a raid.”

“Oh dear no! we have nothing of that sort nowadays,” replied the hostess hastily. “It is only that the townspeople have been expelling the Jews.”

“The Jews! Why, what have they done?”

“They have kidnapped the King, haven’t you heard? They want to make him a Jew, and they knew that their wicked spells would have no power over him if he was once made an Orthodox Christian, so they carried him off—to kill him and use his blood in their horrible rites, I daresay,” she added, with unconscious inconsistency.

“Dreadful!” said Cyril. “But what has that to do with Karajevo?”

“Oh, when the news came, the people rushed at once to attack the Jewish quarter. They set it on fire and drove the Jews out, and one or two got killed—but it was their own fault. They would not say where their treasures were hidden. And the Bishop actually took their part—well, our Popa Vladimir says he is half a Jew himself—and let them put their goods in his courtyard for safety. It wasn’t likely that the people would stand that, was it? and they broke open the gates and drove the Bishop out——”

“How long ago was this, and where did the Bishop go?” asked Cyril, in great anxiety.

“Oh, that was this morning, and the Bishop went up the mountain with two or three priests and servants, to take refuge with his brother, Prince Mirkovics, no doubt. How could he think of protecting the creatures, when the proclamation said that the wretches who had stolen the King ought all to be killed, and every one knew that it was the Jews who had done it?”

“There will be a few little pickings still left, I daresay,” said Cyril, who had had time to collect his thoughts. “At any rate, I think we will not go farther to-night—if you can provide us with a lodging, that is. We can’t pay much, but I can sleep in the loft if you can let the women have a room.”

“We can certainly take you in,” said the hostess with some contempt. “You don’t want a private sitting-room, I suppose? Your wife and the other woman had better come inside. Oh, there are the people coming down the street again! They are all drunk now, and what they will be when they have had more brandy, St Gabriel only knows!”

The aspect of the approaching mob was certainly not reassuring. Its component parts appeared to belong to the lowest rabble of the town, and in their equipment bloodstained weapons contrasted painfully with the gay stuffs and embroideries with which some of them were decorated. Cyril stepped to the door of the inn, where the Queen and Fräulein von Staubach, terrified by the wild shouting and wilder singing, were beginning to meditate flight.

“Stay where you are,” he whispered hastily, “and don’t look more frightened than you can help. They may not notice you.”

He had barely time to utter the words before the crowd poured past him into the house, clamouring for brandy. While the hostess was satisfying their demands, they had time to observe the stranger.

“Who are you?” demanded a big fellow in a butcher’s apron.

“A pilgrim coming from Tatarjé, and looking for a night’s lodging,” returned Cyril.

“Are those women with you? How are we to know you are not Jews?”

“Do Jews generally go on pilgrimage to St Gabriel’s tomb?”

“How should I tell? I know nothing about Jews. But we are not going to have them in Karajevo, at any rate. Come, we must get this settled.”

“Here is your brandy, gentlemen,” said the hostess anxiously. “Don’t disturb the poor people. The young woman looks dead tired.”

“Musht be sure they’re not Jewsh,” said a young man, with tipsy gravity. “Can’t have the plashe defiled again, jusht when we’ve turned them all out. Are you Jewsh, you women?”

He addressed himself to the Queen, who shook her head and pointed to her tongue. The action appeared to arouse suspicion.

“Dumb?” said the butcher. “There was a Jew dumb to-day, but I cured him with a red-hot steel. It cast the dumb devil out of him, so Popa Vladimir said.”

“She is no more a Jew than you are,” said Cyril.

“Of course not,” said the hostess. “Here’s an easy way of settling it, gentlemen. Let the poor people kiss the blessed icon of St Peter which I will take down for you—no Jew would do that—and do you leave them alone, and come back to your brandy.”

The suggestion was hailed with acclamations, and the blessed icon, a smoke-begrimed painting on a board, promptly handed to Cyril. He kissed it immediately, and the butcher held it to the lips of King Michael. He drew back fretfully, and his mother pushed it away. A murmur rose from the mob, and the self-appointed inquisitor offered the icon to the Queen, who rejected it so vigorously that it fell from his hand to the ground. Cyril called to her angrily to kiss it; but she shook her head obstinately, and stood facing the crowd with gleaming eyes and heaving breast.

“She is a Jewess!” was the cry, as the butcher picked up the icon reverently.

“Not a bit of it,” said Cyril, brushing the dust off it with the sleeve of his coat. “She doesn’t understand.”

“You make her undershtand, if she’sh your wife,” said the tipsy man.

“Why didn’t you ask me at first? You have frightened her and made her angry, and now she won’t do it for me.”

“It is quite clear that the woman is either a Jewess or possessed with a devil,” said the butcher solemnly. A murmur of assent greeted him, and he turned to Cyril. “You can stay here, young man; but the girl and her brat must go. We won’t have them in our town.”

“Then I shall go too,” said Cyril, warned by a whisper from the hostess, “Get her away before they begin to ill-treat her. They are nasty to-night.” Beckoning to the women to follow him, he pushed his way through the crowd and out at the gate, this sudden movement taking the enemy by surprise. One or two started in pursuit, however; but the brandy they had found in the Jewish spirit-shops interfered with their walking powers, and they considered it wiser to remain at the gate and hurl stones and pieces of rubbish after the fugitives. It was difficult to maintain the semblance of dignity when walking as fast as possible, and trying not to duck too precipitately in order to avoid the missiles thus despatched; but the Queen achieved the feat, and entered the forest with the lofty mien of a martyr, carrying her boy as easily as if indignation had driven away all fatigue.

“I am sorry you thought it well to destroy your chances of obtaining a night’s rest, madame,” said Cyril, selecting a path which led in the direction of the mountain, when they were out of sight and earshot of the city.

“I am sorry you thought it well to kiss the icon, Count.”

“I am not a Jew, madame. I should call myself a Christian if I was asked, I suppose.”

“You know very well it was not that. To kiss the icon meant that you belonged to the Orthodox Church. And it was to save my boy from that that we have gone through so much. But at least I have kept him from such a step as you chose to take.”

“My conscience, like my life, is at your service, madame.”

“But mine is not at yours!” she cried, turning on him. “Understand that, Count, if you please. But we will not discuss the subject. I do not wish to appear ungrateful.”

“Count!” came from Fräulein von Staubach in an awful whisper, as she clutched Cyril’s arm, “pray do not speak German. I believe we are followed. Several times I am certain that I have heard something moving among the bushes.”

“It may be some of the Jews, who have taken refuge here,” said Cyril reassuringly. “At any rate, it cannot be any one in pursuit of us, for those fellows were much too drunk to come, and there is no one in authority to organise a chase, even if we had been recognised, which we were not. Very likely it is some poor wretch who is as much afraid of us as we of him.” He raised his voice, and called out loudly in Thracian, “Who are you? Is there any one there?” but no answer came. “You see, it must have been an animal,” he said.

“A wolf!” gasped Fräulein von Staubach.

“A wolf won’t think of attacking us if we keep together. Besides, I have the knife and a revolver if he should prove aggressive. Allow me to relieve you of his Majesty, madame. We may have a good deal farther to go yet.”

They went on and on into the depths of the wood, much to the disgust of Fräulein von Staubach, who expressed her objections loudly; but the Queen, conscious that the farther journey was consequent upon her own action, said nothing, and plodded on valiantly. At length a red light became visible among the trees in front, and Cyril turned into a narrow path which led towards it.

“It cannot be a house,” he said; “but it may be a woodcutters’ camp, and they would probably give us shelter for the night.”

But as they approached the light, a figure burst from the bushes in front of them, and ran headlong towards the glow.

“What did I tell you?” cried Fräulein von Staubach, catching Cyril’s arm again. “It is a man, and we are lost!”

“Come on,” said Cyril coolly, and he led the way after the flying figure, which had burst into a circle of people sitting round a large fire with a cry of “Strangers! Christians!” There was an instant commotion, knives were drawn and hatchets brandished; but the appearance of Cyril and the two women on the edge of the clearing allayed the tumult. They were not formidable foes, and a venerable old man with a long beard, who seemed to be the chief of the party, advanced to meet them. As for Cyril, he had no doubt of the identity of the people on whom he had chanced. The long black kaftans and greasy ringlets of the men, the fuzzy wigs and occasional gleaming jewels of the women, showed them to be the Jews expelled that day from Karajevo.

“I tracked them all the way from the town. The man talked to the dark woman in a strange tongue!” cried the youth who had announced the approach of the new arrivals, and who stood breathless before the old Rabbi.

“Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked the old man of Cyril in Thracian.

“We are travellers who were refused a night’s lodging in the town. Will you allow us to join your company for the night?”

“But why were you refused lodging? You are not beggars?”

“No; they wanted to make us kiss one of their icons, and she,” pointing to the Queen, “refused. She is a foreigner.”

“But you do not belong to us?”

“No; but I will pay you five piastres—ten—if you will let us build a shelter for ourselves near you, and use your fire.”

“I saw them driven out of the town with stones and curses!” cried the youth, and a consultation took place between the Rabbi and two other old men. Cyril heard the words “Spies!” pass between them, to which the Rabbi seemed to demur, only to be silenced by one of his fellow-counsellors—

“If they are not spies, they must be criminals, and when they are found to have sojourned for the night with us, we shall be in a worse plight than ever.”

“Unless you can show us any stronger reason for your staying with us,” said the Rabbi at last to Cyril, and as he spoke he clinked imaginary coins from one hand into the other, “we cannot receive you into our camp.”

Cyril reflected for a moment, then decided not to be tempted into injudicious confidences. None knew better than he that among the Jews, as among people of other nationalities, good and bad are mixed together, and it was, to say the least, unlikely that every member of this banished community should be of the former description. To be robbed and murdered in the hours of darkness, or to be detained in the morning that their hosts might win favour by betraying them, would be for the little group of fugitives worse than going on farther that night, tired as they were.

“If what I have offered you is not enough,” he said sullenly, “we can’t pay any more. How far is the next village?”

“There are no more on this side of the mountains. The nearest house is the hotel on the top of the pass; but it has not yet been opened for the summer, and only the proprietor and one old servant live there.”

“And how are we to find our way to it?” asked Cyril. “Look here, if you will send some one with us as a guide, we will pay him the ten piastres, and trust to the innkeeper’s charity to let us lie down in some outhouse for the night.”

“I will go!” cried the youth who had tracked them. “There must be something wrong about them,” he added in a low voice, which was still quite audible to Cyril, “for them to be willing to camp with us at all, and see how quiet they are—not in the least like other Christians. Let me see what they do.”

“And art thou to be murdered and left in the snow for the sake of the ten piastres?” cried a black-wigged dame who had pressed into the group. “Thou shalt not go with the strangers, Nathan.”

“I will leave five piastres with you,” said Cyril to the Rabbi, wondering whether it would have proved more effective if he had blustered and demanded hospitality, instead of entreating it; “the rest I will give to the young man when he has brought us safely to the inn.”

“That is fair,” said the Rabbi, breaking in upon the renewed protests of Nathan’s mother. “Find the lantern for thy son, woman, instead of talking. He can take care of himself.”

The lantern, which happened to have been snatched up by some one in the hurry of flight as the object nearest at hand, was found and lighted, and Nathan led the way out of the clearing. As Cyril followed him, the little King’s eye fell on a sweet cake with which one of the Jewesses was feeding her baby, and he stretched out his hands hungrily. “Please give me some too,” he entreated.

“The poor child is starving!” cried the woman, breaking off half the cake, and handing it to him over Cyril’s shoulder.

“God bless you!” said the Queen, earnestly, laying her hand on the Jewess’s arm; “I will never forget what you have done to-night.”

And she passed on, leaving the women wondering over the German words, which the Rabbi had not caught sufficiently to interpret. The path up which Nathan was leading his party was rough and steep, and the light of the lantern was not of much use to any one but himself; but the rest followed him without a murmur, although their weary limbs almost refused to carry them up the rugged ascent. When the forest ended abruptly, however, and they found themselves on the bare mountain-side, the Queen gave way at last. She had tripped over a stone, and only saved herself by catching at Cyril; and when she released his arm, her strength failed her.

“I can’t go any farther,” she said, sitting down on the ground. “Go on, and leave me here.”

“Nonsense, madame!” said Cyril sharply. “Take the child,” he added to Fräulein von Staubach, “and give the rugs to the Jew boy.”

“I did not come here to carry your parcels,” protested the indignant Nathan.

“Do as you are told!” said Cyril, and, to his own intense astonishment, Nathan obeyed meekly. “Come, madame, take my arm,” and he raised the Queen from the ground. “I presume you do not wish to be seized with rheumatism as a consequence of this adventure; but you don’t appear to have noticed that it is raining.”

If the Queen had not noticed the rain under the shade of the trees, it was very evident in the open, and she allowed herself to be helped on a little farther. Then she stopped again, half-crying—

“Please let me go. I cannot walk another step.”

“You must,” was Cyril’s reply. “If you stay here you will freeze to death. We have nearly reached the snow, and the rain is changing to sleet. Surely you must feel how cold it is getting.”

She set her teeth and struggled on. They reached the snow before long—merely a thin sprinkling at first, just enough to make the path slippery; but this soon gave place to the partially melted snow of the winter, into the wet yielding masses of which the unwary traveller sank if he missed his foothold on the narrow track, trampled into hardness by his predecessors. Cyril dragged the Queen on with stern determination, wondering at each step that she did not fall, and scarcely surprised when at last her arm slipped from his, and she sank down on the snow.

“I know you are going to say that I shall die if I stay here,” she sobbed, pushing him away as he attempted to raise her. “That is just what I want.”

“For shame, madame! The Queen of Thracia a coward!” came in Cyril’s most sarcastic tones. “Look at Fräulein von Staubach, how bravely she keeps up. Will you be outdone by your dame d’honneur?”

“How dare you!” she cried angrily, but accepting his proffered help. “And you call yourself a gentleman!”

“Is it forbidden to a gentleman to interfere when he sees a woman trying to commit suicide?” he asked coolly. “If I can make her angry with me, and get her to argue, it will help us on,” he thought.

“You are unkind—cruel!” panted the Queen. “You won’t let me rest, although I can’t walk a step without agony. Have you no pity?”

“Madame, I pity you from my heart, but I dare not let you rest here. I cannot think only of the suffering woman; it is my duty to save the Queen.”

A gasping sob was the only answer; but he had felt her half withdraw her arm from his when he spoke of pitying her, and he went on stoutly—

“Courage, madame! You cannot afford to lie down and die here in the snow. For the kingdom’s sake, for your son’s sake, hold out a little longer. Be brave—for my sake.”

He expected an outburst of indignation; but something in his tone stirred the Queen’s curiosity, for she lifted her tired eyes to his, and asked, “Why for your sake, Count?”

“What do you imagine my feelings would be if I had brought you here to die in the snow, madame? I should be worse than a murderer.”

“You expect me to consider you, when you have no consideration for me,” she said, half-smiling, half-pouting, looking for the moment like her old self.

“If it would relieve your feelings to abuse me a little more, madame, pray do so.”

But this time the bait did not take. “I can scarcely keep my eyes open,” she complained, “and I can’t talk. I forget what I want to say before the words reach my lips.”

The cold was evidently benumbing her faculties, and Cyril became seriously alarmed. He continued to talk as he dragged her on, doing everything in his power to force an answer from her, keeping her awake by the sheer strength of his will, as in the case of a sufferer from some narcotic poison, until he felt both her hands clutching feebly at his arm.

“I would keep up if I could. I really can’t,” she murmured, as her head fell against his shoulder. Then her clasp relaxed, and she slid down on the snow at his feet, overcome by the deadly sleep, or rather stupor, brought on by intense cold. The rest of the party were so far in advance that it was of no use to call upon them for help. Cyril tried to lift the Queen’s senseless form; but, tired and numbed as he was, the dead-weight was too much for him. At last he passed his arm round her waist, and succeeded in raising her from the ground, and thus, half-carrying and half-dragging her, resumed the ascent. A few minutes later he came suddenly upon Fräulein von Staubach and Nathan, whom he could not see in the darkness and the falling snow until he was close upon them, standing despairingly in front of a high gate.

“It is locked,” the Jew was saying, “and the house is some way from it. The innkeeper cannot hear us, and if he could, he would not come down to open it.”

“Then climb over and wake him up,” said Cyril peremptorily. “Make any noise you like—break the windows if necessary—to make him come here and let us in. I will settle with him afterwards.”

Under ordinary conditions, Nathan would have pronounced the gate impossible to climb; but now he made a valiant effort, and succeeded in gaining the top. To fall over on the other side was comparatively easy, and when the obstacle had thus been effectually, if ungracefully, surmounted, he ran up the path to the house.

“What is the matter with her Majesty?” asked Fräulein von Staubach anxiously of Cyril, as they stood waiting before the gate.

“I think she has fainted. I have had almost to carry her the last part of the way.”

“Lieber Himmel! she will die if we cannot restore her quickly. Could you not break the gate open, Count?”

Placing the Queen in a sheltered corner, Cyril examined the gate. The lock was new, but the wood was somewhat worm-eaten. Retreating a step or two, he burst it open with a kick, delivered with a strength that surprised himself, and he and Fräulein von Staubach together dragged the Queen inside, just as Nathan ran down the path with several keys jingling in his hand.

“You have got in? Ah, but he will be angry, the swine of an innkeeper! He says he won’t have wandering peasants taking shelter in his house; but if you like to spend the night in the porter’s lodge, which is empty, he does not mind. Here’s the key.”

“But can we get fire and food?” cried Cyril. “The brute! he shan’t escape like this. I will get what we want, if I have to take it.”

The youth paused, much impressed, as he fitted one of the keys into the doorway of the little house, and looked at Cyril. “There is wood in the shed,” he replied. “The innkeeper’s servant whispered it to me, when her master’s back was turned, and said that she would be down here herself in a moment. She was only waiting to bring some soup with her.”

“Excellent woman!” said Cyril, forcing the door open with his knee. Fireless as it was, the house gave a sensation of sudden warmth, in its shelter from the wind and contrast with the cold outside, and he hastened to bring in the Queen and lay her on the rough plank settle which occupied three sides of the room. Sending Nathan to forage for wood, he helped Fräulein von Staubach to disencumber herself of the shawl which she had wrapped round herself and the little King, and laid the child on the settle, only half awake, and protesting fretfully against such treatment. While they were unfastening the rugs, which Fräulein von Staubach proceeded to heap upon the Queen, Nathan returned with the wood, and Cyril swept from the hearth the snow which had drifted in through the hole which served as a chimney, and arranged a goodly pile. The youth had had the forethought to bring some shavings to serve as kindling, much to Cyril’s relief, for the remains of a box of wax vestas in his pocket were all the matches the party possessed. While he was engaged in the task of lighting the fire by their means, a sudden question from Fräulein von Staubach startled him.

“Count, is eau de Cologne poisonous?”

“Not that I know of,” he answered, without looking round. “Have you taken some?”

“No; but if it is not harmful I am going to give some to the Queen. I’m sure there is spirit in it, and she must have something.”

“For pity’s sake don’t! It wouldn’t improve matters to poison her. Wait!” for Fräulein von Staubach was actually pouring out the liquid into a thimble, the only drinking-vessel available.

“What are you giving the poor thing?” cried a voice in Thracian, and an elderly woman burst in upon them like a beneficent tornado. In one hand was a steaming jug, in the other a great loaf of black bread, both sheltered from the snow by her shawl. “Don’t give her that nasty-smelling stuff,” she added briskly, depositing her load on the settle, “and you oughtn’t to have her here by this fire. Bring her in here,” and she produced a key and opened the door into an inner room. “The porter’s wife is my sister, and I have kept the place looked after for her myself. Carry your wife in, young man, and put her on the bed, and then bring in the child and the soup. Send the Jew boy to the well for some water—he knows where it is—and put on the pot to boil. And get some of those rugs of yours dried and warmed.”

She closed the inner door peremptorily on herself and Fräulein von Staubach, and Cyril was left to obey her last commands. Nathan proved to be much more expert in fixing up the great pot over the fire than he was, and he was holding up the rugs to the blaze to dry when the door opened again, and Fräulein von Staubach came out, wearing an expression of the most unflinching resolution, and took him by the arm.

“You must come in and speak to the Queen,” she said. “She is still unconscious.”

“But what good will it do if I speak to her?” asked Cyril in astonishment. “Surely it would be better for her to sleep off her fatigue?”

“It is not sleep—it is a kind of fainting-fit,” she returned, “and unless she is restored to consciousness she will slip away, merely through fatigue and want of food. You forget that she has had nothing to eat since noon, and it is now past nine o’clock. She must be made to take something.”

“But if you have tried in vain to persuade her Majesty, surely it is clear that nothing I could say would move her?”

“I do not wish to answer questions, Count. I want you to come with me at once.”

Yielding to her importunity, Cyril followed her into the inner room, feeling more foolish than he had ever done before in his life, and also more bashful. The thought of Baroness von Hilfenstein persisted in presenting itself to him, and he felt that in such a case as this, the mistress of the robes would unhesitatingly have condemned the Queen to death, rather than countenance so grievous a breach of etiquette. But when he was inside the room, he forgot all at once his misgivings and his self-consciousness. The old Thracian woman, who was undressing the little King, alleviating the hardships of the process by administering morsels of bread dipped in soup, nodded with evident satisfaction when she saw him.

“It is well,” she said. “Speak to her, and bring her back. Sometimes the voice of a loved one has power to recall the soul from the very gates of death.”

Scarcely noticing the remark, which was couched in the semi-poetical strain common among the Thracians, Cyril bent over the Queen. She was lying on the bed just as he had left her, covered with blankets which the old woman had brought out, her wet lustreless hair streaming over the coarse pillow. Her face was white and set, her teeth locked, and for the moment he thought that she was really dead.

“Speak to her,” commanded Fräulein von Staubach, as he looked up with dread in his eyes.

“Madame!” he said softly, “madame! I entreat your Majesty——”

“Fool!” hissed Fräulein von Staubach, gripping him by the shoulder, “will you let her die before your eyes? Speak to her by her name.”

Scarcely knowing what he did, Cyril knelt down at the bedside, and took the hand which was lying clenched upon the coverlet into his.

“Ernestine!” he cried, bending over her, “Ernestine, speak to me!”

“Ah, he loves his wife—that young man,” murmured the old woman, rising and watching the scene curiously; “and—holy Peter!—she has heard him!” as by the dim light of the lantern she saw a sudden quiver cross the white face. But Cyril had forgotten the presence of any onlookers.

“Ernestine!” he cried again, watching eagerly for a repetition of the sign of life, but it was not repeated. Instead, the Queen opened her eyes. They rested for a moment on his face, and met his with an expression that startled him and stirred his heart to its depths, then closed again with a smile. Cyril could neither move nor speak; but Fräulein von Staubach, for once most unsentimentally practical, thrust the jug of soup and a spoon into his hands.

“Give it to her,” she whispered. “She must take something.”

The Queen’s eyes opened again, but only to reject the soup with a look of disgust. This time, however, Cyril was equal to his duty.

“You will take it from me?” he said, and succeeded in administering several spoonfuls before Fräulein von Staubach snatched the jug from his hands, and in a peremptory whisper ordered him away.

“She is coming back to her senses,” she said, and as he rose, Cyril saw that the Queen’s eyes were following him with a look in which a shade of fear and perplexity was blended with the loving confidence which had revealed to him so much. He felt as though he had committed sacrilege—as though a rude hand had raised a veil and shown him something that he had no right to see, and he went back into the outer room like a man in a dream, and stood looking into the fire.

“Good heavens!” he said to himself helplessly, “good heavens!” Then after a pause. “It only needed this. What a complication! Of all the cursed luck which this wretched business has brought us, this is the very worst. Who could have dreamt that she would take it into her head to care for me? I shall have to cut Thracia, of course. I declare, if it wasn’t for leaving her in danger, I would make myself scarce to-night. What in the world is to be done?”

Here he met the gaze of Nathan, who was regarding him with great interest from the other side of the hearth, and awoke from his meditations to be thankful that the youth knew no English. In the perturbation of his mind it was a relief to remember that there was a practical matter still to be settled.

“What do you intend to do, Nathan?” he asked. “You don’t think of going back to your people to-night, I suppose? A shake-down on the settle here would be more comfortable than the snow.”

“Oh, I shall get back all right,” was the confident reply. “I know the way, and the wind is going down. But the kind gentleman won’t forget the money?”

No, Cyril had not forgotten; but it was necessary to check the impulse which moved him to give the youth a gold piece instead of the five piastres which were owing to him. Assuming the reluctant air of the thrifty peasant, Cyril counted out the sum, and added three piastres and a few smaller coins, which he pushed across to Nathan. “Those are for yourself,” he said. “You see that I am not ungrateful.”

The Jew looked up with something like a twinkle in his eye. “And when the kind gentleman comes to his own again, he will not forget poor Nathan?” he said, in the cringing whine of his race.

“I think you must be making some mistake about me, Nathan,” said Cyril; but Nathan only laughed incredulously as he took his cap and stick, asked for the lantern, and departed. Presently the old servant passed through the room, and informing Cyril that his wife had taken some more soup, and was now sleeping quietly, she also went home. Cyril was left alone, and his thoughts, as he lay down on his improvised couch, were scarcely more reassuring than they had been two nights ago in the forest. When at last he fell asleep, he was tormented by a dream which recurred several times, so that all night he seemed to be carrying the Queen in his arms up a steep snow mountain, which, as often as he reached the top, changed into a great throne of ice, on which sat Ernestine far above him, gazing down with that look of love and trust which he had surprised in her unconscious eyes, but unapproachable. At last she bent towards him, and laid her hand upon his shoulder, and the touch at least was real; but, alas! it was Fräulein von Staubach who was waking him in broad daylight.

“Is anything the matter? How is the Queen?” he asked, jumping up.

“Her Majesty is much refreshed by her night’s rest,” returned Fräulein von Staubach primly, but with some signs of confusion. “I merely wished to warn you, Count, that she was troubled by a peculiar dream last night, which had to do with yourself. She thought that you came into the room and held her hand in yours, and addressed her by name. Of course you see at once that it is only in the Queen’s weak state that she could imagine such an idea was anything but a dream.”

“Of course,” returned Cyril. “Dreams are strange things, Fräulein.”

CHAPTER XV.
“WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD.”

“You make me absolutely miserable, madame,” Fräulein von Staubach was protesting vigorously. “Count, I am sure you will agree with me that her Majesty ought not to leave her bed. Pray exercise your influence——”

“What has Count Mortimer to do with it?” asked the Queen, as she hobbled into the outer room on her bandaged feet. “He is not my private physician. Your influence is never exerted on the side of laziness, is it, Count?”

She spoke quickly, and with a little hardness in her voice, doing her best not to look at Cyril. He knew that she was trying to assure herself of the purely imaginary character of the events of her dream, and that she found it difficult to do so; but, thanks to Fräulein von Staubach’s warning, he was able to meet her without betraying any self-consciousness. The situation had even a touch of piquancy for him, as he arranged a comfortable seat for her near the fire, and brought out the remains of the last night’s loaf, which formed the only breakfast available; but when he found her eyes fixed on him in mingled confusion and anxiety, he did his best to set her at her ease by diverting her mind to other topics.

“Indeed, Fräulein,” he replied, “I cannot say that I am sorry her Majesty is well enough to rise. You must remember that we are not out of danger yet, and for all we know there may be another day’s tramping before us.”

“More walking, Count?” asked the Queen in dismay.

“It will be all downhill to-day, madame, at any rate.”

“Ah, I am afraid you found me very troublesome last night—but that is just what I thought you at the time. I have a vague impression,” she added, turning to Fräulein von Staubach, “that Count Mortimer was helping me up the mountain, and that he insisted on talking when I wanted to be quiet. I know that he enunciated the most outrageous doctrines, for I felt he was trying to see how far he could go without making me contradict him, and I took a perverse pleasure in remaining silent.”

“I congratulate you on your skill in concealing your feelings, madame,” said Cyril, with a bow. “I did you the injustice of imagining that you were nearly asleep.”

“Oh no, I was not asleep then,” she replied hurriedly, blushing as she spoke; “but I fear that your thinking so proves that it must have been difficult to get me up the hill. Did you find me very heavy?”

“I could wish that you had been heavier, madame. The greater the weight the greater the honour, in such a case.”

“That is a double-barrelled insult, Count. Do you imply that my weight was great, or that the honour was small?”

“Madame, there is some one coming,” interrupted Fräulein von Staubach, who had been listening with evident displeasure to this exchange of badinage; and almost as she spoke the door opened, and the old servant entered.

“You are up, then?” she said, surveying the party cheerfully. “I am glad of that, for all morning I have been afraid that the master would come and rouse you up and turn you out. It’s much better to get your breakfast quietly before starting. I have brought you another loaf, by the way, and a pair of soft slippers for your wife, poor soul!” she added to Cyril, who felt for once devoutly thankful that the Queen did not understand Thracian. “I saw that her feet were all cut and blistered last night.”

“You see, Sophie, it is a good thing that I got up, if we are to be turned out,” said the Queen to Fräulein von Staubach, when the gift had been duly tried on, and the old woman thanked with great heartiness, much to her disgust.

“There, there!” she said. “I suppose one may give away a pair of old slippers without being supposed to have done anything great. I don’t know whether it makes any difference to you, young man; but when I looked down at Karajevo just now, I saw a crowd streaming out of the gate and coming towards the mountain. I haven’t an idea who you may be; but you know best whether you are in any danger.”

“Many thanks,” said Cyril. “Can you add to your kindness by telling us the nearest way to Prince Mirkovics’s castle from here?”

“Why, what a pity you weren’t here yesterday, so as to travel in the good Bishop’s company! He passed here about noon, with just two or three priests and people, and gave me his blessing as kindly as you please. Which way did he go? Why, he took the path down the mountains, of course. It winds a good deal; you can see it again down there,” she had drawn Cyril to the door, and was pointing down the rocky slope, “and when you reach the bottom, you have to go on past the waterfall, where the river comes down from the mountains, and keep on along the bank for three or four miles, until you get to the bridge. When you have crossed that, you are in Prince Mirkovics’s country, and if you go straight on you must come to the castle before very long.”

“But all this will take a long time,” said Cyril, in dismay, thinking of the pursuit which was in all probability already on foot, and of the Queen’s difficulty in walking; “is there no place where we could find shelter before reaching the castle?”

“Shelter means a hiding-place, I suppose?” said the old woman shrewdly. “No, don’t be afraid; I won’t tell tales. Well, there may be one, and there may not. When you come to the falls, you will see a tumbledown old house built beside them. It was a saw-mill once, but it doesn’t work now. Old Giorgei who lives there is mad, but you won’t find it out unless you start him upon politics. His two sons took part in that conspiracy years ago, when the English King (our Carlino, you know) was driven out, and they were both killed. The eldest, who worked the saw-mill, was killed in the fighting, and the other, a soldier in garrison at Tatarjé, though he escaped at the time, was taken and shot afterwards. But if you don’t mention politics or Drakovics, the old man will be all right, though there’s no saying what he will do if you stir him up. Holy Peter! there’s the master coming, and what will he say to me? You keep him in talk, there’s a good young man, while I get back to the house.”

“Tell the women to get ready to start,” Cyril called after her as she scurried back into the room, and he went forward to meet the elderly man who was approaching—a lean, bow-legged individual, with small eyes and a quavering voice, who cried out angrily as he came in sight of the broken gate—

“What does this mean, fellow? How dare you destroy my property in this way?”

“You forget that it was contrary to the law for the gate to be locked yesterday evening,” returned Cyril. “Inns are supposed to be open night and day. However,” he added, remembering, as the old man grew purple with rage, that it was not advisable to make enemies, “I am willing to pay for the damage, since you sent down the key for us after all. Ten piastres will buy the wood and pay a carpenter for making you a much better gate than this one, and I will add five piastres for the accommodation you found for us. But I warn you that if you lock the new gate to keep out travellers who may die in the snow, it will be the dearest gate you ever had.”

“What do you mean, fellow? Do you venture to threaten me?” stuttered the innkeeper, his fingers closing greedily over the coins. “You are much too impudent for a peasant.”

“Then perhaps I am a prophet. I may tell you that when I give myself the trouble of prophesying, I generally take good care that the prophecy comes true; so remember. Good day.”

And having attained his object of securing time for the old servant’s retreat by mystifying her master, Cyril returned into the little house and summoned the ladies to start on their journey. The Queen was quite unable to walk without assistance, but she persisted in accepting as little help as possible from him. Indeed she did her best to enlist Fräulein von Staubach as her supporter, and only consented to dispense with her services when Cyril pointed out that it was impossible for him to carry both the little King and the bundle of rugs; but that if Fräulein von Staubach would take charge of his Majesty, he himself could carry the rugs and find an arm to lend the Queen. In this order they started from the hotel, the proprietor watching them morosely as they passed through the broken gate, and took their way down the mountain. The sun had thawed the surface of the snow a little, and it was less slippery than the night before, but their progress was necessarily very slow. The Queen set her teeth and limped along with dogged resolution; but Cyril noticed that before long she forgot her reluctance to make use of his support, and clutched his arm tightly. Matters became somewhat better when the snow was left behind, and the spirits of the wanderers rose as they plodded down the path, which, as the old servant had said, pursued a very winding course.

“Why, we can see the hotel again from here!” said Fräulein von Staubach at last, looking back at the snowy heights they had left. “Oh, Count, look! They are there!”

Cyril glanced up, and saw distinctly a dark moving mass, showing clearly against the snow, coming over the crest of the pass. It could only be a crowd of men, and it was in the highest degree unlikely that such a body should be crossing the mountains with any object in view but that of pursuit, but the terror-stricken faces of the two women warned him to be cheerful.

“We shall be obliged to turn aside and interview old Giorgei, I see,” he said; “but there is no need to be frightened. These people may not be after us, and even if they are, it is quite possible we have not been seen. And if they are looking for us, and have seen us, we have a good start, and plenty of time to get hidden before they can come up.”

“But what if the old man will not hide us?” asked the Queen.

“Then we must demand his help in the name of St Gabriel, madame. Did you know that this waterfall was called St Gabriel’s Leap? The charcoal-burner told me the legend. It seems that St Gabriel had one of his numerous hermitages here—for an ascetic he must have enjoyed a wonderful amount of change of air and scene—and one day the Roumis came to hunt him out, intending to kill him. He saw them approaching, and immediately hastened to the edge of the falls and dashed into the water. They expected to see his body washed up in the pool below; but while they were watching for it, they were electrified to behold the saint himself standing on the opposite side of the falls, with his clothes perfectly dry—at least, so the story says. He stayed long enough to bestow his curse on them in dumb show, and then disappeared among the rocks. There was no doubt that it was the man himself, and not an apparition, for he lived some years after, and at last fell into Roumi hands and was tortured to death, no miracle intervening on that occasion. Still, I only wish we had him here now, to let us into his secret.”

“But how do you think he got across?” asked the Queen.

“I should imagine that he had made a careful study beforehand of the rocks in the waterfall, with an eye to emergencies—perhaps had even practised crossing by jumping from one to another. There may be clouds of spray which would hide him until he had got over; but he must have needed a cool head, at any rate.”

“But what about his dry clothes?”

“Oh, that I fear we must put down as a pious addition of later ages, unless he kept a spare suit in some convenient cave on the other side. But listen; don’t you hear the sound of the falls?”

“Trains!” cried the little King, with great delight.

“I wish it was!” said Cyril. “Now, madame, I think we had better leave the road. Unfortunately it lies so straight before us that when the enemy reach this point they will be able to see at once that we are not upon it; but they will be obliged to spend some little time in hunting about to find out where we turned off. There seems to be some sort of a path through this wood, and it leads straight in the direction of the waterfall, by the sound.”

The path, if such it could be called, was not wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and Cyril had some difficulty in making a way for the Queen; but they penetrated through the wood at last, and came out on a cleared space. In front of them was the waterfall, dashing down from a lofty ridge of rocks high up on the left hand, while on the right the water swirled in a deep dark pool at the foot of the cascade. Perched on the very side of the fall, and partially overhanging the water, was a weatherbeaten house, partly built of stone and partly of wood, through the dilapidated windows of which the remains of machinery were visible. Other rusty pieces of mechanism were strewn about the clearing, mingled with a number of logs, some freshly hewn, others mouldering into decay, while an abandoned cart-track, all grown over with grass, followed the slope of the ground on the right, and no doubt joined the road a little way below the pool. The only living occupant of this deserted clearing was an old man with a shaggy beard and long grey hair, who was sitting idly on one of the logs, with an adze in his hand. He did not appear to take any notice of the intruders; but as Cyril approached to speak to him, he turned and addressed him instead—

“You are come at last, then? I have been watching for you a long time.”

“Why? do you know who we are?” asked Cyril, taken by surprise.

“Know you? You are the Englishman, Count Mortimer, and those with you are the wife and child of your master, Otto Georg.”

“You certainly have the advantage of us, father.”

The old man shot a disdainful glance at him. “I saw you carrying the sword before Otto Georg when he entered Bellaviste in state after his marriage with the girl there, and again when that child yonder was baptised. And you expect me not to know you or her, because you are dressed up as peasants!”

“Well, that saves us the trouble of an introduction,” said Cyril easily. “Yes, Father Giorgei, the Queen and her son are at your door, and claim your protection against the enemies who are pursuing them.”

“My protection!” with a grin, which changed suddenly to a snarl of malevolence. “And they ask it through you, of all people, never guessing that they might as well employ Drakovics himself as their messenger! You ask for my protection—you, who murdered my two sons!”

“I think you must be labouring under some misapprehension,” said Cyril, much disturbed by the turn which the conversation was taking.

“There is no misapprehension,” returned the old man, more calmly. “You are the brother of the Englishman Carlino, whom my sons had sworn to drive out. I saw you first with your brother at Bellaviste—it was the day that the mad Scythian girl tried to kill him, and we thought all our plans were wrecked. My son Pavel pointed you out to me. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it is Carlino that speaks, but Kyrillo puts the words into his mouth. It is of no use killing one—they must both go.’ Then the fighting began, and Pavel was killed when Drakovics and Otto Georg retook Bellaviste; but I rejoiced in all my sorrow for my son, because I thought that at any rate Carlino and Kyrillo were both dead also. But you were not dead, and you came back with Otto Georg; and my son Dmitri, who had escaped and hidden himself when the Tatarjé patriots were cut to pieces by the German, was discovered and tried and shot. Both my sons are dead, and you are living still, though their deaths lie at your door.”

The old man’s voice was raised, and his sunken eyes gleamed as he flung the charge at Cyril, who betrayed no emotion. “Let us look at this thing sensibly,” he said. “I am no more responsible than any other member of the Government for your sons’ deaths; but I don’t want to shirk what responsibility there is. Your sons, on your own showing, tried to kill me; but matters fell out the other way. It was a fair fight, and the chances were equal, except that your sons worked underground.”

“And that my sons were in the right!” shouted the father. “They were patriots and Orthodox, while you are a miserable Lutheran foreigner.”

“That is undeniable,” said Cyril; “but setting myself and your grudge against me aside, let me ask you not to lose any more time before providing a shelter for the King and Queen and their attendant. You can’t wish to wreak your vengeance on two helpless women and a child. The Queen was a young girl at home in Germany when your sons’ deaths occurred, and the King was not born until several years after. Whatever the guilt is, they cannot be involved in it.”

“They should not come to ask my help with you in their company.”

“Leave me out of the question, I tell you; only hide them.”

“Ah!” with a long cunning laugh; “shall I hide them and leave you to face your enemies?”

“By all means, if that is your condition. But pray be quick.”

“You won’t try to escape?”

“It wouldn’t be much good. Where am I to escape to?”

“You will wait here while I place them in safety, so that I may see you killed? I have dreamed of it often.”

“You shall have that pleasure,” said Cyril aloud. “But it would not surprise me,” he added to himself, “if a bullet from my revolver found its way in your direction in the scrimmage, my good man, and gave me the pleasure instead.”

“Good!” said the old man, unconscious of the murderous determination of his intended victim. “It is almost a pity that you are not a Thracian; but no Thracian would be such a fool as to let his life go so easily. And now, bid the women follow me. I will hide them safely.”

He turned into the house and brought out an ancient lantern, setting to work to light it by means of a flint and steel, while Cyril turned to the Queen—

“Madame, the old man consents to hide you; but I have grave doubts of his sanity, and more of his trustworthiness. Take this knife of mine, and hide it in your dress. If the occasion comes, use it—that is all that I can say. The need is so urgent that I dare not advise you to neglect the smallest chance of escape; but I fear this is a very slight one indeed.”

“But why should I take your knife?” demanded the Queen, holding the weapon doubtfully in her hand. “You don’t think that I can’t trust you to defend us, Count? What has the old man been saying? By his tones and gestures he seemed to be very hostile to you. What arrangement have you made with him?”

“He guarantees your safety, madame, which is the important point at the present moment. Permit me to assist you,” and he helped her across the threshold into one of the lower rooms of the mill, which was filled with rusty machinery, looking weird and ghostly in the dim light. The old man had preceded them, and was waiting at the foot of a ladder in a similar room beyond, leading to a large round hole in the ceiling, through which nothing but darkness was visible. The Queen looked from him to Cyril, then sat down deliberately on a block of wood, and beckoned to Fräulein von Staubach.

“Ask the old man what he has promised to do,” she said loudly, for in this confined space the noise of the waterfall was so overpowering that ordinary tones were inaudible. “No; not you, Count,” waving Cyril away; “you are trying to hide something from me.”

“Madame,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, “I heard what passed between Count Mortimer and the old man. He has promised to hide us safely if Count Mortimer will give himself up to the enemy.”

“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Cyril in German, “you are in error. There is no question of giving myself up. I have a revolver here, and I mean to make a fight for it yet.”

“A fight! one man against a crowd!” said the Queen, with a look of measureless contempt. “You take too much upon yourself, Count. I am to be consulted before you enter into treaties of this kind.”

“What is the lady sitting down and wasting time for?” asked the old man impatiently.

“Tell him that I refuse utterly to be saved at such a price, Sophie,” said the Queen. “We shall all die together.”

“Madame, madame!” cried Cyril. “Think that you are sacrificing your son!”

“I am saving his honour,” she replied, with fine scorn. “Could I wish him to live by the death of his most faithful servant?”

“You torture me, madame!” cried Cyril in agony. “Believe me, there is no sacrifice in the case. My life is laid joyfully at his Majesty’s feet. I entreat you not to be so cruel as to refuse the gift.”

“I do refuse it,” said the Queen sharply. “Sophie, give me my child. They shall kill us together. It will not be long now.”

“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked the old man of Cyril with a grin, as Fräulein von Staubach placed the little King in the arms of his mother, who arranged the shawl which she wore over her head so as to hide from him the ruined machinery, at which he was glancing fearfully.

“Look here,” said Cyril, dragging the old man aside, “let me go up with you and get them safely hidden. It will pacify her if she thinks I am all right, and I give you my word of honour to come down again with you afterwards.”

“Very well,” returned the woodman. “Help the lame lady up the ladder.”

“Madame,” said Cyril, approaching the Queen, “our friend has changed his mind, and permits me to attend you.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said the Queen, looking round at him with a rigid face; “for it would be impossible for me to mount that ladder without your help.”

“She still suspects something, worse luck!” said Cyril to himself, as he restored the King to the care of Fräulein von Staubach and sent her up the ladder after the old man. The Queen followed, with more ease than might have been expected after her confession of weakness, and Cyril brought up the rear. At the top they found themselves in a kind of loft, and as soon as they had all ascended, the old man rushed to a windlass, and by its means drew up the ladder, which he placed on the floor where it could not be seen from below. Then he left them, taking the lantern with him, and they traced his progress by his frequent stumbles over pieces of old ironwork, for the roar of the water drowned the noise of his footsteps on the shaking boards, until he suddenly flung open a large shutter, and called to them to come and look out. A gasp of astonishment escaped them when they obeyed, for they found themselves apparently in the middle of the waterfall. A square stone tower was here built out into the stream, and the cascade, dashing down some four feet below the window, flung its spray in their faces.

“We are caught like rats in a trap!” was Cyril’s reflection; but before he could utter a word the old man turned upon him.

“You see that I have you in my power?” he said. “I know you do, and I know also that you do not trust me. You believe that I have brought you here to take your choice of deaths between the falls and the enemy. Well, be it so; suspicion deserves only disloyalty.”

“What does he say?” asked the Queen of Fräulein von Staubach, who, shaking with terror, translated the words. To her astonishment her mistress stepped forward, and taking the little King from her, placed him in the old man’s arms.

“Make him understand,” she said authoritatively. “I do trust you, Father Giorgei; and I give you the best proof of my trust by confiding to you the safety of my son, your King.”

Cyril trembled lest the old man should fling the child into the torrent; but as Fräulein von Staubach translated the Queen’s words, Giorgei’s face relaxed, and he turned from the window with something like delight.

“You and your child and your servants are safe with me, lady,” he said, “for trust begets loyal service. Without your trust I could not save you, for our only way of escape, if your enemies track you here, is a terrible one, which will demand the most complete confidence in me from all of you. But now I do not fear to try it.”

He closed the shutter again and restored the King to his mother, then turned to a heap of rubbish, and began to draw out of it some pieces of rope, old and frayed, and to knot them together.

“You have more faith in human nature than I, madame,” observed Cyril to the Queen, in German.

“How could I do otherwise than trust him, when he had promised to save us?” she asked, and Cyril reflected that it was not the first time he had seen a woman arrive at a right conclusion upon insufficient premisses. But he had no leisure to make further observations on the peculiarities of feminine logic, for it seemed to him that there was another sound mingling with the roar of the waterfall.

“Surely I hear shouting?” he said to the old man, who dropped his pieces of rope immediately, and drew Cyril towards the front of the building, where a gap between two planks afforded a narrow spy-hole. Looking through this, they saw that the clearing was filled with people, who were pouring into it both by the cart-track and the path through the wood, shouting with eagerness as they realised the character of the place. Among them Cyril recognised the big butcher of Karajevo, and also, to his infinite amusement, the churlish host of the preceding night.

“All lie down on the floor, and do not utter a sound,” said the old man, extinguishing the lantern as he and Cyril returned to the rest. “If they are satisfied with searching the ground-floor, we can stay here; but if they guess that we are on this floor, we must escape by the falls.”

“Is there any other ladder?” asked Cyril.

“No; but if they wished to climb up, they could easily devise some means of doing so. Hush!”

Lying flat on the floor, too far from the edge of the hole for their faces to be seen from below, they saw the darkness above them illuminated by wavering lights, while the sound of voices, raised in order to be heard through the noise of the torrent, mounted to their ears. The mob had manufactured torches from some of the dry wood lying about, and were crowding into the lower rooms, peering into the wrecked machinery and probing the rubbish-heaps with their knives. It took some time to satisfy them that the fugitives were not concealed on the ground-floor; but at last they halted below the hole which led to the loft, and gazed up into the blackness.

“There ought to be a ladder,” shouted one. “Where is it?”

“They must be up there,” returned another. “Father Giorgei always leaves the ladder down here, and it isn’t anywhere about.”

“Never mind,” said the butcher. “We can easily get up without it. A young tree with the branches on will serve as a ladder.”

“But the man is sure to be armed,” said another; “and he could shoot you out of the darkness long before you saw him.”

“We will go up ten or twelve at once and overpower him. I don’t mind being the first,” said the butcher; but the innkeeper pulled his sleeve—

“No, no, my dear friend; why risk your valuable life? Remember your wife and children. Let us set the old place on fire, and burn the wretches out.”

The idea seemed to commend itself to all; but presently a voice said hesitatingly, “What about Father Giorgei?”

“If they have killed him, it can’t signify to him what happens to the house; and if he has given them shelter, he deserves to be punished.”

This was convincing, and the mob rushed out to look for wood, several of them shouting up through the hole, “We have not forgotten you, foxes! We are going to smoke you out of your earth!”

“Surely we had better go before they come back?” said Cyril; but the old man shook his head—

“No; if we opened the shutter now they would see the light, and guess that we had a way of escape. Besides, they may be only trying to frighten us. When they have brought in their wood we will go, if they really set light to it. There will be plenty of time.”

The enemy were not long in returning, laden with logs and branches, which they deposited on the floor and against the wooden portions of the walls. When their preparations were complete, the butcher stepped under the hole once more, and shouted, without waiting to receive any answer.

“Foxes, it’s your last chance! Will you come down or be burnt?”

“See how obstinate they are!” snarled the innkeeper, who was already setting a light to a heap of shavings. “Well, they won’t break down honest people’s gates after this. Put a light wherever you can find any shavings, friends.”

“Pah! it’s getting smoky,” cried one man, coughing loudly. “I suppose there’s no need for us to be suffocated, at any rate? I’m going out.”

“Yes; we need stay no longer,” said the innkeeper complacently. “The whole place will be a furnace in a minute or two.”

“Now!” said Cyril to the old man.

“We mustn’t open the shutter until the place is well alight below,” was the answer, “for they may dash in to see how things are going. But we can get the ropes ready. You understand that you will have to cross the falls?”

“Like St Gabriel?”

“Just so, and by his path. Well, I can only take two across at once, and it will need both you and me to get the lame lady over. Shall I take her first, or the other woman and the child?”

“The King must go first, of course,” said the Queen, when the question was translated to her. “Sophie, I put him in your charge.”

Poor Fräulein von Staubach, who was already trembling at the thought of the perilous transit, displayed no delight in the honourable pre-eminence thus thrust upon her; but the smoke, which was now pouring up into the loft through the hole, was so unpleasant that she did not attempt to hang back. The old man fastened a rope round her waist, and another round the little King, and told her to knot them together when he brought the child to her. Then he opened the shutter, and climbing out on the sill, let himself drop apparently into the raging waters. He seemed to find some foothold, however, for he stood firmly with the torrent washing round his knees, and told Cyril to help out Fräulein von Staubach. In those few moments the poor lady tasted the bitterness of death. Kissing the Queen’s hand, and bestowing a farewell embrace on the little King, she allowed Cyril to help her mount on the window-sill; but there her courage gave way. The sight of the foaming water was too much for her, and, with a scream, she tried to precipitate herself again into the room. But the rotten wood of the sill was displaced by her sudden movement, and she fell on the outside, and remained suspended for a moment, Cyril holding desperately to her wrists, until the old man succeeded in catching her and guiding her feet to his own foothold. Then he led her promptly through the water round the corner of the tower out of sight, and apparently into the very heart of the torrent, returning again alone for the little King. The Queen had tied her handkerchief over the child’s eyes that he might not be frightened by the falling water, and Cyril lowered him successfully out of the window into Giorgei’s arms.

“Shut the window and wait for me!” shouted the old man, as he disappeared again round the corner. “I shall not be five minutes; but you could never get through alone.”

Cyril closed the shutter immediately and returned into the room. The smoke was pouring up through the hole, and red tongues of flame were beginning to mingle with it, leaping up and apparently trying to catch the edges of the flooring. The Queen was sitting on the ground, and Cyril asked her to stand up for a moment that he might fasten the rope round her waist. Putting her hand on the floor to help herself to rise, she drew it back with a little scream, and then smiled.

“I had forgotten that it was so hot,” she said apologetically.

“I think, madame, that it will be well to stand as near the window as possible,” said Cyril, with growing anxiety, “so as to be ready the moment that the old man comes back.”

He found an old packing-case for her to stand on, in order to keep her wounded feet from the floor, and they waited by the window in silence for what appeared to be hours. Still the old man did not return, and a terrible thought crept into Cyril’s mind, What if he did not intend to return? Could a more horrible death be devised for the victims of his vengeance than this which grew closer every moment? The cold sweat stood on Cyril’s brow; but he would not alarm the Queen further, far less suggest to her that her son also was absolutely in Giorgei’s power. He felt that he must do something, and throwing back the shutter, he looked narrowly at the shining, water-washed wall below the sill. There was no trace of any crevice or projection that might help in the descent, and at the foot nothing was visible but the foaming torrent. It was evident that the old man knew of some shelf of rock which afforded a safe standpoint; but to allow oneself to drop into the cataract on the mere chance of finding it would be a feat of such foolhardiness that only the direst necessity could impel a man to risk it. Still, it was for dear life. But the Queen—for her it would be simply impossible. The matter was decided. Cyril closed the shutter again sharply, for the draught served to intensify the force of the flames, and turned to his companion, who had pressed close to the window to enjoy the cooler air.

“It’s no good,” he said; “we can’t do it.”

“No good!” repeated the Queen, her eyes dilated with horror.

“We can do nothing unless old Giorgei comes back, and he has been gone more than ten minutes already.”

“More than ten minutes! He must have been gone two hours—two hours at least. But tell me, if I were not here, could you escape?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then that means that you could. You are sacrificing yourself for me, and it can do no good to either of us. Leave me, and save yourself, I command you.”

Cyril did not offer to stir, and she repeated the order in a tone tremulous with excitement.

“Count, I command you on your allegiance,—go at once.”

“Madame, I absolutely refuse to leave you.”

“But why?” she asked, with an attempt at anger. “Count, I—I dreamt last night that you loved me. If—if I was right, go for my sake, I entreat you. It is my last request.”

“Madame, I also dreamt that dream, and it is for that reason that I will not go. I had rather die with you than live without you.”

A fresh cloud of stifling smoke rolled into the room, making them both gasp for breath. The Queen tottered, and Cyril caught her in his arms.

“I don’t think it will be very painful,” he said, trying to find some crumb of comfort for her. “The smoke will do the business before the flames reach us. It can’t hurt very much.”

“No; it can’t hurt much now,” she replied dreamily.

The shawl had fallen back from her head; and as her face lay on his breast, her hair brushed his very lips. Almost unconsciously, he pressed a kiss upon it. She looked up quickly, with a searching glance; but as her eyes met his in the lurid light, their expression changed, softened, and a flush crept over her face. She sighed as her head sank back to its former position; but it was a sigh of absolute contentment, and Cyril, emboldened by the look he had caught, stooped and kissed her on the mouth. She did not resist, and the thrill of exultation which ran through him swept away the last barriers between them. He kissed her again passionately, and spoke fast and in broken accents, his tongue unloosed by the approach of the death which was so surely creeping nearer.

“Ernestine—my dearest!” he said again and again, his low voice sounding louder in her ears than the roar of the flames or the torrent, “we can welcome death, for it has given us to each other. Life would have kept us apart; but there is nothing between us now. We stand here as man and woman—not Queen and servant any longer. And yet you are my Queen—and I am your servant—always—but now it cannot separate us. We have left our lives behind us. Tell me that you love me—just the one word.”

The overmastering passion with which he spoke stirred Ernestine, and she shook back her hair and looked at him with shining eyes. “My love!” she said, and hid her face again. “Death will be easier than life would have been,” she murmured.

“Oh, my God!” burst from Cyril. “Death now!” The prospect with which he had been contented the moment before seemed all at once to have become terrible beyond expression. Was this new life—this triumphant love—to end thus? With gloomy eyes he watched the flames creeping along the floor, seizing on the odds and ends of rubbish that lay about, coming closer and closer. The wooden walls were on fire as well; but he and Ernestine stood in the partial shelter of the stone tower. Still, the floor was of wood even here. The flames must soon spread to it; it would give way, and they would be precipitated into the abyss of flame beneath. He turned shuddering from the thought, and looking at Ernestine, saw that her lips were moving.

“Are you praying, dearest?” he asked her.

“No; I was thanking God,” she answered simply; and Cyril, raging against his fate and hers, felt almost angry with her for being able to give thanks at such a moment. Suddenly he bent down, and, with a horrified exclamation, crushed out a tongue of flame which had run along the floor and caught her dress. She crept closer to him, and raised her eyes to his.

“Kiss me once more, dear,” she said. “It cannot be long now.”

Their lips were meeting just as a loud knocking upon the shutter from without startled them. Disengaging himself from Ernestine’s arms, Cyril sprang to the window and threw it open. Below in the water stood old Giorgei, much excited, and belabouring the shutter vigorously with his staff.

“Thank the saints you are there still!” he shouted breathlessly. “I was afraid I was too late. That’s right; lower the lady gently,” for Cyril had not lost an instant in lifting the Queen to the sill, and was now helping her to let herself down on the outside. “Don’t be afraid, lady; I am here to catch you. That’s bravely done! Now just round the corner. Shut your eyes if you are afraid of the water. Now, what is it you want to say? Go back quickly and save him, do you mean? Why, of course. You stand there, and I’ll bring him to you in a trice.”

Cyril was not a moment too soon in lowering himself out of the window, for the flames and smoke, encouraged by the draught, poured out after him, and caught the shutter even before he had turned the corner. The Queen was standing knee-deep in the swirling water, clinging to an iron ring fixed into the wall, and Giorgei nodded at her approvingly.

“That’s right; you have some sense, I see, but you’ll need it all in a minute.” It did not seem to strike him that she could not understand his exhortations. “Cover up your eyes if you are frightened; but don’t stand still for a second. That was what kept me so long. The other lady, she got frightened in the middle, and stood holding on to a rock and shaking. She wouldn’t move one way or the other, and at last I had to take the child on first and come back for her, and even then I couldn’t get her to stir for a long time. It was only when I told her she would be the death of you both if she stuck there that she let go of the rock, and then she was too terrified to walk. I had to carry her across in my arms, after all, and she is not so light as she was once, either.”

“Shall I blindfold you, dear?” said Cyril to Ernestine in English.

“No; I am not frightened with you,” she answered, looking at him with a rapt expression in her eyes. He doubted whether she was even aware that she was standing in the water, and yet the means of transit which the old man now pointed out was such as to put every faculty on the alert. In front of them, at the top of the fall, the river made its longest leap, twenty feet or so without a break, and dashed clear of the rocks, leaving an empty space under a curtain of water. Here a precarious path had been formed, partly by nature, but chiefly, no doubt, by the hand of man; and it was possible to cross the cascade, as St Gabriel had done in his day, beneath the water and not on its surface. No wonder poor Fräulein von Staubach was frightened! thought Cyril. But he had little time for reflection. Fastening about his own waist the end of the rope which was round that of the Queen, the old man led the way, and in a moment the fugitives found themselves in a cavern of which the roof was formed of falling water, and where the air was filled with sound, and the temperature icy cold. The rocks were damp with constantly oozing moisture, and the greatest care was needed to prevent a slip; but the Queen never made a false step. She seemed to know by instinct where to place her feet, and obeyed any order without the slightest hesitation, and the perilous passage was accomplished in perfect safety. Fräulein von Staubach and the little King, watching anxiously among the rocks on the farther shore, flew to greet her, while Cyril wondered secretly whether his hair had not turned grey during the last hour. He looked round to speak to Giorgei; but the old man had disappeared, and looking back in astonishment into the water-tunnel, Cyril caught sight of him vanishing round a projecting rock. It was evident that he had departed to avoid being thanked; and as even gratitude itself could not face the terrors of the passage again for the sake of tracking him, the fugitives were obliged to respect his wishes.

CHAPTER XVI.
THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD.

The rocks on this side of the waterfall were not bare, but covered, wherever a crevice or a hollow afforded a resting-place for the smallest amount of soil, with close-growing bushes, and these served to conceal the movements of the little party from their foes on the opposite bank. Glancing across before turning his back finally on the torrent, Cyril saw the mob standing in eager expectation and watching the house, the roof of which was now blazing from end to end. It was evident that they thought their victims must at last show themselves and entreat the mercy which it was now too late to grant, even had there been any inclination to do so; and Cyril felt grateful for the volumes of smoke which rolled between them, and effectually prevented the mob from perceiving that any one was passing through the bushes beyond the waterfall. Arrived at the summit of the cliff, and turning away from the river, the fugitives saw, at no great distance in front of them, a small house somewhat fancifully built of wood, and occupying a position which commanded an extensive view. As it was not certain how much farther they had still to walk before reaching Prince Mirkovics’s castle, Cyril proposed that he should go on and make inquiries at the house, while the rest waited for him in the shelter of a thicket, so as not to attract the notice of any passer-by. He was not long in returning.

“Our troubles are over now, I hope,” he said. “The house is a shooting-box belonging to Prince Mirkovics, and occupied by one of his gamekeepers. The woman in charge is a pleasant person, and quite willing to give us hospitality for a few hours. I told her that we were acquainted with the Prince; but I did not think it advisable to say who we really were. You agree with me, madame?”

The Queen, who had scarcely spoken since crossing the river, and had been walking on as if in a dream, with the light in her eyes which Cyril had noticed when they left the burning house, started suddenly when he addressed her, as though she had been struck, and turned a piteous gaze on him.

“I leave everything to you—Count,” she said falteringly; and Fräulein von Staubach gave Cyril a glance full of suspicion.

“Then, madame, as soon as I have seen you settled in the gamekeeper’s house, I will go on to the castle, and find out whether Prince Mirkovics possesses any kind of vehicle which he could send to convey you and his Majesty. You will no doubt wish to return to civilised life as soon as possible?”

“Civilised life!” cried Fräulein von Staubach, as the Queen remained silent; “do we look fitted for civilised life, Count? It is absolutely out of the question that her Majesty should be seen in such a guise.”

“I had forgotten that,” said the Queen, blushing hotly, as she realised the strangeness of her appearance, in her torn and soiled Thracian garments, now drenched almost to the waist, and with her bandaged feet thrust into the worn-out slippers of the innkeeper’s compassionate maid-servant. “What can we do?” she asked helplessly, looking at her brown hands.

“If your Majesty remembers the circumstances under which Prince Mirkovics left the Court,” suggested Cyril hesitatingly, “you will see that there would be some awkwardness in appearing before him in our present state of—of destitution.”

The Queen’s face flushed again. On the occasion of some Court festivity at the Palace, Prince Mirkovics had disregarded her unwritten law by appearing in the Thracian national costume instead of Western evening dress, and both she and her mother had received him with marked coldness. The proud old chieftain had withdrawn immediately from Bellaviste, and returned to his native hills; and it was only at the entreaty of King Otto Georg and M. Drakovics that he had consented to allow his daughter to remain a member of the royal household. They knew that if he severed all connection with the reigning house, his many friends and relations would do the same, thus depriving the throne of its most loyal supporters. And now the Queen, herself in rags, must appeal to the charity of Prince Mirkovics to furnish her with shelter and clothes—truly a humiliating position. She looked appealingly at Fräulein von Staubach, who, after a struggle with herself, answered Cyril’s remark—

“That is quite impossible, Count; and it is also impossible that you should represent to Prince Mirkovics the condition of her Majesty’s wardrobe. It is I who must go to the castle.”

“Am I to have the honour of escorting you, Fräulein?”

“Would you leave her Majesty without attendance, Count?” irritably. “I will not approach Prince Mirkovics, but ask at once for Princess Anna. She is spending the winter at home, and to whom has the Queen a better right to look for assistance than to her own maid of honour? She shall come back with me, bringing a suitable dress for her Majesty, and then you can go to the castle and make yourself known to the Prince, who will of course hasten to welcome their Majesties; but by that time the Queen will be prepared to receive him, and there will be two ladies in attendance.”

This suggestion, which promised to obviate the great clothes difficulty, although rather to the eye than in reality, was agreed to by the Queen; and as soon as Fräulein von Staubach had seen her mistress established on one of the cane lounges of the shooting-box for a rest, she departed for the castle under the guidance of the gamekeeper. Cyril, who had accepted the loan of the good man’s best suit, took the opportunity of removing the false beard and wig which he had worn during his wanderings, and of washing off the paint and mud which had contributed to disguise him. He further inveigled the little King into allowing his face and hands to be washed, and his general appearance smartened up by the woman of the house, although the child had been so constantly carried that his clothes had suffered very little in comparison with those of the rest of the party. The King only submitted to the brushing and cleansing process in consideration of a bribe—the promise that he should go with his hostess and see her milk the goats; and as soon as he was set at liberty he gave her no peace until she took up her pails and led the way out of the house. Cyril accompanied them, fearing lest his sovereign, in the ardour of his study of natural history, should make too close an acquaintance with the goats’ horns; but almost before the milking had begun, the little King uttered an angry exclamation.

“Mamma is calling me!” he said, and Cyril, looking towards the house, saw the Queen standing on the verandah, looking anxiously after her son, who wailed sadly, “They never let me do anything nice, and the goats are so pretty, and I’m not going too near, Herr Graf. Please do go and tell mamma that I want to stay here.”

“I will look after the little gentleman, honourable sir, and see that he doesn’t come to any harm,” said the woman; and Cyril accepted the assurance, and returned to the Queen, who remarked doubtfully on hearing it that she supposed Michael might as well stay where he was for the present, but that it would be very difficult to get him into proper ways again when they were back at Bellaviste.

“I fear that you will be obliged to spend some days at the castle as the guest of Prince Mirkovics, madame, before we can hope to return to Bellaviste,” said Cyril. “Communication is difficult in these mountains, and there will be plenty of time to drill his Majesty into courtly ways once more.”

“Why will you talk to me like this, even when we are alone?” asked the Queen reproachfully. “Please do not stand on the steps—come up here. I want to talk to you. I know what you are thinking,” she went on, as Cyril mounted the steps and stood beside her. “You think that I might wish to withdraw what I said to you just now, because things are different. They are different, I know; we thought then that we had come to the end of our lives, and instead we are beginning a new life, but I—my feelings—have not changed.”

“I am overwhelmed by your graciousness, madame,” began Cyril, not daring to look at her lowered eyes and blushing face; but she interrupted him impetuously, her voice ringing with impatience—

“Madame again! and after what has passed between us! Why won’t you understand that I am Ernestine to you? I know what it is; you don’t trust me—Cyril.”

“You are unfair to me, Ernestine.” Stung by her reproach, he sought refuge in turning the tables on her. “It is you who will not trust me. Can’t you see that in our difficult position the utmost prudence is necessary? Your family—the European Courts——”

“They have no authority over me,” she said eagerly. “I married once to please my family; but the experiment was not so successful that I should wish to try it again. I have had enough of noblesse oblige in such matters. And as to the other Powers, what do I care for them? I am not ashamed of my choice. You will see whether I shrink from announcing to the world that you are to be my husband.”

“Do you know what the consequences of such an announcement would be for me, Ernestine?”

“No. What should they be?”

“The scaffold and the block, I suppose. In history that is generally the lot of the man who loves the Queen, isn’t it? But forgive me, my dearest,” as he caught sight of her agonised face; “it would not be so bad as that. I should merely have to leave Thracia, and after that I should probably disappear.”

“What do you mean?” she cried, laying a trembling hand on his. “Does my love really place you in danger, Cyril? Oh, why did I not bite my tongue out before confessing it? Can you ever forgive me?”

Cyril resisted the temptation to take her in his arms and kiss away her tears. He had deliberately struck the chord which he knew would find the surest response in her, and the advantage must not be frittered away. In other words, unless the new Ernestine would allow herself to be managed as the old one had never done, Thracia would no longer be a desirable place of residence for him; but if she proved amenable, there was still hope that he might succeed in maintaining his position. He took both her hands in his, and spoke slowly and impressively.

“Dearest, you won’t mind my putting before you the true state of the case? It would be no kindness to conceal from you the difficulties in our way. Perhaps you don’t know that if you marry a second time the Thracian Constitution deprives you of your position as regent during your son’s minority, while, as your husband, I should be unable to hold my present post. You see that our marriage would mean our forsaking King Michael, and leaving Thracia?”

“Of course I would never be separated from him,” she said indignantly. “But is there no alternative?” and her dark eyes were raised appealingly to his.

“Our only hope lies in an alteration of the Constitution; but that would never take place if the fact of our engagement became known. Drakovics is no friend of yours, and although he has tolerated me hitherto as a necessary evil, he would be delighted to find any excuse for getting rid of me. If he knew what has passed between us, it would give him the very weapon he wants, and all the Powers would be on his side.”

“Tell me what you would wish me to do,” she murmured, despairing sadness visible in every feature.

“Don’t look so miserable, dear. Can’t you trust me to find a way out of this if there is one? I ask you at present only to keep our secret until we have returned to Bellaviste, and I have had time to look round. It is just possible that we may be able to offer Drakovics some equivalent for acquiescing in our plans, or some other chance may turn up. You may be sure that I shall set all my wits to work to find one.”

“Yes,” said the Queen doubtfully, though with the shadow of a smile; “but must we pretend not—not to care for one another?”

“Everything must be just as it was before,” was the decisive reply.

“No, that cannot be; for before last Thursday you and I were always quarrelling. If I quarrelled with you now, after all you have done for my boy, I should be the most ungrateful woman alive, and I am not that. You must allow me to be grateful.”

“Very well, in so far as her Majesty may condescend to be grateful to her poor servant. No. I am not teasing you,” as her eyes filled again with tears. “I have shared my difficulties with you, Ernestine, and asked you to do a hard thing for me, I know, in keeping this distance between us; but I believe you will do it.”

“I will,” she said; “although I had rather you had asked me to come down and stand beside you. But you will not find me fail you.”

“I was sure of it. And as to the necessary ceremony and etiquette, you will remember that we are merely playing parts again, as we did when we left Tatarjé. We have different parts now; but there is just as much at stake.”

“You make me ashamed of myself,” she said. “Yes; I will remember. And now, do you mind fetching the King back? I am sure he has stayed long enough watching the goats.”

As Cyril obeyed, he saw that there was a reason for her request quite different from that which she had given, in three figures which were approaching the house. No doubt Fräulein von Staubach was returning, and Ernestine, catching a distant glimpse of her, had thought it well to begin playing her part at once. Cyril laughed to himself at her diplomacy.

“She shrank from hurting my feelings by saying that we ought not to be seen alone together,” he reflected, “so she sends me off on an imaginary errand. What have I done to make her credit me with such delicate sensibilities?”

It was not without the exercise of strong moral suasion that he was able to induce the little King to leave the fascinating neighbourhood of the goats; and they only reached the house at the same time as the three people whom Cyril had noticed, and who proved to be Fräulein von Staubach, Princess Anna Mirkovics, a pale, plain girl who cherished a romantic attachment for the Queen, and the gamekeeper, who carried a large bundle done up in a wrapper. Princess Anna was evidently ill at ease. She remained at the foot of the steps while Fräulein von Staubach went up them to seek the Queen, and stood looking the picture of misery, twisting her fingers nervously together. Even when the Queen stepped out on the verandah, she made no attempt to approach, looking up at her with tearful eyes.

“Anna!” said the Queen in astonishment, “what is the matter? Am I so much altered that my own friends do not know me?”

“Oh no, no, dearest madame!” cried the girl, fairly sobbing. “It is only—how can I dare to approach you in this dress?” and she pointed to the Thracian costume she was wearing.

“Prince Mirkovics will not allow any but the national dress to be worn on his estates, madame,” explained Fräulein von Staubach. “Princess Anna was obliged to leave all her European dresses at her aunt’s house before she came home.”

“And I have nothing but a Thracian dress to bring for you, madame,” sobbed Anna; “but indeed it is not my fault—nor my father’s either, since he could not tell that you would be coming here.”

“Why, you foolish Anna!” said the Queen, half-laughing, “am I such an ogress that you are afraid to approach me? Come here at once. I have worn a Thracian dress for days, and it is most comfortable, and not, I think, unbecoming. Your father is a very sensible man to insist upon it. Now leave off crying, or I shall think you are sorry to see me. Ah, Count, I see you are laughing, because you remember how foolish I used to be about things Thracian. Surely you will allow that I have been punished for my fault; and may I not learn wisdom from the punishment?”

“Madame, I would not venture to suggest that any action of yours deserved punishment,” returned Cyril, as Princess Anna looked up in surprise at the friendly tone in which the Queen addressed him, “although I may rejoice over the change in your opinions. Is it your Majesty’s pleasure that I should now leave you in order to inform Prince Mirkovics of your presence here?”

“By all means,” said the Queen; but Anna Mirkovics added a frightened “Pray be careful, Count,” which showed him that his mission would hardly be a very easy one. He did not dwell on the thought, however, as he set out along the road which the gamekeeper showed him, for his mind turned naturally to his own affairs. Making use of a power on which he was wont to pride himself not a little, he set to work to isolate his affections from the rest of his personality, much as a chemical investigator isolates a new element, and to look at them from a distance, as he had done on that night in the forest. The result of his observations was not very flattering.

“You are a nice moral young man, Cyril Mortimer,” he told himself. “Somehow or other you have tricked that poor little woman into handing you over her heart in exchange for the shabby second-hand article which is all you have to offer; and yet you won’t give up a dirty portfolio for her, though she is willing to risk her crown for you. The fact is, you are a cad, and if Caerleon were here, he would say you ought to be kicked. He might even go so far as to do it. But the worst part of the whole sad affair, as the good people would call it, is that you don’t intend to reform. You had rather be a cad than a fool. And therefore, since you have come to that practical conclusion, just leave off gassing about your caddishness.”

He set his teeth and walked on, turning deliberately from the thought of Ernestine to that of the difficulties which must be faced in the near future, although their exact nature was involved in some uncertainty owing to the ambiguous attitude assumed of late by M. Drakovics. In the secret of this attitude, Cyril felt convinced, there lay some advantage for him, if he could only discover it.

“It’s quite clear that he has been up to something,” he soliloquised. “I’m afraid he has taken good care to cover up his tracks; but if I can hunt him out, I will. Not that I bear any malice against him, of course; but I am badly in need of a fellow-criminal, with whom to exchange crimes and pardon. What nuts if I can spot any of his little dodges!”

Various ideas, springing from this aspiration, occupied his mind until he reached the castle, and was admitted by the armed doorkeeper into the great courtyard. On the raised terrace before the house sat Prince Mirkovics and the older members of his clan, smoking, drinking coffee, and talking. The Prince had spent his morning in performing the duties of his station. He had dispensed justice to the people of his district, inspected the work on his farm, given an eye to the construction of a new road, practically the first to be made in that part of the country, and enjoyed his siesta after the mid-day meal; and now he was watching the evolutions of his mounted retainers, who were going through a primitive form of drill, such as had no doubt preceded the operations against Roum in the war of independence. His astonishment on beholding Cyril was great.

“You here, Count?” he exclaimed, rising to greet him. “On a hunting expedition, I suppose?” looking with some perplexity at his garb. “But why not send to say you were coming, so that we might have got up a bear-hunt for you? Come, sit down with us,” and he dragged him towards the group. “You know my brother, the Bishop of Karajevo? and I think you have met most of these gentlemen before?”

“Pardon me, my dear Prince,” said Cyril, releasing himself with difficulty from the hospitable grip; “but I am not here on my own account. I have the honour to announce to you that her Majesty the Queen, in returning from Tatarjé to the capital with the King, has arrived at the boundary of your estate, and hopes to enjoy the shelter of your roof to-night.”

“The Queen in this district, and coming here!” cried Prince Mirkovics, his face growing red and his grey moustache bristling wrathfully. “Are you aware, Count, that when I last appeared at Court her Majesty barely acknowledged my presence, and would not so much as grant me her hand to kiss? Am I to be publicly insulted at Bellaviste, and then bearded in my own house?”

“So far as I am aware, her Majesty has no intention of the kind,” returned Cyril; “but in any case, Prince, you would not refuse hospitality to a lady, who is Regent of Thracia to boot?”

“What business has she to be Regent of Thracia?” growled the Prince. “Men should rule over men. Let her be content to make laws for her silly Court.”

“Come, Prince, this is treason,” and Cyril laughed forbearingly. “You don’t really wish me to return and tell the Queen that Prince Mirkovics forgets the loyalty of a lifetime in the pique of a day?”

“No, I don’t,” roared the Prince; “but am I to submit to have my authority set at naught before my own clan?”

“By no means. You are the King’s representative here, and have the right to maintain your ancient privileges. I am quite sure that her Majesty has failed hitherto to appreciate your position. Why not let her see what it really is?”

“She shall see it. You have a wise tongue in a young mouth, Count. Dmitri,” to his youngest son, “go and tell your mother to prepare the guest-chambers for the King and Queen and their attendants, and let all the rest of you get ready to ride with me to escort their Majesties here.”

All was bustle immediately, and in a surprisingly short time a gorgeous cavalcade left the castle, headed by Prince Mirkovics, Cyril, and the Bishop. All the clansmen displayed their richest national costumes with a kind of grim pride, wholly unmixed with any touch of pleasure in welcoming their sovereign, for the slight offered to their chief had been hotly resented by his followers. The array of stern faces would have suited a foray better than a peaceful occasion like the present, and Cyril wondered secretly how the Queen would bear herself before these hostile and contemptuous mountaineers. When the gamekeeper’s house came in sight, the troop halted, and he rode on to announce the approach of Prince Mirkovics, returning with the answer that her Majesty would be pleased to receive him. As the foremost horsemen rode up to the steps, she appeared on the verandah, leading the little King by the hand, with Princess Anna and Fräulein von Staubach in the background. Excitement had given her a brighter colour than usual, and her slight form showed to advantage in the velvet pelisse with hanging sleeves, opening in front over a silken under-dress, with which the faithful Anna had provided her. Her chestnut hair hung in long braids from under a velvet cap studded with gold coins, and Cyril perceived to his surprise that it was possible, at any rate occasionally, for the woman with whom he had fallen in love to look astonishingly beautiful. As for Prince Mirkovics, he could only gasp with bewilderment, and seemed inclined to rub his eyes, either at the sight of the Queen in Thracian costume or of his own daughter in attendance on her. Remembering his duty, however, he dismounted and advanced towards the Queen, saying, as he bowed low on the steps—

“Lady, my poor house is at your service. Deign to cover it with glory by resting there with the King your son.”

In his determined obstinacy, Prince Mirkovics had spoken in Thracian, which his daughter translated to the Queen in a frightened whisper, adding a translation to her father of Ernestine’s answer—

“Most willingly do I accept your hospitality, Prince, for I have looked forward to it ever since leaving Tatarjé. In the time of trouble we know our real friends, although we may have treated them carelessly in the day of prosperity.”

“The loyalty of my family is not dependent upon the reward it meets with, lady,” said the Prince, only half mollified.

“True; if I had not known that, I should not have sought your hospitality to-day. But is that old fault of mine never to be pardoned, Prince? See, I have done what I could,” she pointed to her Thracian dress. “You would not comply with my rules when you came to Bellaviste, but I have complied with yours.”

The charm of manner which could subdue even M. Drakovics was not less potent in its effect upon the old mountaineer. Prince Mirkovics fell on his knees and kissed the hand which the Queen held out.

“Madame,” he said in French, which he spoke to a certain extent, “forgive me. It is I who am to blame. If your Majesty will be so gracious as to honour my house to-day, when next you travel in this direction your eyes shall not rest upon a man or woman who is not wearing German clothes. Your pleasure shall be done.”

“Then my pleasure is that your people keep to their national dress, Prince. Since I have seen so much of it, I have changed my mind; and I shall change the rules of the Court as well, if only in memory of your loyal welcome to-day.”

Much gratified, Prince Mirkovics presented his brother and other relations to the Queen, and then offered his hand to conduct her down the steps to the horse which he had brought for her. This was, strictly speaking, Cyril’s duty; but the Queen signed to him to waive his rights, and allow the old chief to mount her, which he did in a wholly unexpected way, by lifting her in his arms and depositing her on the gorgeous peaked saddle, which was like an arm-chair placed sideways, with a foot-rest instead of a stirrup. The other ladies and the little King were also provided with steeds; and when all were mounted the troop of retainers formed in two lines, that the royal party might pass between them, after which a tumultuous outburst of cheers and firing off of matchlocks announced that the start had taken place. Prince Mirkovics rode beside the Queen, with his daughter close behind to act as interpreter, and next came the Bishop, keeping a vigilant eye on the little King and his pony. This arrangement left Cyril and Fräulein von Staubach to the escort of the Prince’s sons, who had many questions to ask concerning the adventures of the travellers, all of which Cyril did not see fit to answer fully. He was glad that Fräulein von Staubach appeared disinclined to talk, and rode on stolidly, replying merely in monosyllables when she was addressed, for he was anxious by means of his own answers to impress upon her that it was advisable to maintain a certain degree of reticence respecting the events of the last five days. Shortly before reaching the castle, however, when the cavalcade was traversing a narrow forest-track in which only two could ride abreast, he was surprised to notice that she manœuvred her horse so as to keep beside him.

“What have you been saying to the Queen, Count?” she asked him suddenly in English.

“I did not know that I was in the habit of submitting my conversations with her Majesty to your censorship, Fräulein.”

“Ah, you evade my question? I will ask it differently. Have you had the incredible cruelty and baseness to make love to her Majesty?”

“Allow me to quiet your apprehensions, Fräulein. Whatever has passed between the Queen and myself has been honoured with her Majesty’s entire approval.”

“Does that make it any better? You coward, to shelter yourself behind her!” She paused to see whether she had produced any effect, but finding Cyril smiling calmly, went on with a kind of sob, “I suppose you will tell me that it is all my fault for bringing you in yesterday evening. How could I dream that you would so far forget your duty as to—I knew that the poor Queen had done so, and I thought your voice would rouse her; but I had no idea—not the slightest—that you had the presumption to return——”

“Yes,” said Cyril, interrupting her incoherent sentences. “It is dangerous to play with fire, Fräulein, especially when there is gunpowder lying about. An explosion is at least possible.”

“Oh, my poor mistress, have I brought this upon you!” wailed Fräulein von Staubach, apostrophising the unconscious Queen, who was quite out of hearing. “Why did I not guess what a serpent—— You have had the meanness”—she turned suddenly upon Cyril again—“to demand that her Majesty shall sacrifice her throne, separate herself from her child, incur the fury of her relatives and the scorn of Europe—and all for you!”

“It gives me great pleasure to assure you, Fräulein, that I have not had the meanness to demand anything of the kind.”

“You have not asked the Queen to marry you?”

“I have not asked her Majesty to marry me.”

“Then what have you done?” incredulously.

“Your questions are somewhat searching, Fräulein. Forgive me if I do not answer them in complete detail. Her Majesty has been good enough to intimate that she considers herself engaged to me.”

“Coxcomb!” Fräulein von Staubach’s voice rose almost to a shriek. “And yet you have the effrontery to say that she is not going to marry you?”

“Pardon me, Fräulein; I said that I had not asked her. My intentions are strictly honourable, I assure you.”

“You wish, I suppose,” with deadly coldness, “to give me to understand that her Majesty proposed to you? Oh, I congratulate you on your chivalry, Count! It is exquisite, inimitable. And you mean to drag her down into misery and contempt?”

“I shall do nothing of the kind, Fräulein. As my behaviour during this interview ought to have proved to you, I am a tolerably patient person. I can wait.”

“Wait? and how long?”

“Years, if necessary, till a favourable opportunity offers itself. There will be no misery or contempt, Fräulein, for her Majesty to face, unless it is due to treachery on your part. I am in no hurry.”

“And this,” she said, with illogical fierceness, “you call being in love!”

With this Parthian shaft the combat terminated, for at the moment they emerged into the open space before the castle, and it was necessary for them to take up their posts immediately behind the King and Queen, in order to share with them in the offering of bread and salt which Princess Mirkovics presented at the gate. With great ceremony the visitors were conducted across the courtyard and into the house; but before they partook of the meal which had been prepared for them, a council of war was held, consisting of the Queen, Cyril, Prince Mirkovics, and the Bishop, to deliberate upon the steps which ought to be taken at once. It was decided that Prince Mirkovics should keep his retainers under arms as a guard to the castle, in case the rioters from Karajevo, discovering that their prey had escaped them, should cross the river and attempt an attack; and that Cyril should leave the next morning for Bellaviste, there to inform M. Drakovics of the safety of the royal party and find out what measures were being adopted to crush the rebellion, and then return to the castle with an escort to fetch the King and Queen. The Queen took little part in the discussion, sitting very upright in her chair, and gazing at the rest with a peculiar solemnity of expression which the two Thracians found somewhat disconcerting, although it increased their opinion of her wisdom; but which Cyril interpreted as showing that she was almost falling asleep, though struggling bravely against being overcome by her fatigue. His diagnosis was confirmed a little later by Princess Mirkovics, who announced that her Majesty would not appear at supper. She had lain down to take a moment’s rest, and had immediately fallen into such a deep sleep that she could not be roused, a result which surprised no one who knew even a portion of the fatigues and anxieties of the last few days.

The Queen was still asleep when Cyril started in the morning on his journey to Bellaviste. Relays of horses had been prepared for him as far as the railway, which he struck at a small country station, where it was possible to stop the trains for the capital. He reached Bellaviste in the course of the afternoon, and went first to his own house, in order to change his Thracian clothes for more civilised attire. To his great amusement, he found his official garb laid out in readiness for him to wear, with the faithful Dietrich guarding it.

“Well, Dietrich, glad to see you again. How did you guess I was coming back to-day?”

“Excellency, I have put out your clothes three times every day,—for morning, and the Palace, and the evening. Your Excellency told me to wait here for orders; and I have not left the house since I carried the note which you gave me to his Excellency the Premier.”

“Oh, you delivered it, did you?”

“Into the Premier’s own hands, Excellency.”

“And what did he say when he got it?”

“His Excellency was much disturbed. He pressed his hand to his forehead, and staggered from his seat, crying out, ‘He has stayed behind!’ Then, remembering me, I suppose, he said, ‘My friend, your master has risked his life in the hope of preventing a rebellion. I fear you may never see him again.’ But I had your orders, Excellency, and I returned here and waited.”

“Good,” said Cyril absently, for his mind was busied with what he had heard. It was sufficiently puzzling, bearing in mind the telegram which M. Drakovics had sent begging him to remain at Tatarjé, and which, having been delayed three days in transmission, had arrived too late to allow him to alter his expressed intention. “It looks as though he expected me to come in spite of the telegram,” he said to himself. “What can it mean? Surely the telegram did not turn up too early instead of too late? Did Drakovics know of the plot, and want me out of the way, but preserve appearances by sending a bogus telegram which ought to have been delivered after my departure? No, it’s too complicated; but I’ll keep it in mind, at any rate.”

As soon as he had changed his clothes, he went at once to the Premier’s office, where M. Drakovics received him with an effusion which seemed to his suspicious eye to be somewhat forced.

“Ah, my dear Count!” he said, holding out his hand, “I feared I had taken my last leave of you. Since I see you in safety, I need not ask after their Majesties. They are well, I trust?”

“Well, and safe under the protection of Prince Mirkovics. It’s all up with the plot now, although your telegram arrived too late for me to nip it in the bud as I should have liked. By the bye, I think it was truly noble of you to send me a warning, when the success of the plot would have suited your plans so well.”

“My plans?” M. Drakovics looked up quickly.

“Yes; of course it would have taken a load off your shoulders if the King had been converted, and you had only to deal with him in an Orthodox condition. But it’s no use crying over failed plots.”

“You will always have your jests, Count,” M. Drakovics was shuffling his papers busily; “but I fear we have no time for more to-day. Since the King and Queen are in safety, we may proceed, I suppose, to stamp out the rebellion?”

“Quite so. What are your plans? Is this the general idea?” as the Premier placed a document before him. “I see,—a simultaneous advance by river and by rail. Who is going to command? Constantinovics? why, he is a regular old-school Pannonian field-marshal. He will secure his communications, and fool about with supplies, as if he were in a hostile country.”

“We cannot afford to strike and fail, my dear Count.”

“Of course not; but do you anticipate a strenuous resistance?”

“To tell you the truth, I do not. You are aware that the rebels pretend to have her Majesty in their hands? I believe that when their story is proved false, the rebellion will melt away. But in any case it must be crushed.”

“Quite so. By the way, I have the Queen’s express orders that nothing is to be done to prejudice the safety of those of our people who are in their power. There is my clerk Paschics, who was arrested when passing through Ortojuk with us, and all the ladies and officials whom we left at Tatarjé to cover the Queen’s flight. They are to be saved at all costs.”

“It is unfortunate for us that they are in the hands of the rebels, for they may be used to extort terms from the Queen.”

“I fear they are bound to be, if you will do everything in such a leisurely way. Why, a small force of irregulars, starting from Prince Mirkovics’s castle, and travelling, as we did, by the old road, could make a dash on Tatarjé and capture it before any one knew that an expedition had started.”

“Your ideas are too adventurous, Count. We cannot engage in a guerilla warfare on our own soil, when we are blessed with generals competent to direct a regular war. The matter is in the hands of Constantinovics, who has drawn up his plan of campaign——”

“Which means ‘Hands off!’ to civilians, I suppose?” said Cyril, laughing. “Well, I think I had better intrust to you, for Constantinovics, this paper in her Majesty’s handwriting. It is a list of the people who assisted or befriended us in the course of our escape, and who are to be protected and rewarded in every possible way. The Queen drew it up at the council yesterday.”

“The list appears to be a somewhat miscellaneous one,” said M. Drakovics, glancing through the paper. “A charcoal-burner, an old servant, the Jews of Karajevo, a mad revolutionary! My dear Count, your adventures must have outdone the ‘Arabian Nights’ if you were reduced to seeking assistance from such people as these.”

“We had not the luck we hoped for, certainly, and I was obliged to modify our plans from time to time. You will see that Constantinovics gets the list?”

“No, I will do better than that; I will intrust it to my nephew Vassili, who is to accompany the expedition as my representative.”

“You did not tell me that we were all to be represented.” Cyril’s suspicions rose again in full force at this piece of intelligence. Vassili Drakovics was popularly supposed to be his uncle’s destined successor as Premier and ruler of Thracia, and Cyril regarded him with a distrust which was only tempered by contempt. “I almost think I shall go in person,” he added carelessly, without appearing to look at the Premier.

“My dear Count! just when it is so necessary that I should have you at hand for consultations? And you are mistaken in thinking that Ministers are to be represented individually on the staff of the expedition. The fact is,”—M. Drakovics bent forward confidentially, but there was a good deal of uneasiness in the way in which his hand shuffled the papers,—“it is in my interests that Vassili is going. There is a—a letter of mine which I fear may be put to a wrong use unless I can get it back into my own hands.”

“A letter? Why, have you also been dabbling in conspiracy, Drakovics?”

The Premier’s sallow face grew a shade paler. “I am not joking,” he said. “The letter is a perfectly innocent one, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, in reply to a request about some office for his brother; but I have heard rumours—indeed, with such a tissue of falsehoods as they have been weaving, would they be likely to let slip such an opportunity of dragging my name into the matter?”

“But you would get it back in any case when the rebels are tried, if it had not been destroyed.”

“Ah, but how can I be sure that it will not fall into unfriendly hands? The rebels may have made alterations in the original, or even cut out my signature and attached it to a forgery. To leave it to be produced at the trial would be to subject myself to endless suspicion and annoyance. My honour is at stake, Count, and must be vindicated. As to the letter itself, you shall see it when I have it back. But where are you going now?”

“To the Palace, to find one of the ladies and give her a list which Fräulein von Staubach intrusted to me of things I am to take back for the Queen. The castle is rather a primitive place in the way of toilet arrangements, I fancy. By the bye, we must get a carriage up there somehow, for her Majesty is quite unfit to ride as far as the railway. I suppose we must set the escort to push behind in the places where there is no road at all, and harness their horses on in front. You will see that the escort is detailed to start to-morrow? I will look after the other things.”

“But I wonder,” he said to himself, as he quitted the Premier’s presence, “what the truth is about that letter? There is something fishy, I am sure. Drakovics has given himself away in his eagerness to get it back, not to mention his engaging candour in telling me about it at all. What is it? It would give me the very handle I want against him if I could find out.”

CHAPTER XVII.
“THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR.”

Whatever M. Drakovics’s misgivings may have been with respect to the letter of which the rebels had obtained possession, the measures which he took to recover it were crowned with complete success, and he appeared in Cyril’s office triumphant, three days after his colleague had returned a second time to Bellaviste, in attendance on the Queen and the little King.

“Everything has fallen out exactly as I prophesied to you, Count,” he cried, “with the exception of one or two unfortunate accidents, such as one could not hope to provide against. You saw, of course, yesterday’s telegram from Constantinovics announcing that he and the royal forces had occupied Tatarjé with very little opposition? Well, here is a long letter from my nephew Vassili, giving details, and, best of all, enclosing that letter of mine which caused me such anxiety. I promised to show it to you; here it is.”

Cyril glanced at the document with languid interest. It was an ordinary business letter in the Premier’s writing, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, and promising to meet his wishes with regard to the subject upon which they had been in correspondence. But for the fact of its having been written by M. Drakovics’s own hand, there was nothing remarkable about it; and except for the danger of its being tampered with, it appeared quite inadequate to account for the writer’s anxiety to recover it. Cyril returned it quickly.

“Many thanks, Drakovics. I congratulate you on getting the precious thing back so soon. But what are the unfortunate accidents to which you refer?”

“I must give you the gist of Vassili’s letter before you will understand them. As I anticipated, the moment that the rank and file of the rebels learned that they had been deceived in imagining that they had the Queen in their hands, they lost heart. There was a little fighting round the Bishop’s palace, led by the commandant and Colonel O’Malachy; but the Bishop and the Mayor, when once their eyes were opened, insisted upon a surrender. They had been doubly deceived, first by means of this letter here, into supposing that I—why, I cannot imagine—sympathised with their object, and then by the lady who personated her Majesty.”

“Really,” said Cyril, “the Bishop must be singularly guileless for a man of his age and political experience. It’s pretty evident that he is too simple-minded for the position that he occupies.”

“That will be for the court to decide when he is brought to trial,” replied the Premier, changing countenance a little. “In any case, he submitted at once when he learned the truth, and gave assistance in securing his fellow-conspirators. He even surrendered this letter, which had been intrusted to his care. Moreover, the rescued ladies all bear testimony to the consideration with which they were treated during their imprisonment in his palace.”

“In other words, Bishop Philaret is one of those who aspire to run with the hare and yet hunt with the hounds?”

“Possibly; but we may be thankful that he has shown so accommodating a spirit. If he had been like the rest—but we are coming to the unfortunate accidents I mentioned. During the night after the recapture of the town, Colonel O’Malachy succeeded in making his escape from the place where he was imprisoned, and the commandant committed suicide.”

“Good gracious! there has been treachery at work,” cried Cyril.

“Impossible, Count. Both prisoners were searched before they were left alone; but they must have contrived to secrete some tool or weapon. The commandant was found with his brains blown out, and a discharged revolver in his hand, and Colonel O’Malachy appears to have escaped through the window and the garden at the back, by means of tying his bed-clothes together into a rope. The two men were confined in a private house, for the ordinary prison was full.”

“You may take my opinion as that of the average man,” said Cyril, slowly and meaningly, “that there was foul play somewhere. A stout elderly man like the O’Malachy, and lame too, could never escape unaided from a window.”

“Of course, the whole affair will be most strictly inquired into, and the sentries put on their trial,” said M. Drakovics. “Vassili can testify that both the prisoners were secure when Constantinovics and he visited them late at night. The thing is a mystery.”

“A very ugly mystery for all concerned, if it is not cleared up.”

“Oh, come, you take too dark a view of things, my dear Count. It will be awkward for the poor wretches of sentries, of course; but how could it possibly affect any one else? By the bye, this is something in your department. Vassili says that the rescued prisoners—our friends, that is, naturally—were to leave Tatarjé by rail this morning, which means that they will arrive here to-night.”

“I will tell the Queen, and inquire what she wishes done,” said Cyril, as the Premier rose to depart; but when he was left alone he sat still for a time. “I must hear what the ladies have to say,” he told himself at last. “They may be able to throw some light on the earlier stages of the affair. But as to these two ‘unfortunate accidents,’ I have no doubt whatever. It is true, of course, that the commandant’s brains were blown out; but I think it extremely unlikely that the revolver which did it was in his hand at the time. As for the O’Malachy, he was helped to escape because he knew too much to be brought to trial, and because, as a Scythian subject, it would have been dangerous to put him out of the way. It looks very much as if the Bishop had been squared, but that time will show.”

Banishing these speculations from his mind with an effort, he sought an audience of Ernestine, and acquainted her with the approach of Baroness von Hilfenstein and the rest of the members of the Court. She was overjoyed by the news, and, as he had expected and hoped, directed him to take a special train, the royal train, and meet them at a station some thirty miles from Bellaviste, thus bringing them back in triumph, as a mark of the Queen’s appreciation of their services. There was no time to be lost if the transfer was to be effected without undignified haste, and Cyril telephoned his orders immediately to the railway officials, and found the royal train waiting for him when he reached the station. In spite of his precautions, he was a little late in arriving at his goal, and found the people whom he had come to welcome waiting on the platform to welcome him, which they did in many cases with tears of joy. When he had reassured them all separately as to the safety of the King and Queen, and the fact that their health was not likely to suffer permanently from the hardships they had undergone (this was a point on which Mrs Jones, in particular, showed herself almost impossible to convince), he succeeded in getting them safely bestowed in the train, and himself made one of a pleasant party in the royal saloon. Baroness von Hilfenstein and her daughter had endless questions to ask about the escape from Tatarjé, Stefanovics was all anxiety as to the feeling in Bellaviste with regard to the rebellion, and every one else had some inquiry to make; but at last Cyril succeeded in gaining a hearing for his own question.

“Tell me what happened after we had left,” he said. “Not the vaguest scrap of information has reached us about that.”

“Really,” said Baroness von Hilfenstein, “it all happened very much as you said it would, Count. About half an hour after you had gone we began to hear stealthy sounds, as though people were moving about round the house, and presently there came a tremendous knocking at the front door. The apartments of M. and Madame Stefanovics were situated in the front of the house, as you know; and after telling his wife to rise and dress at once, M. Stefanovics opened the window and asked who was there. It proved to be the commandant, who said that he had received intimation of a plot to seize the persons of the King and Queen, and begged that they would allow him to conduct them at once to the Bishop’s palace for safety.”

“Seeking safety in the lion’s mouth!” said Cyril. “I hope you did not recall the story of the spider and the fly to the commandant’s memory, Stefanovics?”

“No, indeed, Count,” returned the chamberlain. “I expressed horror at the news and gratitude to the commandant, but declined to alarm the Queen before morning. To that my friend replied that he durst not keep his men in the grounds of the Villa, where they were so much exposed to attack, and that he must get them safely behind walls in another hour, if he had to take the royal party with him by force. As he threatened to break open the door, I went down to open it, sending my wife to warn the Baroness.”

“Yes,” interrupted Baroness Paula, “and Madame Stefanovics and my mother came and dragged me out of bed and into the Queen’s room, and made me dress up in her clothes, and told me so many things which I was to do and was not to do that I was quite dazed. Then, before I was ready, in stalked Mrs Jones through the private door, carrying in her arms—what do you think? Why, the great doll in the uniform of a Hercynian grenadier which the Emperor Sigismund sent to our King, dressed up in his Majesty’s clothes. I really thought it was the King until she showed me the face. Meanwhile, Madame Stefanovics had gone to wake the other ladies——”

“And I whispered to each not to be alarmed by anything she might see, but to behave just as usual,” said Madame Stefanovics proudly.

“And very soon after that we were ready,” continued Baroness Paula, “and my mother conducted us out. The Queen’s crape veil quite hid my face, and no one seemed to have a suspicion. The commandant was waiting in the hall, and he bowed very low and regretted the necessity for disturbing me at such an hour. I said that he was only doing his duty, and that I was grateful to him for his fidelity—imitating the Queen’s voice as well as I could. The gentlemen of the household were all ready too, and we drove away from the villa with proper ceremony,—the commandant had had the carriages prepared while we were dressing. The soldiers marched on either side, and we reached the Bishop’s palace without any alarm.”

“I can best describe to his Excellency the next development of the plot,” said Pavlovics, the King’s chamberlain. “Rooms were provided for us at the palace, Count, and we were left in peace during the night; but in the morning the commandant appeared with a file of soldiers in the apartments which had been allotted to us of his Majesty’s household, and ordered that the King should be roused, dressed, and brought to him. The Government, so he said, had decided that for the safety of the kingdom it was imperative that his Majesty should become a member of the Orthodox Church, and the Bishop was already waiting in the cathedral to perform the ceremony of confirmation. The Queen had agreed to the measure, but would appear to resist it, for fear of the anger of her German relatives, and therefore it would be best if it could be carried out without arousing her Majesty. Thunderstruck, and not knowing what to believe, I asked to speak to Mrs Jones, who declared she would not give up the King for any such purpose, and that his Majesty was ill in bed. Going back to the commandant, I told him this, and both Herr Batzen and I endeavoured to induce him to abandon his intention——”

“Yes, indeed,” put in the old pastor, whose mild eyes had acquired a look of startled surprise during the stirring events of the last fortnight. “I represented to him as forcibly as I could the extreme folly and wickedness of the course he proposed; but he pushed me rudely aside, and thrust his way into the King’s room——”

“Where Mrs Jones stood in front of the bed, and defied him to approach,” went on Pavlovics. “He called two soldiers to drag her away (we were already under guard), and pulled off the bedclothes. To his stupefaction and ours, there was no child in the bed, but only a large doll. Mrs Jones, seeing her advantage, began to abuse him, assuring him that the King was far away, and safe out of his reach, and that he might take the doll, and welcome, and do what he liked with it, and much good might it do him! Utterly astonished, they searched the room, to discover whether his Majesty was concealed anywhere about it, and then went away, to question the sentries. After a time an officer came to tell us to go to the Queen, and inform her of the disappearance of her son, and we prepared, very unwillingly, to do this.”

“Now it is my turn again,” said Baroness Paula. “When M. Pavlovics and Herr Batzen had joined us, and we had explained things to them and to the ladies who were not in the plot, and warned them to keep up the farce, we were startled by the entrance of the commandant and some soldiers. I stood up, and in a most regal voice demanded what they meant by such an intrusion; but he answered politely that it was necessary to discover who it was that had kidnapped the King, that the criminals might be pursued and punished. He had a list in his hand, and calling over the names, discovered that Fräulein von Staubach, the King’s governess, and Paula von Hilfenstein, a maid of honour, were missing. Then they left us, and we never saw the commandant again, except at a distance.”

“They did not try to drag you into their schemes?” asked Cyril.

“No; they left us severely alone. Oh, it was fearfully dull, Count—you can’t imagine how dull, for my mother would not allow me to relax my dignity for a moment, lest there should be spies watching us. She drilled me in my part from morning to night; and there I sat in the Queen’s clothes, with the veil arranged so as to hide my face from any one coming into the room. When we went out, I had the veil down, of course.”

“But surely they did not let you go into the town?”

“Oh no; but each day we were allowed to walk for an hour in an inner courtyard with some weeds in it. They took the sentries out of the way for the time, and never allowed even the servants to cross the square. But on the first day I felt certain that we were being watched, and I pinched Madame Stefanovics’s arm—she was walking with me—and we both glanced up, and saw some one looking at us out of a little window; but I thought it was the Bishop, and she thought it was the commandant.”

“Both, no doubt,” commented Cyril. “Their suspicions had been roused as to the genuineness of their capture. Did they ever try to induce you to sign any document for them, Baroness?”

“No, never.”

“That shows that they were convinced you were not the Queen. I thought so.”

“Oh, but wait and hear the rest. We never found out that we were watched again, and we never saw any one in authority. Sometimes they used to send messages to me, but always through one of the other ladies, and the servants were always most respectful. They never came into the room where I was. On the second day we heard a great noise in the street, and the servants told some one who asked about it that the Jews were being driven out, and then we heard nothing more until the day before yesterday. We were terribly dull; but we knew that so long as they continued to take me for the Queen, it meant that they had not captured her Majesty, so we were happy. Then, that day, we heard fighting—real fighting, with cannon, not like the driving out of the Jews. We were all very much excited, and trying all the windows in turn in the hope of being able to see what was going on, when the door opened suddenly, and the Bishop came in, unannounced. Even at that moment the rest remembered their parts, and I said in German, ‘Will your Beatitude be pleased to inform me what is happening?’ But instead of answering, he came close to me, and glared into my face, and then said, ‘The Government forces are besieging us, madame. One of their spies whom we have captured informs us of an extraordinary rumour, that the Queen is at Bellaviste, and not here. Is this true? If it is, cut short the farce, and put an end to this bloodshed.’ I had just time to think that if the Queen was safe at Bellaviste there was no need to play my part any longer; but before I could answer he pulled aside my veil, and cried out, ‘You are not the Queen! Come with me instantly.’ He gripped me by the wrist and dragged me away, out of the room, down the stairs, and into the outer courtyard, which was full of the rebels—soldiers and civilians mixed. Some were defending the walls, and I caught sight of the commandant among them; but the greater number were standing about in groups and quarrelling, while every now and then a shell exploded at or near the gate. I realised then that the Government troops must be in the town, and attacking the palace itself; but I had no more time to think, for as soon as the rebels saw the Bishop holding me by the wrist they gave a howl and rushed towards me. I was terrified; but the Bishop called out, ‘Wait! This is not the Queen. We have been deceived. The Queen has never been in our hands at all, and there is nothing to fight for. Let us surrender and save our lives!’ Then suddenly he tore off the widow’s cap from my head, and the veil with it, so roughly that all my hair came down” (Baroness Paula’s flaxen plaits were celebrated in Thracian Court circles), “and they saw at once that I was not the Queen. He let go my wrist for the moment, and my mother seized it—she had followed us out—and dragged me back into the house and up-stairs again, and the rebels were too busy with their own affairs to follow us. It was not long before M. Vassili Drakovics came to us, and told us that the Government forces were masters of the place, for the rebels had seized the commandant and the Scythian officer who was helping him, and insisted on a surrender. And that ends our adventures, Count.”

“I scarcely know whether to admire more the spirit with which you went through the adventures, or the grace with which you relate them, Baroness,” said Cyril, and followed up this compliment with others addressed to the rest of the ladies, until they were all on the best of terms with themselves; and even Baroness von Hilfenstein relaxed into a smile, while averring that Count Mortimer was such a frivolous person that she could never see how any one thought it safe to intrust him with the management of affairs of state.

It would have astonished the good lady if she could have known of the relief with which Cyril parted from his charges at the Palace, after conducting them to the Queen’s presence, and went home to ponder his earlier theories in the new light he had just obtained. Sitting at his ease in his private sanctum, which no one but Dietrich was allowed even to approach, he set to work to construct a hypothesis that should fit the facts.

“Let us see how it works out,” he said to himself. “I don’t think Drakovics originated the plot, for he would know that Hercynia and Pannonia would have to be reckoned with if it ever came out. No; the O’Malachy was the moving spirit once more. His big plot failed before; but he foresaw that if he was content with a little one he might lug Drakovics into it. It was very simple: Drakovics wanted the King converted, but durst not take it in hand for himself; the O’Malachy and the Tatarjé people were willing to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for him—on conditions, no doubt. The final terms were contained either in that letter he showed me, or, as I believe, in a much more explicit one for which that was substituted by Vassili. The opportunities of communication would be furnished at first by the correspondence about the post for the commandant’s brother, and the last touches were put by Peter Sergeivics. He had ample opportunity for seeing any of the conspirators when he came to Tatarjé before appearing at the Villa at all. Then Drakovics bethinks himself that it is just possible something may turn up later to connect him with the plot, and he sends me a vague and non-committal telegram as a guarantee of good faith, arranging that it is not to arrive until after I have left Tatarjé. It reaches me a little too early; but I am already in possession of the facts—some of them, that is. Naturally Drakovics is thunderstruck in the morning when he learns from Dietrich that I have stayed behind. His only chance of success now is to let the conspirators catch us before we reach Prince Mirkovics’s. Most fortunately I gave him no details of our plans; but I am convinced that he let the Tatarjé people know in what direction we were to be looked for, so that we were waited for at Ortojuk even before our meeting with the sub-prefect. Upon my word, instead of complaining of bad luck, I am astonished at my own luck in getting them through at all. If it had not been for that change of clothes at the farm, we must have been caught.”

Rising from his chair, Cyril began to stroll up and down the room, still thinking busily, and biting the end of his moustache.

“And the net result of this is,” he went on, “that to save his schemes, Drakovics plotted deliberately against both Ernestine’s life and mine, for he must have known what would happen if we were caught. And now he will be in constant terror lest anything of this should come out. He has bribed the O’Malachy with his freedom, and the Bishop with—well, it does not all appear yet; I shall be interested to observe what it is. The spy was sent in to warn the Bishop to throw up the sponge, which he did very neatly. The mayor was probably a dupe, I think; but the other three knew after the first morning that the Queen had never been in their hands.

“And now, what is the upshot to be?” Cyril sat down again to consider. “My dear Drakovics, I have never exactly loved you; but I had a foolish fancy that you played fair towards your own side. That sweet dream is now gone; but I don’t deny that this particular trick is yours. You hold all the cards—you are a Thracian, popular, and in power—and I am in a fix, in a hole, in a very, very tight place. You will stick at nothing now to get rid of me; but I am not going to make you a present of the rope with which to hang me. Nothing would suit you better at this moment than to get wind of my little affair with Ernestine, but I don’t intend that you shall. Until I have something up my sleeve to play against you, you shall hear nothing about any desire for the alteration of the Constitution. Bluff is no good here, or I could play a glorious game; but there is too much at stake. You would have me torn to pieces by a dirty ruffianly mob, would you? Wait a little, my dear friend, only wait! But I should like to know,” this was an after-thought, “what you bribed Bishop Philaret with, and how far you committed yourself in your genuine letter.”

Strangely enough, both these pieces of information were in Cyril’s hands some five days later, although unfortunately not in a shape in which he could turn them to advantage As he sat in his office, Dietrich brought him a note, which he said had been given him in the street by a peasant, a stranger, for his master. There was no address on the envelope, which was dirty and common, but the contents were full of interest:—

“My dear Lord Cyril,—I was greatly interested to hear of the letter discovered among the papers that the poor commandant had intrusted to the Bishop for safekeeping during our little affair at Tatarjé. Merely as a matter of interest, may I ask you to put these two questions to your friend Drakovics. Ask him where is the letter addressed by him to the Bishop and the commandant jointly, and promising them an amnesty and future favour if they managed the King’s conversion? and who is to become Archbishop of Bellaviste when the Metropolitan joins the majority? The earlier inquiry, as you have no doubt noticed, concerns the beginning of the present business, the later one its end, which is not yet. You will guess that I would not likely write this to you if you would be able to make any unpleasant use of it; but since you cannot do that, I would like to relieve you from the humiliation of being dragged at Drakovics’s chariot-wheels any longer.—From your well-wisher,

“O’Malachy,
Colonel à la suite of the
—th Regiment of the Line.”

Cyril’s first impulse on reading this was to curse the O’Malachy aloud; but he restrained himself, and proceeded to tear the letter methodically into strips and burn it. The exercise relieved his mind, and he was able to look at things calmly again.

“It’s just like the old fool,” he thought, “imagining that he will set Drakovics and me by the ears. That he will not do, for his testimony would be of no value against Drakovics’s denial, and I don’t break with my friend the Premier until I can pulverise him. There shall be no minor explosions—at any rate on my side—to mar the effect of the great coup. I can smile and smile and be a villain as well as he can. He may have the laugh on his side at present, but the man laughs longest who laughs last. Oh yes; I trusted him once, but never again, my friend—never again!”

It was fortunate that Cyril’s soliloquy was uttered only in thought, and did not publish itself in words, for just as he had reached this point in his meditations M. Drakovics was announced. The Premier came in looking vexed and somewhat sullen; but it suited Cyril’s humour to welcome him with exaggerated cordiality.

“Come in, come in, my friend!” he cried. “Take this chair of mine. If there was a more comfortable one, you should have it, but we are not Sybarites here. To what happy chance do I owe the pleasure of beholding your bright and cheerful countenance?”

M. Drakovics frowned. “I came to tell you, Count, that her Majesty insists upon your having the Holy Icon. But doubtless this is no news to you?”

“Haven’t heard a word about it,” returned Cyril, with perfect truth. The Comradeship of the Holy Icon was the chief Thracian order of merit. It took its name from a band of heroes who had guarded a sacred picture of St Peter in the decisive battle which made Thracian independence possible in the days of Alexander the Patriot, and its membership was confined to those who had rendered signal service to the reigning dynasty. To be admitted to the brotherhood on the recommendation of his sovereign was a gratifying experience for any subject; but it seemed to Cyril that to him, at least, it might also be an embarrassing one. “Why should I have heard the news?” he asked.

“Why? when we all know the high esteem in which her Majesty is at present pleased to hold you? You are basking in the sunshine of royal favour just now, Count. I only hope for your sake that the brightness may last.”

“Well, whether the Holy Icon comes to me by favour or not, I won’t say that I think I haven’t deserved it,” said Cyril deliberately.

“It is usual,” said the Premier, with marked emphasis, “for the recipient of such an honour to express his unworthiness—even his reluctance to accept it.”

“Oh, come now; I did not expect that from you, Drakovics! You and I are behind the scenes; we need not wear the mask for each other’s benefit. But am I mistaken, or is it the case that you see the unworthiness and feel the reluctance for me?”

“I felt it my duty, certainly, to remind the Queen that the Order was intended for soldiers——”

“And her Majesty reminded you that you were yourself one of its most distinguished ornaments?”

“And,” frowning, “that its members ought to belong to the Orthodox faith.”

“It is unfortunate that neither her Majesty nor her predecessor in the sovereignty of the Order have been Greeks. But in spite of flaws in his argument, shall I desert my friend Drakovics at this crisis? Come, Drakovics—my more than friend, my patron (shall I say?)—give me your true reasons, and I will decline the honour. Have you not been my political guide, philosopher, and friend since first as a raw youth I entered Thracia? Do I not occupy in your affections a position second only to that of the ingenuous Vassili? Can you doubt my gratitude to my benefactor?”

“If I thought you were in earnest, I should suspect that you meant mischief; but I know you are only joking,” said M. Drakovics sourly. His ordinary feeling towards Cyril was a mixture of fear and dislike, but when the younger man gave reins to his levity he positively hated him. “Her Majesty insists on your admission to the Order, and the chapter is to be held on Wednesday morning, so that you may attend the Thanksgiving service among the other knights.”

“Then you withdraw your opposition?” Cyril shook the Premier warmly by the hand. “Ah, how my mind is relieved! Believe me, my dear Drakovics, I shall never forget this.”

Heartily disgusted, M. Drakovics withdrew, to confide to his nephew that the Mortimer was more absurd than ever, and so much elated by the honour about to be conferred upon him that it might be hoped he would show his delight in some preposterous way, and ruin himself; to which Vassili replied that he only trusted this might prove true, for that in the Mortimer’s most foolish moments hitherto he had shown himself a match for the wisest heads in Thracia. This was a consolation which Cyril, smarting under the discovery of the way in which he had been duped in the matter of the plot, would have hesitated to appropriate to himself; but he was able to rejoice over the present mystification of M. Drakovics as he turned again to his work. There was much to arrange during the three days which remained before his admission into the Order. All the arrangements for the great Thanksgiving service, and the royal visit to the Hôtel de Ville which was to follow it, were in his hands. The service had been suggested by the Metropolitan himself, for it was beginning to leak out by this time that the Queen and her son had incurred considerable danger in their return to the capital, although the exact nature of the perils they had escaped was not known; and Cyril had succeeded in overcoming Ernestine’s objection to being present at an act of Orthodox worship, in view of the effect to be produced on the people. Then Paschics, who had been discovered in prison at Tatarjé, had to be received, rewarded, and promoted, and the special gifts which the Queen intended to send to all the humble friends of her adversity must be despatched to their intended recipients by his hand. All this time, since the interview in the gamekeeper’s house, Cyril had never seen Ernestine alone,—to tell the truth, he shrank from doing so. He knew that what he had to say to her would wound her deeply, and, as a diplomatic artist, he disliked inflicting suffering before it was absolutely necessary. But on the morning of the Thanksgiving service, when he was conducted into her presence to be invested with the insignia of the Order of the Holy Icon, he regretted his delay. The Queen’s face was flushed and her eyes gleaming, and it struck him at once that she was meditating some desperate step.

“I had better have had it out with her,” he said to himself, “for if she is going to make a scene it will ruin us both. I will get things settled this afternoon, if she will leave me so long. Perhaps after all she is only excited by her victory over Drakovics.”

His conjecture appeared to be well founded, for Ernestine’s face grew calmer as the Metropolitan and his assistant archdeacon droned through a kind of litany in an unknown tongue. When it was over, M. Drakovics, as the senior member of the Order, took Cyril’s hand and led him up to the Queen, who rose from her seat, and, as the ritual prescribed, holding the new knight’s hand in hers, turned to the rest of the brotherhood—

“Comrades of the Holy Icon, I your lady present to you Cyril Mortimer, Count of the Pannonian Empire, to be admitted one of your number. It is for you to say whether he is worthy of this honour. As for me, I can testify that he has risked his life in my service, and that Thracia owes to him the safety of her King, that he is a gallant gentleman, and a most faithful friend”—“Servant,” ejaculated M. Drakovics, but she disregarded the correction—“to me and to my house.”

The Queen’s voice faltered perilously, but she crushed down the rising tears and looked round defiantly upon the knights. It was Prince Mirkovics to whom it fell to answer her.

“Lady, we receive this our brother at thy hand with all joy and honour, for who serves thee has served us, and he that is a friend to thee and to thy house is our friend also.”

The last clause was interpolated, and not found in the ritual; but Prince Mirkovics had saved the situation by his graceful acceptance of the Queen’s amendment, and Cyril breathed more freely as he knelt before her that she might invest him with the badge of the Order. The Metropolitan was reading from the service-book with its massive jewelled cover the solemn charge which was laid upon all the comrades of the Holy Icon, and Cyril was waiting with downcast eyes to make the prescribed response at the end, when he became aware that Ernestine was looking intently at him. Her eyes seemed to burn themselves into his brain, and the effort not to look up was positively painful. Nay, more, it was useless, for her will overcame his for the moment, and he glanced into her face. Their eyes met, and the knights and their stately surroundings faded away. For an instant they were standing again among the smoke-clouds in the burning house, with the roar of the cataract in their ears—they two alone. Then Ernestine’s eyes fell, the Metropolitan’s elaborate admonition came to an end, and Cyril replied mechanically in the proper form, feeling as he did so, for he could not see, that M. Drakovics, standing behind him, had caught Ernestine’s glance, and had interpreted it correctly. She was suspending the miniature copy of the Holy Icon from his neck now, by means of its golden collar, and repeating the words of investiture after the Metropolitan. The pause gave Cyril the chance he needed for recovering his calmness; and when he rose from his knees, invested with the mantle of the Order, and, standing at the Queen’s side, bowed to his brother knights, there was not the slightest trace of emotion in his face. The Premier gnashed his teeth; for one moment magnificent possibilities had presented themselves to his mind.

After the investiture came the Thanksgiving service in the cathedral, with the Te Deum chanted as only an Orthodox choir can chant it, and a sermon from the Metropolitan, brimming over with patriotism and loyalty. Either the little King’s intercession for him had touched the old man’s heart, or the plot had horrified him, as showing to what his political schemes might lead; and Cyril smiled as he thought of that other sermon of his not so many months ago. The service was comparatively short, for there could be no visiting of shrines or veneration of icons, such as would have been de rigueur in the case of Orthodox monarchs, and the royal procession made its way across the square to the Hôtel de Ville. Ernestine had laid aside her widow’s weeds for the occasion, and donned a black velvet dress and a veil of priceless lace flowing from a diamond tiara, while her hair fell in heavy curls on either side of her face. The little King was garbed in a Parisian adaptation of the national costume, a fact that appeared to awaken interest and curiosity among the spectators; but Cyril was struck by the lack of genuine feeling displayed. It was evident that the Queen was as unpopular as ever, and that the people regarded her with no more exclusive affection than they would a neighbouring monarch on a visit. M. Drakovics was the real sovereign, at least in Bellaviste, and it appeared to Cyril that in case of a conflict of wills, the Premier would receive public support far more readily than the Queen.

It was not a cheering prospect, and Cyril threw aside the thought and plunged into the business of the moment. The luncheon was a long affair, with its speeches and toasts and many courses, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the Royal party returned to the Palace. It was Cyril’s duty to present for the Queen’s approval his report of the day’s proceedings, for publication in the “Court Circular” of the Government papers the following day; and although he might have sent it through Baroness von Hilfenstein, his memory of the morning was sufficiently vivid to determine him to seek a personal interview with Ernestine. Her Majesty was expecting him, he was told; and he passed on into the anteroom, where he found only Fräulein von Staubach and Anna Mirkovics. While the latter went into the inner room to announce his arrival, Fräulein von Staubach astonished him by saying in a fierce whisper—

“If you are a man, say something kind to the poor Queen. She has been breaking her heart over your coldness ever since we returned to Bellaviste.”

Before Cyril could do more than look his surprise at advice so contrary to that which he had last received from Fräulein von Staubach, Princess Anna returned to say that the Queen was ready to receive him, and he went on into the inner room, where Ernestine was sitting listlessly in a great carved chair. She sprang up as he entered, and made a step towards him; but as he paused at the door and bowed, her face clouded again, and she approached him shyly, holding out both hands.

“Have you nothing to say to me, Count?”

“I have the honour to present my official report for your consideration, madame.”

“Your report? Give it to me. That for your report!” and she flung it with all her strength into a corner. “Count, what do you mean by treating me in this way? You will not even look at me!”

“Madame, it is because I fear that to look at you would force me to remember what it may be my duty to forget.”

“What should you forget? Not that we love one another?”

“Madame, I remember nothing that you may wish forgotten.”

“You don’t trust me yet?” She stamped her foot passionately. “It is cruel, it is unfair! What have I done that you should be so unjust to me? Stay!” she ran to a mirror, and pulling out the diamond-headed pins which fastened her head-dress, laid the veil and crown on the table, then with hasty fingers tore from the front of her bodice the ribbons and badges of the Orders she had been wearing, and returned to Cyril. “Now there is no Queen to whom you need be distant and ceremonious. It is your own Ernestine, who asks you how she has offended you.”

“My dearest!” began Cyril, raising her hands to his lips, but she was not satisfied.

“You were not content with that in the burning house,” she said.

“Ernestine!” He caught her in his arms and kissed her; “do you think it is fair to tempt me in this way? Flesh and blood can’t stand against it, you little witch.”

“I like that name,” she said, with a happy smile. “I am very glad I can tempt you, Cyril. It is like this morning. I made up my mind that you should look at me, and you were obliged to do it. I willed your eyes to meet mine.”

“Yes, to the great edification of Drakovics,” returned Cyril.

“What does M. Drakovics signify? I am not afraid of him.”

“Very well, dear. If you are indifferent to the consequences of his knowing our secret, it is not for me to shrink from them.”

“Now you are unkind again. What do you mean?”

“Will you let me speak plainly, dear? I don’t want to be unkind; but I must try to make you understand the difficulties that beset us. Since returning to Bellaviste I have seen more and more clearly the awkwardness of our position.”

“I don’t understand.” Ernestine had grown very pale, and she drew herself away from him as she began to perceive that his backwardness as a lover was due to policy rather than to timidity; but Cyril did not flinch—

“I am afraid we can scarcely flatter ourselves that you have given Drakovics much reason to love you, can we, dearest? Hitherto I have imagined that prudence would keep him friendly with me, but since returning from Tatarjé I find that this is not the case. He evidently regards me as the obstacle which prevents him from attaining supreme power, and he would stick at nothing to remove me from his path. Now do you see why this is the most unpropitious moment possible for giving him a handle against me?”

“But—but you say I have betrayed you already,” she faltered.

“No, dear; it is not quite so bad as that, though I could have wished it had not happened. You have betrayed yourself,” Ernestine’s white face become crimson as she covered it with her hands; “but Drakovics can hardly make himself objectionable because you have done me the honour to care for me. If he tries it on, I will make it hot for him.”

“Then you don’t intend to try and obtain an alteration of the Constitution?” The misery in her eyes would have made most men promise to tear the Constitution to shreds if she would only look happy again, but Cyril was made of sterner stuff.

“The faintest whisper of such a thing would ruin us irretrievably, Ernestine. We should set not only Drakovics and Thracia, but all Europe, against us.”

“My beloved, I can’t make you understand that I care nothing for that. I will marry you whether the Constitution is altered or not, and share the consequences with you.”

“Your generosity overpowers me, dearest, but we must face facts. If I suggest the alteration of the Constitution, I am hounded out of Thracia, and we are separated for ever; while if you marry me as things are, you become merely the King’s mother, a foreign princess. You lose the regency by the mere fact of marrying,—if it was solely a question of resignation, you might refuse to do it, and we could tide things over somehow.”

“But I don’t mind giving up the regency—for you.”

“And quitting Thracia, and leaving Drakovics to do what he likes with your child and his kingdom?”

“Oh no, no,” she said eagerly. “I remember; I have been thinking about that. We will be married privately by Batzen, and then escape in disguise—you and I, and Michael, and perhaps Sophie. I should not be frightened in the least with you. Then we will go to England—no, not to England; they are relations, and would not protect me against my father and Sigismund—but to America, and throw ourselves on the protection of the President of the United States. They always protect people in America, and with the King in our hands we could make terms with M. Drakovics.”

Cyril gazed at her animated face and sparkling eyes in wonder, marvelling at the audacity and naïveté of the scheme. For a moment his heart warmed towards her; then he saw himself the butt of the world’s caricaturists, from San Francisco to Yokohama, and it hardened again. “My dear child,” he said, “we are not living in the Middle Ages. Drakovics would like nothing better than for us to carry out your plan. He would proclaim the deposition of the King, and either choose another or establish a republic.”

“Then you will not take any steps at all?”

“No step of that kind, certainly.”

“That means, then, that you wish our engagement to be at an end? I must thank you for being so plain. Oh, what have I done? what have you done? Why let me betray that I cared for you when you do not love me? But I thought you did! I thought you did!”

“If you accuse me of deceiving you, madame, there is no more to be said.”

“Oh, don’t speak to me so coldly; don’t look so angry! How can I think you love me when you are content to give me up?”

“Madame, I had no thought of proposing such a thing. The idea had never occurred to me for an instant.”

“Then what did you think of doing?” with renewed hope in her tone.

“I hoped, madame, that you might be content to wait——”

“Wait? Only wait? Why, that is nothing! But how long?”

Cyril hesitated, but her eager eyes compelled him to speak. “Until your son is of age,” he answered reluctantly. He had intended to break the news more gradually, but she had not permitted it. “Your regency ends as soon as he is sixteen, as you know,” he added.

“And he is just four now,” she said hopelessly. “Twelve years! I should be an old woman by that time.”

“Dearest, you will never grow old.”

“Don’t pay me compliments!” She brushed the remark aside with a gesture of bitter contempt. “Have some pity for me. Think what my life has been! Married at sixteen, and so unhappily. I know I was wrong—dreadfully wrong—in much that I did, but it was not all my fault. You know that you sometimes helped to make things harder for me yourself in those days. And then—left alone to guard my child’s kingdom for him! I am so lonely, so inexperienced, I need you to help me—and you will not do it.”

“I had hoped that I should be always at hand to help you whenever you needed help, madame.”

“If you call me that again you will break my heart. Don’t you see that I want you close to me? I want to be able to see you and speak to you without fear of making people talk. Every day I count the hours until we meet, and then it is only for a moment’s discussion of business. I am looking for you all day. My ladies cannot imagine what makes me so restless. Baroness von Hilfenstein says that my nerves have suffered from the strain of our adventures, and threatens to send for a specialist from Vienna. How can I go on like this? You cannot really mean that it is to last for twelve years?”

“If you cannot bear it, Ernestine, it is easy to end it. You have only to hint to Drakovics that I have had the presumption to fall in love with you, and he will get rid of me without any further trouble to you”—“Oh no, no!” she moaned—“But if you prefer half a loaf to no bread, I am here, and ready to help you in any way that I can.”

“Will you promise that whatever happens you will not forsake me? But even then you are doing everything for me. I want to be able to help you—to take care of you—to feel that I am doing something for you.”

“You are doing something very hard for me, dearest, in consenting to wait. And after all,” this was contrary to Cyril’s better judgment, “something may happen to shorten the time.”

“Madame,” said Fräulein von Staubach’s voice at the door, as a gleam of hope shone in Ernestine’s sad eyes, “his Excellency the Premier is crossing the gardens, and will be here in a moment,” and Cyril kissed the Queen on the forehead, and hurried away.

CHAPTER XVIII.
FRIENDLY INTERVENTION.

When M. Drakovics entered the Queen’s anteroom he found Cyril there, engaged in comparing notes with the two ladies as to the success of the day’s spectacle.

“You have seen her Majesty, Count?” asked the Premier, as Princess Anna went to announce his arrival to the Queen.

“Yes; the ordeal is over for me. My report had not the good fortune to please the Queen, however. I shall have to write another; and as I am to dine at the British Legation to-night, I ought to get it done early. You have my most sincere wishes for better luck.”

“He cannot know!” murmured M. Drakovics, looking sourly after his colleague’s retreating figure, but he was not satisfied. The discovery which he had made that morning had struck him at first as most opportune and important; but when he had had time to consider it coolly he saw that it was by no means complete. One thing he knew—that Queen Ernestine loved Count Mortimer—but he could not say whether the Queen had perceived the nature of her own sentiments, much less whether Cyril returned them, and this stood in the way of his making any use of his knowledge. If Cyril had not fallen in love with the Queen, M. Drakovics could do nothing, since to give utterance to his suspicions would be only to make Cyril important and the Queen ridiculous—and although the Premier would have cared little for Ernestine’s feelings as a woman, he had a high sense of her dignity as Regent of Thracia. His sole hope lay in surprising some admission from one of the persons concerned, and he recognised that he was not likely to succeed in this attempt with Cyril. To Ernestine, therefore, he turned his attention, and his errand this evening, although veiled under the pretext of inquiring her pleasure on one or two points of procedure likely to arise in the course of the trial of the conspirators, was in reality to seek to obtain some insight into the state of her feelings. If he had been able to accompany Anna Mirkovics into her presence, he would have needed little further confirmation of his suspicions, but this boon was denied him.

“Madame, his Excellency the Premier entreats——”

“I will not see him,” said Ernestine shortly, turning from the window with a face of such misery that the girl recoiled a step or two.

“But pardon me, madame, you have just granted an interview to Count Mortimer, and M. Drakovics might think it strange——”

“You are right, Anna.” The Queen passed her hand wearily over her brow. “Let him come in.”

“But you look so ill, madame, and your hair—forgive me——” She glanced from the Queen to the jewels on the table, and hesitated, then drew a chair into the shadow of the screen. “If you would sit there, madame, his Excellency would not notice your paleness; and if you would permit me to throw this lace scarf over your head—— No one could be surprised that the weight of the crown had tired you.”

“Anna, wait!” Ernestine caught the girl’s hand as she arranged the lace deftly to hide the disordered curls. “You know—you have guessed—that—that Count Mortimer and I love one another. I am sure that I can trust you; but no one else must know. Remain in the room when M. Drakovics comes in. I am too tired—too miserable—to see him alone to-night. Pretend to be putting the jewels away—I know that it is not your business, but he will not think of that; only stay with me.”

“Dearest madame, I would do anything in the world to help you!” said the girl fervently, pressing her lips to the Queen’s hand, and pulling the screen a little more forward as she spoke; and when M. Drakovics came in, Anna Mirkovics stood at the table, taking out the pins from the lace veil, and smoothing the folds of the costly fabric. The Premier looked significantly towards her, but Ernestine forestalled the protest he was about to make.

“Let me entreat you to be merciful, M. le Ministre. I have had more than enough to-day of politics and state pageants, and my head is in a whirl. Pray spare me further fatigue if you can.”

“And yet I understand that your Majesty granted Count Mortimer the honour of an interview.” He fixed his eyes upon her as he spoke; but she could have laughed at his attempting to entrap her in this clumsy way.

“Oh yes, he came about his report, I believe,” she answered carelessly. “And that reminds me—— The report did not please me exactly; but remembering one’s own fatigue, one must be merciful to others. Where is it, Anna? I was standing by the window at the time; perhaps it has fallen into the corner. Thank you. May I trouble you to be my messenger, monsieur? Will you give yourself the pain of leaving this in Count Mortimer’s office, and telling him that it will do well enough?” She held it out to him, and her eyes met his with absolute calmness as she placed it in his reluctant hand. “And now, as to your own business?”

“It is unimportant, madame. If I had been aware of your Majesty’s fatigue, I would not have intruded upon you,” and with this wide departure from the truth M. Drakovics covered his retreat from the room. On the whole, he thought, it seemed probable that Count Mortimer could not be aware of the Queen’s feelings towards him; but he could not resist the temptation to burst in upon him suddenly in his office, and try to startle him by the delivery of her message. But his strategy was again in vain.

“Sent to say it will do, has she?” remarked Cyril. “Wish it had come a little earlier, then. I am half-way through another report. Well, it might have been worse. Awfully obliged, Drakovics.”

And he bowed the discomfited Premier out of the office, with a full perception of the humour of the situation. Unlike some men, Cyril could feel a certain amount of pleasurable interest in his own misfortunes, as well as in those of other people, and his present difficulties would have given him the keenest artistic enjoyment, if it had not been for the danger of Ernestine’s betraying unintentionally the state of affairs. Nothing more could be done for the present, however, and he put aside the perplexities of his love-affair with his official clothes, and prepared to spend a pleasant evening at the British Legation, where he was the life of the party. Sir Egerton Stratford and he were old acquaintances, since the former had been sent on a minor diplomatic mission to Pavelsburg during the year Cyril had spent there as attaché long ago, and in private they enjoyed one another’s society, although officially it was imperative to maintain a certain degree of reserve in their intercourse, in view of the somewhat equivocal position occupied by Cyril, as an Englishman holding high office in a foreign country. He was not, however, to be allowed to go to rest that night quite forgetful of his present circumstances. As he was leaving the drawing-room of the Legation, Lady Stratford, a small, shy woman with large grey eyes, whom the greater number of her acquaintances despised as a nonentity, while a select few adored her as the most sympathetic and enthusiastic person they knew, presented him with a written notice of some kind.

“Have you seen one of these, Lord Cyril? I don’t know whether you will be able to come to any of the meetings?”

“I’m afraid they are not exactly in my line,” returned Cyril, wondering with great amusement why his hostess thought him likely to be attracted by an invitation to a series of evangelistic meetings shortly to be held in Bellaviste by a certain Count Wratisloff, a Scythian religious reformer who had been banished from his own country some years before. “I see that some of them are to be held here.”

“Only the ladies’ meetings,” said Lady Stratford, with her ready blush. “The fact is, Sir Egerton met the lady who is to conduct them when he was at Pavelsburg. She goes about a good deal with Count and Countess Wratisloff, and I fancied you might know her—Princess Soudaroff.”

“Princess Soudaroff! do I not know her, indeed? Why, she is a relation of mine, Lady Stratford—at least she is my brother’s godmother-in-law, and if that is not relationship, what is? I shall certainly contrive to pay my respects to her when she is here, even if I cannot find time to attend any of her meetings. But all the same,” he added to himself, as he descended the stairs, “I shall keep it dark about my little affair with Ernestine. The Princess is just the person to urge me to throw up everything and marry her at once, and though I should not do it, one doesn’t want a lot of fuss.”

But Cyril’s plans were doomed to disaster. It was not until three days after Princess Soudaroff’s arrival in Bellaviste that he was able to find time to call at her hotel, and as soon as his name was announced by the waiter at the sitting-room door, the white-haired lady who was sitting writing in the window rose to meet him, uttering a little cry of joy, which showed him that his visit had been expected.

“My dear Lord Cyril, I am so glad to meet you again! I was just writing a note to ask you to come and see me. You know that I spent Christmas at Llandiarmid with the Caerleons? How well and happy your dear brother looks!”

“You are too transparent for a diplomatist, Princess. Every line of your face says how much better you think it would be if I married and settled down like Caerleon.”

“That was certainly not in my thoughts at the moment; but it is curiously connected with the subject on which I wanted to speak to you. This morning I spent at the Palace, where I heard from the Queen’s lips your story.”

Cyril’s face hardened. “I am sorry you should allow our affairs to trouble you, Princess. I hoped I had succeeded in reconciling the Queen to the only course possible in our difficult circumstances.”

“No, do not think that I am thrusting myself into your affairs. I will tell you how they came to my knowledge. You know that Countess Wratisloff and I are conducting a series of Bible-readings for ladies at the British Legation in the mornings while we are here? Yesterday I noticed among those present two ladies in deep mourning—both very young, apparently, but one of them wearing widow’s weeds—who were conducted by Lady Stratford to a seat in a corner, separated from the rest. I was taking the meeting, and my subject was the Will of God. I forget exactly what I said—I speak as it is given me to speak at the moment—but I noticed after a time that the young widow appeared very much affected, until, when I happened to say that ‘No love can look for happiness which is deliberately founded upon the misery of another human being,’ I saw that she was weeping bitterly under her veil. Before the end of the meeting her companion induced her to withdraw, and when the other people were gone, Lady Stratford came up to me. ‘Did you know that the ladies in black were the Queen and one of her maids of honour?’ she said. ‘I wanted you to speak to Princess Anna Mirkovics. She is the niece of the good Bishop of Karajevo, who has been so nice about the Bible Society, but of course she had to go with the Queen. I think she brought her to hear you—at any rate she wrote the note asking whether her Majesty might come incognito. Didn’t you think the Queen looked terribly sad? Poor thing! she is only as old as I am, and she was left a widow when she was twenty-one. One cannot wonder at her being so miserable, can one?’”

“Really,” said Cyril sharply, “Lady Stratford is more of a child than one would have imagined possible for a modern married woman.”

“I wish there were more women as innocent as she is. It would never strike her that the Queen’s grief could arise from anything but the loss of her husband. But to continue, Lord Cyril. This morning I received a note asking me to come to the Palace, as the Queen was anxious to see me. I went, and was received with some coldness by an elderly lady, who appeared to regard me with suspicion”—Cyril smiled as he imagined the reception which Baroness von Hilfenstein would accord to one whom she had been heard to call a Scythian fanatic—“but the Queen was most gracious—indeed, when I was alone with her she unburdened her heart to me. She loves you very deeply, Lord Cyril. Are you fully awake to the strength of her love?”

“I hope, Princess, that I appreciate at its proper value the honour which her Majesty has been good enough to confer upon me. I own that I did not expect to be only one of many to whom she would be pleased to communicate the intelligence.”

“Now you are doing her a grievous injustice. She made no attempt to ask me to induce you to alter the decision which you announced to her a week ago—deeply as I can see she grieves over it. No; it was quite a different matter in which she wished to make use of me. She is aware that you object to requesting private interviews with her, as likely to arouse suspicion, and she did not know how to convey to you an important piece of news, until she thought of asking me to bring it. It seems that two days ago M. Drakovics, in the course of an interview, took occasion to refer to the recent second marriage of the Dowager Grand-Duchess of Schwarzwald-Molzau, of which you have no doubt heard?”

“There is no parallel between the Grand-Duchess’s case and that of her Majesty. The territorial rights of the Schwarzwald-Molzaus are insignificant, and the present Grand-Duke is not a minor.”

“The parallel appears to exist in the mind of M. Drakovics. To the Queen’s intense astonishment, he remarked, after some conversation on the subject, that he had often felt of late that the Thracian Constitution erred on the side of harshness in not permitting a Queen-Regent to marry again. Disregarding her surprise at his words, he went so far as to ask whether a modification of the article dealing with the matter would be pleasing to her personally, adding that he was an old man, and she could confide in him without fear of being misinterpreted.”

“Drakovics is certainly an original character. One never knows where to have him. And what—what—what did she say?”

“I think you may trust the Queen to protect herself when her dignity is assailed.” Cyril breathed more freely. “She expressed amazement at his entering upon such a subject with her, when it was obviously one in the discussion of which she could take no part. Any steps to which he might proceed must be taken entirely on his own responsibility, for it was impossible for her to express an opinion in the matter.”

“Bravo!” said Cyril, much relieved. “I was really afraid that Drakovics as the heavy father would get round her.”

“No; she has kept your secret, as you wished, although I think—I hope—you have little idea of the unhappiness it causes her. Is it necessary to be so cruel, Lord Cyril? ‘I dash myself up against him like the waves,’ she said to me, ‘and it makes no more impression on him than on a rock. My will is broken against his.’ Is it really impossible that you should be married before the King is of age?”

“Absolutely impossible,” returned Cyril.

“Do you mind telling me the reasons?”

“For her, that she would be leaving her son to the tender mercies of Drakovics; for me, that it would ruin my career.”

“I see; and you prefer your career to her?”

“Let us look at things on the lowest and most practical grounds, Princess. I am a younger son; five hundred a-year from my mother is all that I can call my own. Caerleon would do something for me, no doubt; but I don’t want to take his money. Can you in cold blood propose that the Queen and I should set up housekeeping on—say, at the best—a thousand a-year?”

“But she must have a jointure—money of her own, perhaps?”

“Precious little; when you consider what she would lose on remarrying. And suppose the Prince of Weldart, or the Emperor Sigismund, relented so far as to allow us to settle down in strict seclusion in some corner of their dominions. I cannot flatter myself that I am what you may call a domesticated man; I have no interest in agricultural pursuits; hunting bores me. Can you imagine that I should prove a particularly amiable husband, shut up in some deserted village in rural Germany, with nothing to do? I am not qualified to go about conducting Bible-readings, like your friend Count Wratisloff, even if I felt called—I believe that is the proper word—to do it.”

“But surely such a state of things could only last for a year or two?”

“It would last throughout our lives, and the lives of our children, unless it was put an end to by a miracle. No, Princess—I am speaking to you plainly—I would do anything for Ernestine that it is fair to ask of a man; but spend my days as the morganatic husband of a Princess who had disgraced herself by contracting a misalliance, ostracised by every Court in Europe and by society everywhere, that I will not do.”

The Princess looked at Cyril’s lowering brow and compressed lips in perplexity. He was revealing to her a new side of his character, and she scarcely knew how to approach him.

“Then you do not love her?” she said at last.

“I beg your pardon; I do love her. Now please don’t quote Caerleon to me, and say that he was ready to chuck away a kingdom for the sake of your goddaughter. I know he was, but that doesn’t make me resemble him. No doubt it would be very nice if I did: life would be quite idyllic and much less complicated if we all went blundering along like Caerleon, with only room for one idea in our heads at one time; but in my private opinion Caerleon was a fool. Pray don’t imagine that I regret the way in which things have turned out, or think that any one else would have suited him better as a wife than Nadia; but Caerleon and I are two different people, and what he can do with a good grace would be utterly impossible to me.”

“You cannot love her!” said the Princess sharply.

“Now it is you who are doing me an injustice. I love her—as I have never loved any woman before. If she was not Queen—if she was a peasant-girl—I would marry her to-day, and look forward hopefully to living happy ever after. There would be some chance of it, too,” he added meditatively, “for you would never find her in the same mood two minutes together. One would have too much variety ever to be bored.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” the Princess looked pained. “The fact is, Lord Cyril, your love is willing to give, but not to receive. One of your English poets says something of the kind.”

“Ah, I fear I have got a little out of the current of English literature of late years.”

“It is not very modern, I think. Oh, I remember—

“‘I hold him great who for love’s sake

Can give, with earnest, generous will;

But him who takes for love’s sweet sake

I think I hold more generous still.’

The Queen would give up everything for you, but you will not take it.”

“You are right, Princess. I will not take what she has no business to give. Excuse my saying it, but you appear to forget that she and I are not private individuals, and that all we do must be considered with an eye to its effect on the political situation.”

“You think that I forget that? My dear Lord Cyril, it is the amount of right on your side in this affair which is the perplexing element in the case. If I had not felt that perhaps, after all, your view was the more just, I should have pleaded with you for the poor Queen with all my heart—I should have advised her to plead for herself until you could withstand her no longer.”

“You have passed a good many remarks on me to-day, Princess. Allow me in return to say that you are the strangest combination of fanatic and sentimentalist that I ever met. Why are you so anxious to see us married?”

“For her happiness and your good. But now explain to me this political situation. Why should not the help of M. Drakovics be invoked to bring about such a change in the Constitution as would permit of your marriage?”

“Simply because Drakovics is not acting on the square. When King Otto Georg died, the old man relied upon the Queen’s dislike of me to place him in possession of absolute power; but finding that I was left in a position practically as important as his own, in so far as the right to advise the Queen and watch over the little King went, and also that I could manage Ernestine better than he could, he has changed his attitude towards me. He could tolerate me as a subordinate, but not as an equal, and by no means as his political heir. That post is intended for his nephew Vassili; and both uncle and nephew have improved the shining hour by consolidating their position while I was away all winter with the Court at the other end of the kingdom. Now you see Drakovics’s little game. He suspects that Ernestine is in love with me, but he can’t find out whether I return the sentiment. If he could get her to assent to the alteration of the Constitution, he need only inform the Powers of what was up, certain that I should have to quit Thracia in no time. That would get rid of me, and leave Ernestine perfectly helpless in his hands, while if she came after me and we were married, he would get rid of us both. It is to his interest to do that—in fact, to get us married—and so have the little King left in his hands, to be converted or anything else, just as he liked.”

“But would it not be possible—I do not wish to suggest anything presumptuous—to arrange a kind of treaty with M. Drakovics, by which, even if it was necessary for the Queen to resign the regency, she and you might remain in the country and watch over the little King? It would of course be provided that his faith was not to be tampered with.”

“No doubt it would be possible, were it not for the fact that the first hint of such a treaty would give Drakovics just the information he wants.”

“But he has no proof against you. You could not be removed merely on suspicion, for you must have friends both in the country and in Europe generally.”

“Few enough, I fear. I have been a little too successful for friendship to flourish in my neighbourhood, you see.”

“But still, there must be some who would take your part. M. Drakovics must know that. Surely he would prefer to gain his end without trouble or scandal if possible? And then there would not be the difficulty of leaving King Michael in his hands. The Queen would not consent to that, and I could never advise her to do it; but if you and she remained in the country as private individuals, taking no part in politics, you would be able to superintend the child’s education, and see that the treaty was not broken.”

“Taking no part in politics!” repeated Cyril, shrugging his shoulders. “You evidently fail to perceive, Princess, that life without politics—and political power—would be death to me.”

“Lord Cyril,” said the Princess earnestly, laying her hand on his arm, “I want to entreat you to enter upon some settlement of this nature if it is possible. It is very strongly impressed upon me that at this moment you are standing at the parting of the ways. The two roads which lie before you are those of love and ambition; but in this instance love includes the whole higher side of life. You have sacrificed much for ambition already, and I long to see you break the spell, for greater sacrifices will be demanded of you if you make this one. Bear with me; I am speaking as I would to your brother. It is not for Queen Ernestine’s sake that I ask you to pause here; it is for your own. This trial is bitter enough for her at the moment, but I think she will develop into a nobler woman under it. But your character must deteriorate under the influence of ambition—nay, it has deteriorated already. You would once—even when I first met you, I think—have shrunk from building your career on the foundation of twelve years of splendid misery for the woman who loved you. You may yet find yourself bartering for the chance of power your love for her itself.”

“Your anticipations are not flattering, Princess.”

“I fear that they are none the less true for that. But there is another danger, if you refuse to take this opportunity of casting away your ambition. What will happen if the trial you are inflicting on Ernestine strengthens her character in proportion as yours deteriorates? You will be developing in different directions, and your punishment at last may come through the very sufferings you inflicted on her, in order to gratify your desire for power.”

“Princess,” said Cyril, standing up and shaking himself, “you have the most extraordinary faculty for making a man uncomfortable that I ever came in contact with. Your prophecies of evil make me feel quite superstitious, and I don’t like it. I tell you what I will do for you, more than I would do for any other woman—even Ernestine herself. You may tell her from me that I place myself unreservedly in her hands. If she asks it of me, I will throw up everything and marry her, and do my best to make her a good husband. Perhaps she will kindly let me have an answer as soon as possible, as I must begin to formulate a scheme for getting round Drakovics if that treaty is to be entered into.”

“You are confiding in the Queen’s generosity,” said Princess Soudaroff. “You feel convinced that she will shrink from founding her happiness on the ruins of your career, although you do not fear to found your career on the loss of her happiness.”

“Now you are looking a gift-horse in the mouth, Princess, which is an ungracious thing to do. At any rate, I deserve to be released from your reproaches now; and if Ernestine refuses my offer my conscience will be absolutely clear.”

“I will request her to give her answer quickly. She asked me to mention to you that it was always safe to trust Princess Anna Mirkovics, in whom she has found it advisable to confide.”

“Yet another person? Well, may I entreat you to impress upon her on no account to trust Drakovics in the very smallest degree—not if he goes down on his knees and implores her with tears in his eyes to confide in him. Let her keep up the tone she adopted at first. And now I must really get back to work, Princess. You cannot conceive how refreshing it has been to see you. I don’t know when I have enjoyed a call so much.”

But when Cyril was in his office again the thought of the step on which he had ventured fairly staggered him. If Ernestine should take him at his word! He gazed round on the familiar pigeon-holes and despatch-boxes like a man under sentence of death. They were the outward and visible signs of his career, and he might be called upon to leave them to-morrow! How he spent the hours between the sending of his message and the receipt of the answer he could not have told afterwards from his own recollection; but the amount of business which he found had been disposed of inclined him to suppose that he had sat up working all night. It was about noon of the next day that Ernestine’s answer arrived, placed in his hands by Anna Mirkovics with a bundle of less important papers. She gave it to him without any indication of the value of the parcel; but as soon as she and her maid had left the office he tore open the roll and took out Ernestine’s note with hands that literally shook. One glance assured him that his fears were groundless.

“My Beloved,”—she wrote,—“Princess Soudaroff has just informed me of your generous offer. I know what it must have cost you; and although I have never for a moment dreamed of accepting it, I love you more, if that were possible, for making it. Dearest, I am ashamed of myself for the way in which I received your decision the other day. I know that it is wise and right, and that it is as painful to you as to me. Forgive me, and I will try to use these long years of waiting in becoming more worthy of you. You will let me see you alone sometimes? I will not cry or complain; but there are always so many things on which I want to consult you. I feel so lonely when I do not see you.—Your own

Ernestine.”

“Well, it is something to be believed in,” said Cyril to himself, passing a hot hand over his damp forehead. “I felt sure I could depend upon her, and yet my nerves are all to pieces. There is one thing, my dear Ernestine, which it is unnecessary under present circumstances to mention to you, and that is, that if you had failed me, I believe your devoted lover would have blown out his brains.”

He tore up the note, and burned every fragment of it with scrupulous care, then turned again with a sigh of satisfaction to the business of everyday life. This was particularly engrossing just at present, and it did not become less so as days went on. The chief subject of interest—and difficulty—was the trial of the Tatarjé conspirators, which was now being conducted by the various tribunals convened for the purpose, and which presented features of great complexity. It appeared natural enough that officers of the army, and state officials like the Bishop and Mayor of Tatarjé, found in arms against their sovereign, should be treated and sentenced as rebels; but the case was complicated to an extraordinary degree by the fact that all the prisoners declared stoutly that they had believed themselves to be fighting under the orders of the Queen and her Government. So far as they knew, the Queen was in their midst during the whole of the time that they were under arms, having taken refuge among them of her own free will, and the commandant had assured them that he had full warrant and support from M. Drakovics for all that he did. It was true that the Premier’s letter, that which his nephew had received from the Bishop, in whose charge the commandant had placed it, did not justify this assertion; but it was quite easy to believe that the arch-conspirator who had perverted its meaning had also exaggerated its terms. Hence it was evident that these men would be punished for obeying what they honestly believed to be their legal orders, a result which would be likely to lead to much difficulty with the army in future, while to leave them without punishment would be to open a door for the fabrication of similar excuses in other cases.

In the end, a way out of the dilemma was found in a compromise. The delinquent officers were sentenced by court-martial to undergo the penalties due to their offences, without taking into consideration any mitigating circumstances; but when the sentences came up for confirmation by the Queen, the royal prerogative of mercy was freely exercised, and the culprits allowed to return to their regiments with a censure and a warning. The Mayor of Tatarjé, who had also been a dupe throughout the affair, was considered to be sufficiently punished by being deprived of his office (he had not the army behind him to demand his total exemption), but it was otherwise with Bishop Philaret. The sentence passed upon him of six months’ suspension from the duties of his post and seclusion in a monastery was neither commuted nor lightened, since, as M. Drakovics explained, the supposed Queen was in his palace the whole time, and it was his own fault if he did not discover the deception. This righteous sternness on the part of M. Drakovics exercised Cyril’s mind not a little. Still smarting under the revelation made in the O’Malachy’s letter, he had been cherishing a hope of unmasking the Premier and exposing the unholy compact into which he had entered with the Bishop; but no opportunity was given him, and he perceived that this was only a new proof of M. Drakovics’s shrewdness. The younger man was not, however, to be deprived of the honour of a struggle with his colleague and former ally, for in the course of the Cabinet Council at which the measures to be taken in the case of the Tatarjé conspirators were announced, a strong and almost unprecedented difference of opinion declared itself. The War Minister desired to divide the officers to be dealt with into two classes, leaving the majority to be pardoned and reinstated, but punishing with dismissal from the army a certain number, who had been clearly proved to have met together secretly and plotted against the Government before the outbreak. One of these was the brother of the late commandant. To this proposal M. Drakovics opposed a direct negative, refusing to consider any cases separately.

“Some rumour of your Excellency’s intentions has got about,” said M. Georgeivics, the Minister for War, “and the feeling of the army is much opposed to it.”

“I am happy to say that the army does not govern Thracia,” retorted M. Drakovics, in what seemed a needlessly offensive tone.

“No,” said Cyril; “but you have discovered before the danger of alienating the army. Why, then, outrage the feelings of the officers, by compelling them to receive proved rebels as their associates?”

“Bah!” cried M. Drakovics; “these unfortunate youths played at treason in their leisure hours; but that is no valid reason for excluding them from the benefits of the pardon.”

“On the contrary,” returned Cyril, “it appears to me to furnish a very strong reason. Several of them are by no means youths, but of field rank, and if they are allowed to return to the army, the probability is that they will not only go back to their old ways themselves, but corrupt those under them. No wonder that the army fears for its honour.”

“You are inciting the army to mutiny, Count!” cried the Premier.

“Not at all. It is you who are driving them to it.”

M. Drakovics glared at his rebellious colleague in speechless wrath, while two or three minor members of the Cabinet endeavoured to throw oil on the troubled waters; but it was Prince Mirkovics who at last suggested a modus vivendi, although not until the Premier, with a glance at M. Georgeivics and Cyril, had reminded those who differed from him that their remaining in the Ministry was merely a matter of choice. Prince Mirkovics proposed that the officers whose fate was under discussion should, while they were allowed to remain in the army, lose all seniority in their respective ranks, be deprived of their decorations, and be declared ineligible for extra-regimental posts or promotion; and this compromise was finally accepted, with some unwillingness, by the dissentients, since the punishment, severe as it was in itself, was still quite inadequate to the offence. It was evident, however, that M. Drakovics was determined to maintain his point; and even if Cyril and the War Minister had been prepared to push things to extremity, the earnestness with which Prince Mirkovics entreated them to accept his suggestion, and not to break up the Government for the sake of this small matter, would have prevailed upon them to pause. M. Drakovics accepted the compromise, and the council broke up peacefully, although with some feeling of constraint. As soon as he got outside, Cyril found himself seized upon by Prince Mirkovics.

“Come to my rooms and drink coffee,” said the old chieftain, who scorned to rent a house in Bellaviste, and always lived at a hotel when his official duties called him to the capital.

Cyril accepted the invitation unsuspiciously; but when he arrived at Prince Mirkovics’s rooms he was surprised to find that there were other guests beside himself. The War Minister was there, and Constantinovics, the general who had compelled the surrender of Tatarjé, and several members of the Government who belonged to the party of the Nobles, of which Prince Mirkovics was the acknowledged head. The moment that Cyril perceived this he paused on the threshold, but his host took him by the arm and drew him into the room.

“Come in, Count,” he said; “you are the man we want. We have for some time been dissatisfied with the conduct of affairs, and this Tatarjé business has brought things to a head. Do you honestly think it is all right?”

“Really, Prince, you cannot expect me, a member of M. Drakovics’s Ministry, to enter into a mutiny against him.”

“The army will mutiny if this sort of thing goes on,” growled Constantinovics, a sturdy old soldier who had taken a prominent part in establishing King Otto Georg on the throne. “There are widespread rumours that a job has been perpetrated, and we want to know whether it is true.”

“It is quite impossible for me to accuse M. Drakovics on the authority of a rumour for which I can produce no proof,” said Cyril.

“Proof!” cried the General. “The suspicion of foul play is enough. The whole thing ought to be inquired into.”

“No one could object to that, of course; but you must see, General, the extreme impropriety of my suggesting such an inquiry into the doings of my own chief.”

“Count Mortimer is right,” said Prince Mirkovics suddenly. “It is important for him to remain in the Ministry, for he is the only man who can cope with Drakovics, and we must not risk his being obliged to resign. But remember, Count, when you make a stand as you did to-day, that we are with you. Our object, like yours, is to save the honour of Drakovics and Thracia. The Premier must be above suspicion. If he is warned by to-day’s experience, it will be well; but if not, then Thracia is to be considered before Drakovics.”

“It may interest you if I remark,” said Cyril carelessly, as he stood at the window, “that you have all been watched here. I recognise two or three of Drakovics’s spies on the other side of the street. I am afraid you have let me in for trouble, Prince. My presence will show that this is a political gathering.”

“You shall not suffer, Count,” said Prince Mirkovics. “Be sure that we will stand by you. We cannot spare you at this crisis.”

“This is an unexpected gain,” said Cyril to himself as he departed. “It gives me leverage, perhaps even a standing-place from which to move my world. But Drakovics will be dangerous for a day or two.”

Contrary to Cyril’s expectation, however, the Premier made no attempt to provoke him to further conflict, and the matter of the punishment of the rebels was allowed to rest; but this surprising meekness on the part of M. Drakovics did not in any way change his subordinate’s opinion. “The old man has a card up his sleeve,” was Cyril’s reflection. “When he plays it, look out for squalls!” It did not strike him at the moment that the card in reserve was a Queen.

About a month after the dispute in the Cabinet, M. Drakovics, as was his custom on most mornings, sought an interview with Ernestine. When the matters to be discussed at the council at which he was to preside after leaving the Palace had been decided, the Premier drew nearer to the table at which the Queen was sitting.

“In accordance with your gracious permission, madame,” he said in a low tone, “I have been sounding the Governments of the various Powers with respect to the alteration of those provisions of the Constitution which deal with your Majesty’s position in the event of remarriage.”

“My permission!” Ernestine flushed with angry astonishment. “I gave you no such permission, monsieur. Pray what have the Powers to do with the matter?”

“Permit me to remind your Majesty that the sanction of the Powers is necessary before any article of the Constitution can be abrogated or altered. As to your permission—I was wrong in using the word. I am fully aware that the delicacy of your Majesty’s sentiments forbade you to initiate any action on the subject, while leaving me at liberty to act on my own discretion.”

“You have totally misunderstood me, monsieur; and I fear you have placed me in a most unpleasant position. The Powers will naturally conclude that I am in a hurry to marry again, whereas nothing is further from my thoughts.”

“Will your Majesty permit me to express my sorrow that such should be the case? It is now considerably more than a year since the lamented death of the King, and I could regard the future of Thracia with far more complacency if I thought that you, madame, were not to continue to bear the burden of state alone.”

“I fear that your wishes have led you into a too hasty course of action, monsieur. May I ask what was the effect produced on the Powers by your inquiries?”

“Scarcely a satisfactory one, madame. The majority desired to know more before expressing an opinion. If the name of any candidate for your hand were submitted to them, they were prepared to consider the matter; but if there was no suitor in the field, they thought the inquiry premature.”

“Very much so. This is a most embarrassing state of affairs for me.”

“Surely not, madame. If your Majesty would intrust any name to me, in strict confidence, the affair shall be conducted with the greatest delicacy.”

“You will not understand me, monsieur.” Anger and confusion were contending in her voice. “I have no name to intrust to you.”

“Among all the princes of Europe, madame——”

“I am not searching Europe for a second husband, monsieur. You must understand once for all that I cannot fall in with your schemes on this subject.”

“It is possible that a search is unnecessary, madame. The Scythian Government has been good enough to make a suggestion.”

“I am extremely grateful. Who is the person suggested.”

“His Highness Prince Nikifor of Klausenmark.” The Klausenmark family formed a kind of link between the imperial house of Scythia and ordinary mortals, since it traced its descent from a Scythian Grand-Duchess who had married a member of the German nobility early in the present century.

“But he is little better than a simpleton!”

“True, madame, so they say. Your Majesty must surely be able to suggest a more acceptable suitor?”

“You fatigue me with this constant reiteration, M. le Ministre.” Ernestine spoke pettishly. “I have told you already that I have no one to suggest. There is not a prince in Europe that I would marry if he asked me—still less to whom I would send through you to ask him to marry me.”

“Not a prince, perhaps, madame.” M. Drakovics spoke meaningly, watching the changing colour of her face, “But if there is any individual of a less exalted rank who has had the happiness to attract your Majesty’s favourable attention, do not, I entreat you, hesitate to confide the fact to me. The opposition of the Powers need not be fatal, for many things forbidden by Congresses are effected by diplomacy. Nay, the difference of rank might even smooth our path, since, in the case of a person who was not of royal blood, there would be no question of sharing the duties of the regency, while he would yet be at hand to support and advise your Majesty in private. Is it possible, madame, that you have such a prospect of relief from our difficulties to suggest to me?”

For a moment Ernestine was tempted to yield to his importunity; but the remembrance of Cyril’s injunctions prevailed, and she rose suddenly from her seat at the table.

“We will not discuss this subject further, monsieur. I have told you that it wearies me. Perhaps it will comfort you if I tell you that I have no intention of marrying again until my son is of an age to rule for himself.”

Brought to a standstill at the moment that he imagined his object attained, M. Drakovics could not wholly conceal the expression of rage and disgust that crossed his face. He suppressed it immediately; but Ernestine caught sight of it, and rejoiced that she had not betrayed herself. When he had left the Palace, she watched him from the window, curious to see whether the look would return when he thought himself unobserved. She did not catch it again; but she saw the Premier stop suddenly, strike his hands together, and smile, and her fears were stirred at once.

“He is plotting something against Cyril!” she said to herself, and returning to the table, scribbled a tiny note, then called a footman, and desired him to give it to Count Mortimer immediately, before he left the Palace to attend the meeting of the Cabinet.

CHAPTER XIX.
A LITTLE TOO FAR.

“Dearest,—Do not allow the Premier to take you by surprise. I have told him nothing.

Ernestine.”

This was all that was contained in the carefully sealed envelope which Cyril received from the messenger as he descended the steps of the Palace, but it was enough to put him on his guard. Lighting a match, he burned the note to its last corner, and scattered the ashes abroad, then hastened his steps towards the residence of M. Drakovics. What might be in store for him he did not know; but at least he would do his best to get it over before the Council met, and so spoil any plan the Premier might have formed for denouncing him in the presence of his colleagues. As he intended, he reached the house before any of the other Ministers, and passing through the room in which the Cabinet was to meet, came upon M. Drakovics in his private office beyond it.

“You are early, Count,” said the Premier, with a start. “Are you”—he smiled unpleasantly—“the bearer of any message from the Queen?”

“No; I have not seen her Majesty to-day. But why should you ask, when you have just been with her yourself?”

“You are too modest, Count. We all know that the post of Court Minister is a far more important and confidential one—at least under a female sovereign—than that of Premier.”

“Not quite up to the mark to-day, are you?” asked Cyril, sympathetically, leaning forward to look at his chief more closely. “Feeling a little bit run down, eh? You must take a holiday, Drakovics. We can’t afford to lose you.” “If that doesn’t draw him, nothing will,” he added to himself.

“I am in my ordinary health,” was the response, uttered with ungrateful roughness, “and in any case, Count, you are not my physician. You occupy a far more delicate and delightful position, as keeper of the Queen’s conscience—or shall we say of her Majesty’s heart?”

“May I ask what you mean by that remark?”

“The meaning is quite patent to my mind.”

“It is not so to mine. I must request an explanation.”

“You shall have it—in the presence of the rest of the Cabinet,” and M. Drakovics rose to lead the way into the larger room, but Cyril stood before the door.

“No, monsieur. As long as I thought your extraordinary remarks were due to illness, or intended as jokes, I allowed them to pass; but since they appear to conceal an innuendo of some kind, I insist upon an explanation before you leave this room.”

“Stand away from the door, Count, or I will summon assistance.”

“No; you will not. It would be painfully undignified to be discovered struggling with one of your colleagues on account of an insult which you had offered him and were perfectly unable to justify. Here you remain until you answer my question.”

“There is little to answer. I merely say that you made good use of your opportunities of enjoying her Majesty’s society during your escape from Tatarjé.”

“Or in other words——?”

“In other words, she is in love with you, and would like to marry you and make you regent. But that she will not do so long as I am in office. I think you will find it advisable to quit Thracia, my friend.”

“Wait a moment, please. Your proofs?”

“Proofs? I have seen her look at you.”

“You are truly an observant person, monsieur; but the unsupported evidence of your eyes will not carry conviction to the mind of every one.”

“It will convince the Cabinet, and if you make it necessary for me to proceed to extremities, the Powers. Nor is it my only evidence. After my trouble in sounding the Powers on the subject of the Queen’s remarriage, she refused even to suggest a suitor who would be acceptable to her, or to consider the matter at all. Some influence must be at work to cause this distaste for matrimony in her own rank, and whose should it be but yours? You yourself will not attempt to deny that things are as I have stated.”

“Most certainly I shall deny nothing. There is nothing to deny. You have not produced a particle of proof in support of your extraordinary story. In order to further your own designs, you have had the chivalry to play the spy upon the words and looks of the unfortunate Queen, and not unnaturally you persuade yourself that you have seen what you wished to see—in one instance only. Take my advice, Drakovics: consult your doctor, and make him order you a little rest. Delusions of this kind are not things to be trifled with.”

“Delusions!” cried the Premier furiously. “The delusion is on your side, Count, if you think you will turn me from my purpose. You have had your explanation. Now the rest of the Ministry shall have it.”

“Very well. I gave you a door of escape; but if you will take your punishment fighting, you will. Allow me to lay before you a little story—shall we call it a hypothesis, or a concatenation of facts? I am sure that a person of your penetration never imagined that I should tamely accept the consequences of such an accusation as this. Picture to yourself the feelings of the Cabinet when they hear the converse of your account—when they hear that you had conceived the idea of marrying the Queen, and thus securing the regency for yourself; that you had gone so far as to sound the Powers on the subject; that, finding them wanting in enthusiasm for the idea, you suggested it to the Queen, hoping to secure her influence on your side. Her Majesty rejected the idea with contemptuous displeasure, and it was necessary then to find a scapegoat on whom the blame could be laid, so far as the Powers are concerned. You fix upon a colleague of whom you are anxious to be rid, and you try to hound him out of the country by means of this precious tale!”

“The whole idea is absurd,” said M. Drakovics faintly.

“Excuse me, it is no more absurd than your own. I also can produce evidence quite as good as yours, if you drive me to it. If looks are to be counted as proofs, many people will be able to depose that the Queen has looked at you with dislike. Your correspondence with the Powers, undertaken on your own initiative, is another link in the chain, for you don’t expect any sane person to believe that you made these disinterested inquiries on my behalf. Then I can show that after a stormy interview with her Majesty you made this charge against me——”

“How do you know that it was stormy?” was the helpless question.

“I was not sure of it, but you have confessed that it was so. You intended to blacken that unfortunate woman’s name for the sake of getting rid of me, did you? I will blacken yours to some purpose if you try it on.”

“I had never any intention of saying anything against her Majesty.”

“Only to publish throughout Europe that she was in love with me? But if you attempt to do it, I’ll make Thracia too hot to hold you; and if anything happens to me, my executors will see that things are put right.”

“There is no question of publishing anything. You and your Queen may feel at ease on that subject, Count.”

“If you say anything of that kind again, I will denounce you forthwith. You are living over a powder-mine, Drakovics. I am silent as long as you are, but not a moment longer. Tell me, do you believe that ridiculous tale of yours?”

“I cannot help believing what I saw with my own eyes.”

“Thank you. That is an interesting piece of information for my future use. I think you can scarcely have intended to enlighten me on such a delicate subject, did you? At any rate, whatever happens after this, you will have the pleasure of knowing that you helped it on. But I don’t fancy that I shall be imprudent enough to take advantage of your kind disclosure.”

Absolutely confused, and quite unable to decide whether Cyril had or had not been aware hitherto of the Queen’s feelings towards him, M. Drakovics preferred not to answer, and made his way into the council-chamber in silence, while Cyril reflected upon his triumph with a satisfaction that was not wholly complete.

“Not a moral victory, by any means,” he said to himself—“very much the reverse. Ernestine would be grievously wounded if she heard the details of the fight; and as for Princess Soudaroff——! But it was touch and go. Bluff was the only game, and either Drakovics had to go under or I. I think he has had his lesson; but it will be awkward if the Powers refuse to let the thing drop.”

That some of the Powers, at any rate, were suspicious as to the motives with which M. Drakovics had entered upon his inquiry, Cyril discovered some days later, when the Queen’s father paid a short visit to Bellaviste. His Serene Highness Luitpold, Prince of Weldart, was a gentleman whose proclivities were euphemistically termed by his friends “artistic,” and who cultivated, for the sake of consistency, an aureole of hair and a small pointed beard, which gave him the appearance of a Vandyke portrait gone mad. He had just returned from a tour in the East, where he had enjoyed himself extremely, although one or two escapades of a somewhat juvenile character had given more pleasure to himself than to his suite or his temporary hosts; and it appeared that a hint had reached him from some quarter which induced him to break his journey home by a visit to his daughter. He remained at Bellaviste only two or three days, finding the city intolerably dull, and the Palace even worse. With Ernestine he was on a footing of distant acquaintanceship, coloured by mutual dislike, for his treatment of her mother rankled in her mind, and he perceived the fact and resented it. Court etiquette was happily successful in preventing any public exposure of this family skeleton, however; and the inhabitants of Bellaviste had no excuse for accusing their unpopular Queen of unfilial conduct towards her father, whom, as the natural enemy of their bête noire, the Princess of Weldart, they chose to regard with affectionate approval. The visit was so wholly unexpected that Cyril felt convinced it had been made, not by the Prince of Weldart’s own wish, but in obedience to the dictates of a higher power; and he was not surprised when the royal guest took advantage of a ride, on which Cyril attended him, to ask one or two pertinent questions at a moment when they happened to have out-distanced the rest of the party.

“Do you think that your Premier’s health is to be depended upon?” the Prince asked suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“He has not seemed quite his usual self of late, sir,” returned Cyril cautiously.

“That is precisely what I mean. I do not mind telling you that he has done one or two strange things. Only a short time ago, for instance, he addressed a confidential circular of a most extraordinary nature to the Powers, dealing with matters which are not in the least likely to occur, and with which he would have no concern if they did.”

“It is possible, sir, that M. Drakovics has acted so long as a kind of deputy Providence in Thracia that he wishes to play the same rôle with regard to Europe.”

“But that only shows that his mind must be affected—or at any rate that he has lost his sense of the fitness of things. I will not conceal from you, my dear Count, that the circular to which I allude has produced a most deplorable impression at the Hercynian and Pannonian Courts.”

“I am indeed distressed to hear it, sir. Am I right in supposing that the circular foreshadowed some rapprochement between ourselves and Scythia?”

“Well, not exactly; but there seems to be little doubt that it was issued in response to a Scythian initiative. Gods of Hellas! I am no use in matters of diplomacy. Tell me, Count—you have had more opportunity of studying my daughter’s character of late than I have—have you seen anything to make you imagine that she cherishes a tendresse for that blatant Philistine, Nikifor of Klausenmark?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” responded Cyril, with the most perfect truth. “So far as I am aware, her Majesty has never even seen his Highness.”

“Ah!” said the Prince, obviously much relieved. “Then the whole thing may be a mare’s nest evolved by Drakovics out of his own inner consciousness. For the moment we—that is, the Emperors—I should say, the Western Powers—were really perturbed. But this will reassure them. After all, it is sometimes best to ask a plain question instead of beating about the bush. By the bye, what is your opinion as to the likelihood of the Queen’s marrying again?”

This was a question so plain as to be startling in its suddenness; but Cyril met the half-suspicious eyes of the artist-Prince without blenching as he replied, “I heard the other day, sir, from one who ought to know, that her Majesty had declared her intention of remaining unmarried, at any rate until the King is of age.”

“A very good idea, indeed. But that does not lessen the difficulty about Drakovics. Since he has taken it into his head that she is likely to marry again, he may go on stirring up uneasiness for years by circulars of this kind. He is growing old, and we—I—greatly fear that he is scarcely capable of taking the necessary broad view of the political situation. Such affairs as this of the circular, for instance, only disturb the harmony of Europe, and play into the hands of Scythia, and we—I—could not allow the indiscretion to be repeated. Could he not be induced to give up a portion of his labours, even if he will not retire altogether? Is there no friend who would suggest it to him? You are the person with whom he is on the most confidential terms, I believe?”

“Your Highness does me too much honour. The only person with whom the Premier is on confidential terms is his nephew—and political heir.”

“Ah, M. Vassili Drakovics?”

“The same, sir. The office of Mayor of the Palace has a tendency to become hereditary, as you will remember.”

“Those days are past, Count. Be good enough to mark my words. There is no room for hereditary Mayors of the Palace in the modern state. Europe has tolerated Milos Drakovics as the liberator of Thracia; but a Drakovics dynasty would not be borne. By the immortal gods! what a view! Be good enough, Count, to summon here my secretary and the servant who is carrying my sketch-book.”

The colloquy was evidently over, and Cyril, as he fell back to the rest of the suite, leaving the royal amateur to discuss with his secretary the merits of the view, and to make a few mysterious dots in his sketch-book, which were to be worked up afterwards into a finished picture by an artist who was attached to his household, was at no loss to understand its drift.

“They want me to get rid of Drakovics for them,” he said to himself. “They think that Thracia is not big enough for us both, but that they may make use of one of us to destroy the other. Of course what they would like best would be for us to wipe one another out—à la Kilkenny cats—but I prefer the method of the survival of the fittest. Well, as his artistic Highness would say, these things are on the knees of the gods.”

Little as Cyril appreciated the part allotted to him in the European concert, the Prince of Weldart was so well satisfied with the results of his essay in diplomacy that he could not resist alluding to them in the course of the next visit that he paid, which was to the Court of his niece, the Princess of Dardania, at Bashi Konak.

“I do not remember whether you know anything of the Englishman Mortimer,” he said to the Princess, forgetting the early episode of her engagement to Cyril’s brother. “I had a good deal of conversation with him at Bellaviste, and I must say that I am glad Ernestine has him at hand.”

“Indeed?” asked his niece listlessly. “You think that he is to be depended upon?”

“I should say so, certainly. Knows nothing of art, of course—like all Englishmen—but faithful in a rude kind of way, because he has not cunning enough to be otherwise. I think I never saw a man so dense in the way of understanding any allusion that was in the slightest degree veiled.”

“And you went out of your way to explain to him all your allusions, uncle? How truly kind of you! I don’t wonder that Count Mortimer showed you his best side. And you think him rudely faithful, do you?”

“I do.” The Prince was irritated by her questioning tone. “He has so proper a sense of his position that even when we trenched upon somewhat delicate ground he showed no self-consciousness whatever. Well, there is no harm in my telling you what it was. Drakovics had got it into his head—at least, so I gathered, for he would deal in nothing but vague hints—that Ernestine wanted to marry this man Mortimer. Of course the very idea was preposterous, and I let Drakovics see what I thought of it; but to make sure, I determined to watch them both, and I soon saw that there was nothing in it.”

“That was very satisfactory, I am sure.”

“Most satisfactory. I watched Mortimer when he was in Ernestine’s presence, spoke to him of her when we were alone together—even, as I said, hinted at the rumours that had reached me—but he never so much as changed colour. Not a muscle moved, his eyes met mine without the slightest confusion. He is an honest man.”

“Dear uncle! how pleased you must be to feel assured of that. And Ernestine?”

“Yes. I watched her too, and there is nothing there either. There was not a particle of difference in the way she spoke to him and to—myself, I was going to say, but of course that is only a figure of speech. You know that empressé manner of hers—a smile and a blush for every one? It is by no means regal; but it would make her popular in any country but Thracia, I believe. Still, Ottilie, I am going to give you a piece of advice. You have daughters; do not bring them up as children of nature. Nature is at a discount in Court life, and it detracts from their political—or shall I say matrimonial?—value.”

“You are becoming quite a philosopher, uncle. I assure you that Bettine and Lida will be as finished pieces of art as I can make them.”

“Ah, your mother was a sensible woman, my dear niece. But I am no philosopher—merely an unworthy devotee of art. And that reminds me; you will not forget to let your little cherubs sit to me to-morrow?”

“You do not think I could forget such an engagement as that, uncle?” reproachfully. “I have wished for years that I had the opportunity of having the children painted by a really first-rate artist.”

“My dear Ottilie, you flatter me. But what my humble powers can do to perpetuate on canvas the charms of childhood—— Ah, your good husband summons me. He wishes to show me the statue he purchased at the late Exhibition. I have never considered him a judge of art, but still——”

“Then Drakovics thought she wanted to marry him?” said Princess Ottilie to herself as her uncle left her. “That shows there was something in it. But it must not be allowed—or, in any case, only as a last resort. Count Mortimer is honest and simple-minded, is he? I think his excellent acting almost deserves success. But he must not know that I have heard—nor must Ernestine. Still, Lida’s crown is in danger; I must see what is going on. I think I will offer to pay Ernestine a visit, and take Lida with me. Yes; that will be best.”

But circumstances prevented the Princess of Dardania from carrying out her intention immediately, and before her visit to Bellaviste took place important political changes had occurred in Thracia. The beginning of this period of transition was marked to Cyril by the sudden apparition of his valet Dietrich at his bedside one morning, with the news that the Metropolitan, who had been ailing for some time, had died in the night. The intelligence would not have appeared startling to Cyril in ordinary circumstances; but at present, with the O’Malachy’s letter fresh in his memory, it was full of excitement for him. Now, if ever, M. Drakovics must show his hand.

At first the course of affairs appeared to be unchanged by the Archbishop’s death. The Queen, who had learnt to respect the old man the more for his return to loyalty after his one outburst of fanaticism, took the little King, who had conceived a whimsical liking for the prisoner he had released, to the cathedral, where the body lay in state, and she even consented to sprinkle the corpse with holy water—a concession which produced an excellent impression on the people. But when the gorgeous funeral ceremonies were over, and Archbishop Dionysius slept with his predecessors in the vault next to that of the Kings of Thracia, there arose a question as to who should be his successor. The appointment of ecclesiastical dignitaries was managed in Thracia in such a way as to meet as far as possible the claims of both church and state. The Metropolitan was chosen from among the existing Bishops by the Synod of the kingdom; but it was understood that he was previously nominated by the Government, while the assent of the sovereign was necessary before he could be considered duly elected. At the present juncture the person to whom all looked as the natural successor to the late Metropolitan was Bishop Andreas of Karajevo, Prince Mirkovics’s brother, the senior Bishop, and a man eminently fitted for the responsible position of ecclesiastical head of the realm. But Bishop Andreas was unpopular among the clergy generally, and more especially among the less educated and more fanatic portion of them, owing to his liberal views, which were evidenced not only by his attempt to protect the persecuted Jews in his diocese, but also by his refusal to curse the emissaries of an English Society who had been discovered selling Bibles in Karajevo. In more ordinary circumstances, however, the feeling against him would not have been allowed to sway the action of the Synod, far less that of the Government; but now rumours began to be current that M. Drakovics did not intend to nominate him for the vacant post—nay, more, that he was about to name Bishop Philaret of Tatarjé in his stead. As soon as this was said openly, Cyril scented battle close at hand, and prepared with zest for the meeting of the Cabinet at which M. Drakovics would announce his selection. Two hours before the Cabinet met, however, he received an urgent message from Ernestine, desiring him to come to the Palace at once; and, guessing that the rumour had penetrated to her, he obeyed. He found her alone, and in a state of much excitement.

“You have heard what they are saying about the Bishop of Tatarjé?” was her greeting, almost before the door was shut.

“Yes; it has been hinted at for several days.”

“And you never told me? Do you think it is true?”

“I fear so. Drakovics would not have allowed the rumour to get about if it had not suited his purpose.”

“Very well. What do you intend to do?”

“In what way?”

“When the Cabinet meets, for instance. Will any of the other Ministers sustain you in a protest, or are they all the slaves of M. Drakovics?”

“I could count on Georgeivics, certainly, and on Mirkovics and the nobles; but I would not reckon too much on the effect of a protest, Ernestine.”

“You mean that they would shrink from maintaining their protest by resigning office?”

“Not necessarily. I mean that their resignation would not stop Drakovics.”

“But not the resignation of half his Cabinet?”

“By no means. You forget that under the delicious system of dictatorship by which Thracia is governed, Drakovics, for all practical purposes, is the Cabinet. If all the rest of us resigned to-day, he would fill our places to-morrow with creatures of his own, and go on merrily.”

“But not in defiance of the opinion of the country?”

“He has the Legislature behind him, and the great mass of the people—so long as he is in power. We have the nobles and the mountain clans—possibly the army as well—who would be useful in a civil war; but Europe would never let us get to that.”

“Don’t talk of it!” said Ernestine, with a shudder. “Well, then, if the Cabinet can do nothing, the responsibility falls on me. If M. Drakovics ventures to ask my assent to Bishop Philaret’s nomination, I shall refuse it.”

“You must do nothing of the kind. Why, the political heavens would fall!”

“Let them. M. Drakovics shall find that he has gone too far. I have stood a great deal for the sake of peace; but when he tries to force on me the man who laid that plot for Michael’s conversion, and who issued knowingly the lying proclamation which might have cost us all our lives—for I am convinced, and so is Paula von Hilfenstein, that he knew the truth the whole time—he must learn that it is beyond endurance.”

“My dear Ernestine, I don’t think you foresee the gravity of the situation that would be created. Drakovics would resign.”

“That is exactly what I want. I shall make you Premier instead.”

“I am deeply grateful for your kind thought of me; but I should expect to have a voice in the matter, and it would be a negative one.”

“What!” her eyes gleamed with indignation; “you refuse to help me? But you must help me—you shall. I have always deferred to your wishes hitherto, now I insist on your yielding to mine.”

“My dearest”—Cyril kept his temper admirably—“you will always find me ready to help you in any enterprise that has the faintest chance of success; but I am not the man to throw everything away for a miserable fizzle.”

“I do not know that word,” said the Queen, with great dignity. They were speaking English.

“I am sorry my words do not please you. They enshrine a weighty truth, even if it is an unpleasant one. You know what fiasco means, I suppose, and you can guess that I should object to figure in such an exploit?”

“No; you would not—for me,” she said, with sudden softness, crossing the room to where he sat, and laying her hands on his shoulders. “Dear Cyril, you will not leave me to fight this battle all alone?”

“Never, dearest; but you must allow me to choose the ground. Is that settled?” He looked up at her, but her face showed no signs of yielding, and he went on. “Unfortunately for your heroic scheme, it is just what Drakovics has been counting upon, and he has laid beautiful traps for us in every direction in case we adopt it.”

“In what way?” asked Ernestine doubtfully.

“You may not have heard, as I have frequently of late, expressions of astonishment at the way in which Drakovics has neglected to bring in the Estimates this year, although the legislative session is nearly over. It is evident that he had private knowledge that the Metropolitan’s illness was more serious than was generally supposed, and laid his plans accordingly. To use a classic phrase, there are three courses open to us, and whichever we adopt, he stands to win.”

“But how can this be?”

“It is tolerably simple. Let us first suppose that you dismiss him, and that I take office, supported by Mirkovics and his party. But the Legislature is delivered over body and soul to Drakovics, and refuses to pass our Estimates. We resign, and you have no option but to send for him again. Next, we might dispense with the Estimates, and proceed to dissolve the Legislature at once. Then we should find ourselves without money to pay the army or carry on the government, or—which is more important—to carry through a general election. The provincial treasuries dare not hand us over the revenue until they have been authorised to do so by the Legislature.”

“But I thought it was usual to make some arrangement——”

“Between the incoming and outgoing Premiers, as to the passing of the Estimates? Yes; but that is in civilised countries. You must remember that Drakovics does not want to smooth our path, nor to help us in appealing to the country—quite the contrary. Well, your third course would be to dissolve the Legislature at once, leaving Drakovics in power, which would be the maddest thing of all. You know that in this part of the world it is the Government that wins in a general election, and Drakovics would simply pursue the usual tactics, and romp in gaily at the head of the poll.”

“But is there nothing that would enable us to outmanœuvre him?”

“Oh yes: a sum of money sufficient to assist us to pay current expenses and conduct the election without the help of the Estimates.”

“Is that all? Why, I will sell my diamonds.”

“The merest drop in the ocean, dear.”

“Then,” Ernestine lowered her voice and glanced round guiltily, “let us pledge the crown jewels.”

“My dear child, who would advance us anything on such security? Moreover, you forget that Drakovics holds one of the keys of the chest in which the regalia is kept, and he is scarcely likely to see the matter from our point of view.”

“Cyril!” Ernestine sprang to her feet again, and her voice was full of resolution, “rather than yield to him I will dismiss him and dissolve the Legislature without summoning a new one, and govern the country through the permanent officials.”

“Alas! my dear innocent child, you are a constitutional monarch, and the Constitution is guaranteed by the Powers, and adored, in theory, by the people. Why, Drakovics would have you and Michael deposed and conducted across the frontier just in time to meet the representatives of Europe coming to sit in judgment upon you, and there would be an end of your dynasty.”

“But can you suggest no means of getting this money? Think of something.”

“Really, I am not a magician. We might mortgage the kingdom to Scythia for the required sum, no doubt; but that would not help matters much, even if Drakovics did not manage to let the Three Powers have an inkling of our little scheme.”

“Cyril, you are joking!” fiery indignation thrilled in her tones. “It is cruel, unmanly, shameful—at such a time.”

“My dearest, if I saw any hope of success I would say so. There is just one man from whom it might be possible to obtain the money; but I should be obliged to go to Vienna and interview him, and I dare not leave the kingdom for three days at this crisis. I am certain that I should find you and Michael and the Germans belonging to the Court encamped on the other side of the frontier when I returned. However, some opportunity may offer, and if it does, you may be sure I will take it.”

“Then you will do nothing now?” her voice was tragic.

“Yes, you very exacting person; I will resign my seat in the Cabinet for your sweet sake, for it will do no practical good whatever. When you have Vassili Drakovics comfortably established as Court Minister, perhaps you will regret the past. Adieu, madame; I kiss your hand for the last time as one of your Majesty’s Ministers!”

He almost expected a burst of remonstrance from her; but although her lips quivered, she looked at him steadily.

“I shall feel it more than I can tell you,” she said; “but it has come to this, that I must ask the sacrifice of you and of myself. I cannot accept Bishop Philaret as Metropolitan, for that would be to barter my boy’s prerogative for a few years of peace. Rather than do that I would abdicate.”

“Well, we shall be a pleasant party to cross the frontier,” said Cyril lightly, and took his departure. As he approached M. Drakovics’s house some one tapped him on the shoulder, and, looking round, he saw Prince Mirkovics.

“You have heard this rumour?” asked the old nobleman.

“About the archbishopric? Yes.”

“And you think it is true? I see you do.”

“I fear it must be. It is too preposterous to be an invention.”

“And the reason? You think it is the result of some compact arising out of the Tatarjé business? So do I. Count, that stand of which we spoke some time ago ought to be made to-day. You will lead us? You perceive that I am handicapped by the fact of my brother’s interest in the matter.”

“I will speak, certainly, and join you in resigning, if we get as far as that. I may tell you in confidence that her Majesty is with us, and declares she will refuse her assent to the nomination of Philaret; but we must do all we can to prevent its coming to a constitutional struggle.”

“You are right, Count. Any honourable compromise, then, but no surrender on the main point.”

The members of the Cabinet were not kept long in suspense by their chief. After the transaction of some routine business, M. Drakovics announced briefly that he was about to nominate Bishop Philaret to the Synod, for promotion to the metropolitical see, and made as though he would pass immediately to the next matter. But this was not allowed, and it is scarcely probable that he expected it would be. An astonished question from one of the nobles whom the rumour had not reached opened the ball, and then Cyril spoke, followed by the other members of his party. The claims of Bishop Andreas, the notoriously pro-Scythian sympathies of Philaret, his part in the late plot and the doubtful justification he had offered, the certainty that his appointment would be painful to the Queen and displeasing to the majority of the Powers, were all set forth, to be replied to by the Premier in a few sentences which were contemptuous in their brevity. Bishop Andreas was unpopular, while his rival was a favourite with the clergy, Bishop Philaret had received due punishment for his innocent participation in the plot, and should now be treated with leniency,—these were his chief arguments, and when the dissentients still protested, he hinted darkly at reasons of state which rendered it necessary to make the Bishop of Tatarjé Metropolitan. This was a question of confidence, he declared, and those members of the Cabinet who were not prepared to support him would do well to leave it, since he could easily govern Thracia alone, but not when surrounded by half-hearted traitors. After this plain speaking the meeting broke up in confusion, and adjourned to the following day.

The breathing-space before the final struggle was spent by Cyril largely in consultation with his fellow-dissentients; and they succeeded in arranging the terms of a compromise, which, if M. Drakovics could be induced to accept it, might yet avert the danger of a strife between the Crown and the representative of the people. How the Premier had spent the time became evident to the Ministers as soon as they left their houses to attend the adjourned meeting of the Cabinet, for the streets and the market-place were filled with excited crowds, led on in many cases by priests, who clamoured for Philaret as their archbishop, and greeted the hostile party with hootings and threats.

“Rather an interesting commentary on the supposed secrecy of our deliberations,” observed Cyril to Prince Mirkovics, as they paused for a minute on the Premier’s steps. “There is no one who could have imparted what passed yesterday to the public except Drakovics himself.”

They went on into the council-chamber, where M. Drakovics received them with a countenance of more than Roman sternness, in which, however, there lurked a perceptible touch of anxiety. The play was for high stakes, and it was evident that he feared lest his opponents had thought better of their hostility, in which case he would have lost the opportunity of getting rid of them. He looked visibly more cheerful when they displayed no inclination to fall in with his views, although his anxiety returned for a moment when Prince Mirkovics presented his proposed compromise. A message had been sent to Bishop Andreas, who had returned to his diocese, and was now busily engaged in reducing it to order, to inquire his views on the subject of the vacant see, and he had replied by a strong expression of his determination to remain where he was, lest the malcontents should imagine that they had driven him out. Since this answer removed the favourite of one side from the contest, the proposal was that M. Drakovics should also withdraw his candidate, and that both parties should agree to the nomination of Bishop Socrates of Feodoratz, a man of moderate political views, who was a persona grata to all but the extremists among the clergy. To the indignation of the Mirkovics party, the compromise was brusquely declined without even a show of argument, and the Premier reiterated his resolve to nominate Philaret, and none but Philaret, to supply the vacant place. To this there could be but one reply, and Cyril, the War Minister, Prince Mirkovics, and three other members of the Cabinet rose and retired from the council, with the announcement that they were about to tender to the Queen their resignation of the offices they held.

Emerging from the doorway of M. Drakovics’s house, the dissentient Ministers found themselves a target for all the abuse of the crowds collected in the square. Their purpose in thus withdrawing in a body was evident, and they were saluted with a storm of execration. Prince Mirkovics and the other nobles were hailed as mountain-rats (feeling runs high in Thracia between highlander and lowlander), M. Georgeivics as a brutal tyrant (under his régime the discipline of the army had much improved), and Cyril as a poverty-stricken foreigner, who lived by doing dirty work. So violent were the mob that at first it was impossible to pass through them, and the Ministers stood at the top of the steps while a force of police, who had been energetically doing nothing on the opposite side of the square, proceeded languidly to their assistance.

“You smile, Count?” said Prince Mirkovics to Cyril.

“Doesn’t it strike you as funny,” was the reply, “that these fellows would treat Drakovics in the same way next week if he was in our place? I have known——” the words were cut short by a man who bounded suddenly up the steps. A gleaming knife was in his hand, and with a cry of “Die, traitor!” he struck furiously at Cyril, who raised his left arm mechanically to ward off the weapon. The blow failed of its intended effect, but gashed his arm from wrist to elbow, leaving his coat-sleeve hanging in shreds. Realising that he had missed his aim, the man uttered a curse and lifted his knife a second time; but Prince Mirkovics, recovering from his momentary stupefaction, drew a pistol from his girdle and shot him dead. A low murmur broke from the crowd; but they were too much astonished by the turn events had taken to attempt to follow up the attack.

“Who can he be?” asked M. Georgeivics, bending over the body of the would be assassin. “A theological student, evidently, and an extremist, from his shaggy hair and beard; but why should he single out Count Mortimer in especial?”

“He is a theological student and a fanatic,” said Cyril, “and he did his best to betray us when the King and Queen were escaping from Tatarjé. No doubt he knew me again. But when you have feasted your eyes sufficiently on his body,” he added faintly, “perhaps one of you will tie something round my arm?”

With a murmur of compunction, Prince Mirkovics twisted a silk handkerchief into a cord, and fastened it tightly round the injured limb, from which the blood was flowing fast, then increased the pressure by inserting the handle of his knife under the bandage and screwing it round.

“We must get you to a surgeon at once,” he said. “Can you walk?”

“If you will give me your arm. I don’t want them to think I am dead yet. By the bye, Drakovics,” he turned to the Premier, who was contemplating the scene from his doorway, “it would be advisable to choose your instruments better on the next occasion.”

“My instruments! Do you then accuse me of planning this outrage, Count?”

“I make no accusations, monsieur. The facts suffice.”

And taking Prince Mirkovics’s arm, Cyril proceeded to descend the steps with as much dignity as his loss of blood would allow. Happily they had not far to go before reaching a surgeon, and the people made way for them with sullen acquiescence. It was of course out of the question now to go to the Palace and tender their resignations; but Cyril’s colleagues waited for him outside the surgeon’s house, intending to escort him home, lest another attack should be made upon him. Before he was out of the doctor’s hands, however, Prince Mirkovics entered the surgery.

“Her Majesty is at the door, Count,” he said. “It seems that she was taking a drive, and that some rumour of your misfortune reached her. She drove here at once, and seeing me, asked for particulars. I have relieved her anxiety; but she insists on conveying you to your house in her carriage. As she says, her escort will be a protection for you.”

“But we don’t want to get her associated with us in the minds of the people,” said Cyril hastily. “Tell her that I have sent for my own carriage—anything.”

“I—I think that perhaps you had better comply,” said Prince Mirkovics, with a shade of embarrassment in his tone. “Her Majesty appeared to be most anxious about you, and says that she will wait until you come.”

“Then perhaps it is as well that I am ready,” said Cyril, rising with some difficulty from the doctor’s chair. “Prince,” he added hurriedly as they passed through the hall, “you will have to temporise for two or three days, for I foresee that I shall not be up to much. Put forward all you know in the way of compromises if the Queen tries to mediate, but concede nothing, of course. Simply keep things hanging on; you understand?”

With some bewilderment Prince Mirkovics signified his comprehension, and Cyril was helped out of the house and into the Queen’s carriage, where she and Anna Mirkovics, who was her companion, made him as comfortable as they could. As soon as the carriage was in motion, she bent across to him eagerly, speaking in English—

“Oh, thank God you are not killed, as we heard at first! But how could you be so incautious as to let M. Drakovics see that you suspected him of trying to murder you? It is simply tempting him to do it again. Such imprudence is not like you.”

“But I did not suspect him of anything of the kind. You don’t imagine that I should let him see it if I did? It was merely a declaration of war. There can be no peace between us after that.”

“If you thought he had done it, I would have had him hunted down like a wolf,” she said fiercely.

“My dear child, don’t be excited. Look about now and then, and make remarks on the weather, and bow to the people. I want to say something very important, but no one must guess.”

“Very well,” said Ernestine, bowing pleasantly to a passing lady of her acquaintance for the benefit of the curious crowd that lined the pavements.

“You are not to be frightened when you hear that I am worse, and you are not to attempt to see me. You may send to inquire, of course; but whatever the answer may be, you will know that the illness is nothing but a diplomatic one. If that makes you appear unsympathetic, it will be all the better for us.”

“You are very unkind,” she replied, with a dazzling smile to a woman who was holding up her child to see the Queen pass.

“I am talking business. Another thing is, that you must manage somehow to defer the acceptance of our resignations for three days from to-morrow. Make Stefanovics your messenger, and let him come and go between Drakovics and Mirkovics and the other four, trying to arrange a compromise. He may try the wildest schemes he can think of, but he must spin the matter out. If you come to an absolute deadlock, consult Paschics; he will communicate the difficulty to me, if it is possible. Only remember to do nothing definite for three days.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ernestine, looking down the street.

“That I cannot tell you. All that you know is that for three days I shall be so ill as to be able to do nothing, and that I can see no one.”

“I think you might trust me a little more,” she said reproachfully.

CHAPTER XX.
IN QUEST OF THE WHEREWITHAL.

On reaching his own house, Cyril’s first act was to summon Paschics, who was now his secretary, and explain the situation to him very thoroughly, adding directions which were to be followed in case of the occurrence of various contingencies. When Paschics was primed as to his duties, Cyril unfolded his own plans.

“No doubt you have guessed by this time, Paschics, that I intend to be absent from Bellaviste while I am supposed to be ill in bed. Only yourself, the doctor, and Dietrich will be in the secret, and you must see that no one else discovers it. Take care that the blinds in my bedroom are kept down, for the Premier is very likely to try to spy on me from the window of one of the houses opposite. The Queen has expressed her intention of sending the Court doctor to attend me, and we shall be able to work the trick with him, for he and I are old friends. You will give out, of course, and the doctor will support it by bulletins, that the injury is far more serious than was at first supposed, and that I am in a very nervous and feverish state. I can see no one, and discuss no business; but if Prince Mirkovics and his friends are very persistent, you may allow yourself to be induced to consult me, and after a suitable interval bring them an answer from the notes I told you to take of what I have been saying since I came in. You understand?”

“Perfectly, your Excellency.”

“As to my purpose in leaving in this way, I will tell it you, in order that if anything happens, you may know in what direction to make a search for me. I am going to Vienna, to the Chevalier Goldberg.”

“That old Jew?” murmured Paschics in dismay.

“Precisely. He is the only man who can help us at this pinch, and I rather think he will. He has a way of flinging his money about without expecting any return that is quite picturesque. Five or six years ago he paid King Otto Georg’s debts, and so enabled him to marry. That was a free gift, but I don’t propose to ask him to repeat it. A loan without interest for three months will meet our present difficulty.”

“But to put yourself in the power of a Jew, Excellency!”

“My good Paschics, who is not in their power? I own that I should have been glad if any other expedient had offered itself, but this crisis calls for desperate remedies. If the Chevalier listens to me at all, he will keep the secret a good deal more honourably than many Christians would; and if he refuses to make or meddle in the matter, at least I shall have done all I can. But in either case no one must know.”

“But how does your Excellency intend to leave Bellaviste? You are aware that a guard of police is now stationed outside the house for the purpose of ensuring your safety?”

“I am. The noise they make would alone keep me from being unconscious of their presence. Well, if the worst comes to the worst, they must be squared; but they are quite capable of being squared by both sides, so that we must do our best to find a more hopeful way of getting out. By the way, Sir Egerton Stratford has not yet called to inquire for me, has he?”

“No, your Excellency. Baron Natarin is the only one of the foreign representatives who has come as yet, and he happened to be riding past when he heard of the attack made on you. He proffered his most cordial felicitations on your escape.”

“Yes; trust Natarin to do the right thing promptly, however bitter the pill may be to swallow,” said Cyril, more to himself than to the secretary. “Well, Paschics, if the British Minister calls, ask him to come in and see me. If he should happen to send one of the gentlemen belonging to the Legation instead of coming himself, you may intimate that I should be much obliged if Sir Egerton would pay me a visit, as I wish to confide an important document to his keeping. Be careful not to let the message be overheard. We don’t want the British Legation burnt down in the night, that M. Drakovics may lay hands on the document. You may let it be understood that there is considerable anxiety felt as to my condition, and that I am inclined to take a despondent view of it myself. One more thing—when you bring Sir Egerton in, step very softly.”

“At your Excellency’s orders,” said Paschics, as he departed, considerably exercised in mind by the directions he had received. When he was gone, Cyril sat down at his writing-table and wrote a long letter to Caerleon, after finishing which he took a fresh sheet of paper, and began to draw up a document of more formal appearance. Before he had come to the end of this, footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of some visitor; but it seemed that Cyril did not hear them, for when Paschics gave an almost inaudible knock at the door, and entered the room noiselessly, he sprang up with a violent start.

“I beg your Excellency’s pardon,” said Paschics, much perturbed by the effect of his prudence; “but I thought you might be resting, and I ventured to come in before announcing his Excellency the British Minister.”

“Ask Sir Egerton to come in,” said Cyril, passing a hand over his brow, “and remain outside, Paschics. I shall want your signature to a paper in a minute or two. Come in, Stratford, and don’t mind my being a little shaky. My nerves are a bit upset, I fear.”

“You have no business to be sitting up writing,” said Sir Egerton bluntly. “Why are you not in bed?”

“Because I could not rest until I had got through some business. I want your help in connection with a legal document.”

“Nonsense! you want a doctor, not a lawyer. What is Danilovics thinking of to let you go on like this? You are almost in a fever already.”

“That is all the more reason for settling my affairs while my mind is clear. I want you to witness my will.”

Sir Egerton jumped. “Your will? My dear Mortimer, pull yourself together. You don’t think you are going to die of a cut in the wrist?”

“Next time the aim may be truer,” was the gloomy reply.

“Next time? Who wants to attack you again, now that the fellow who stabbed you is dead? You mustn’t let yourself get nervous.”

“My dear Stratford, if you felt persuaded that you were not intended to leave this house again alive, perhaps you would be slightly nervous.”

“What in the world have you got into your head now? Why, you have a police patrol at your very door to protect you.”

“To protect me?” Cyril laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, they would prove efficient protectors, no doubt—— What’s that?” he sprang to his feet.

“Nothing,” said Sir Egerton, with a cruel lack of sympathy in his tone. “Man alive, you don’t think any one will attempt to assassinate you while I am in the room with you? For pity’s sake, don’t show the white feather in this way.”

“It is not like you to hit a man when he is down, Stratford.”

“Good gracious! have I lost my head or have you? Here, I’ll witness this precious will of yours, if you will only sit down instead of walking about the place like a troubled spirit. Richard III. was nothing to you. How many murders have you got on your conscience?”

“I wish you would not use that word.” Cyril shuddered. “You seem to forget that to a mere murderer it would not signify; but I am the man to be murdered—that makes all the difference. Murder—ugh! Here, Paschics,” he opened the door a very little way, “come and witness my signature with his Excellency.”

“Now look here, my friend,” said Sir Egerton, when the will had been signed and witnessed, and Paschics had departed again; “you call your doctor in, and take a peg, or a sleeping-draught, or anything that will settle your mind a little. You have made your will, so just put these ideas out of your head, for you are on the high road either to fever or madness the way you are going now.”

“There is one thing I must do. You observe, I put the will and this letter into an envelope directed to my brother. Now I wish you to take the envelope, and send it home under cover with your next despatches, so that it may not be interfered with in the post. I can die happy if I know that you will see to its reaching Caerleon safely. You would not refuse the entreaty of a dying man?”

“A dying fiddlestick!” cried Sir Egerton angrily. “Mortimer, you must be mad already. These delusions are altogether too absurd. Look here, I don’t like leaving you like this. You know perfectly well that I can’t offer you hospitality at the Legation in the present state of affairs; but if you like to sign your resignation of all your offices, and order your servants to pack up for a return to England—for good—and claim my protection as a British subject—why, I’ll take you back with me now.”

“And expose Lady Stratford to the dangers my presence at the Legation would entail? No; I may be in a funk, but I am not quite such a cad as to allow that.”

“I don’t believe you are in a funk, that’s the worst of it, for if you were you wouldn’t say that,” said Sir Egerton irritably. “You have got some maggot into your head, and I don’t believe you are responsible for your words. Try to be reasonable for a moment. Would Drakovics—even if he hates you to the extent you imagine—be likely to invite annihilation from Europe by attacking the Legation?”

“No; but before this he has made use of the mob to execute his plans, and left them to take the consequences. Stratford, what was that?” and Cyril seized his friend’s arm, and pointed to the window-curtain.

“Only the cat,” was the answer, given with deep disgust, when Sir Egerton had shaken the curtain vigorously, thereby dislodging the animal, which was ensconced in the folds. “Stop this sort of thing, Mortimer. You will make me quite creepy presently. Would you like to know what I am going to do? I am going straight off to fetch Dr Simcox, to make him certify you a lunatic; then I shall remove you to the Legation. No one could object to my receiving you there in your present state, and when you are a little better, I shall pack you off home, with one of the staff to look after you.”

“You would let yourself in for all kinds of complications. No, Stratford; I see one way in which you could help me, if you really are ready to do so, but I could not dare to ask it.”

“Oh, go on. I can see that it has made you more cheerful even to think of it.”

“I want you to get me out of the city.”

“But good gracious, man, who is keeping you in it? I am sure Drakovics would be only too delighted if you went. Go this moment.”

“And be attacked and murdered in the streets, even supposing that I could succeed in crossing my own threshold safely?”

“What in the world are you driving at?”

“Do you mean to say that you do not see why the police are placed at my door? They are to prevent my leaving the house; or if I should succeed in doing so, to follow me out and stir up the people, who don’t need much stirring up just now, to finish me off.”

“I suppose this means that you want me to provide you with a disguise?”

“No, Paschics and I can manage that; but I want you to take me out of the city disguised as your footman, on the box of your carriage.”

“What, as Layard did the Spanish chap? But he got hauled over the coals terrifically for doing it. Still——”

“Still, you would do it, if only for the sake of getting rid of me from Thracia? After all, there is no reason why it should ever become known. I shall not tell, nor will you, and your coachman and footman can be paid to hold their tongues.”

“I don’t quite see how you propose to work it out.”

“Your footman is about my size, and fair. To-morrow you come in state to inquire for me, and send him on some errand while you come into the house. He is instructed to go back to the Legation at once, instead of returning to the carriage, and I come out of the house after you, and take his place. The police will only think that they did not notice him going in. Then you take me past the gate and some little way into the country—say to Mikhailoslav—where Paschics will be waiting for me with another disguise, and thus exit Count Mortimer from the Thracian stage.”

“You really intend to chuck things here, then?”

“That depends on circumstances—and my nerves.”

“By the bye, do you imagine you will be cool enough to go through this elaborate performance to-morrow? A slip might have disagreeable consequences.”

“My dear Stratford, when you offer a condemned man a chance of life, do you think he is going to waste it by playing the fool?”

“Oh, all right. I will turn up about three to-morrow. And take my advice; get a good night’s rest and some cooling medicine.”

Sir Egerton could not quite succeed in hiding the contempt in his tone, and when Cyril held out his hand, he pretended not to see it, and took his leave with merely a stiff bow; but his lack of courtesy did not seem to discompose his host. When the door had closed behind the British Minister, Cyril leaned back in his chair, and laughed long and silently.

“My dear Stratford,” he said, “I wonder whether you dislike me more at this moment than you will do when you see me back again, and know that you have been sold.”

“Vera,” said Sir Egerton, entering his wife’s boudoir on his return to the Legation, “do you want the carriage to-morrow?”

“The large carriage? No, but you promised to take me a drive in the dogcart.”

“So I did. I’m afraid I had forgotten. The fact is, Vera, I have promised to get Mortimer out of the city. The fellow has lost all his nerve—he is in a regular blue funk, thinks every one is going to murder him, a most ghastly state of mind—and I am to get him past the gates disguised as Wallis. One couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the poor beggar, though it made me pretty sick to see an Englishman carrying on in the way he did. I can tell you I let him have it once or twice, I was so disgusted.”

“You mustn’t be hard upon him, Egerton. Every one has not such nerve as you. And you had plenty of practice in bravery, too, at Kubbet-ul-Haj.”

“You funny little woman! that is quite one of your ideas. Do you know that I sometimes wish I was back at Kubbet-ul-Haj now, with all the danger, instead of making mountains of talk out of molehills of fact in these wretched miniature states?”

“Oh, but you will be Ambassador at Czarigrad or Minister at Estevan one day, and then there will be great things to do again. I should be miserable if I thought you would be kept here always, Egerton.”

“Do you know that you are a very heartless person, Lady Stratford, and that to gratify your ambition you would like to send your husband into danger? But I shall have the consolation of insisting upon your accompanying me.”

“As if I would ever let you go alone! But that reminds me, Egerton, that it will be much better if I come with you to-morrow when you are smuggling Count Mortimer out of the city. It would look far more natural, for you scarcely ever use the large carriage without me.”

“I can’t have you mixed up in this sort of thing, Vera.”

“But surely no one will know anything about it; and if my coming helps to avert suspicion, it will make it much safer. How far are you going to take Count Mortimer?”

“To Mikhailoslav, he suggested.”

“Then I must go, of course. Don’t you know that is the village where they make that pretty pottery, and I promised to send mamma a crate of it for her garden sale of work? I was going to propose that we should go there to-morrow in the dogcart.”

“You are not suggesting that we should take Mortimer in the dogcart? I think the carriage would be safer.”

“Yes; the people stare at the dogcart so much more, and he would be such a conspicuous figure on the back-seat. We will have the large carriage, Egerton, and I am coming.”

“‘’Tis yours to speak, and mine to hear!’ Can you be ready at a quarter to three? We must not prolong poor Mortimer’s agony unnecessarily.”

“Oh yes, I will be ready. But what do they say now about the crisis?”

“I hear to-night that the Queen will strain every nerve to prevent the disruption of the Cabinet. And well she may, for the nobility are all with Mirkovics, and his secession is likely enough to lead to a war of classes. How Mortimer can bring himself to desert his party at such a moment I cannot imagine. We must hope that after a night’s rest he may take a more cheerful view of things—or even be so much worse as to be unable to be moved.”

The next morning’s bulletins appeared to promise the fulfilment of Sir Egerton’s slightly uncharitable wish. It was made known that Count Mortimer was in a high fever, and that his state caused his physicians the greatest anxiety. Dr Danilovics shook his head with awful solemnity when questioned, and hinted gravely at the overworked and nervous condition of the patient, and the possibility that the knife used by the assassin had been poisoned, until Cyril’s death was hourly expected in the city, and Paschics was almost driven out of his mind by the necessity of reassuring the Queen and Prince Mirkovics, in answer to their anxious inquiries, without telling too much.

“It scarcely seems worth while to go, Vera,” said Sir Egerton to his wife, as they descended the steps of the Legation and entered the carriage; “but I promised the poor fellow, and I shouldn’t like him to think I had played him false. Besides, it’s just possible that this is only a blind.”

Arrived at Cyril’s house, Sir Egerton went indoors to write his name in the visitors’ book and interview Paschics, while Lady Stratford waited in the carriage. As the minutes passed, and her husband did not return, she became noticeably impatient, and called the footman to her.

“Your master seems likely to be some time, Wallis, so take this note for me now to the Maison Parisienne, and wait for a parcel, that we may not lose time when Sir Egerton comes out.”

The footman, who had received his instructions beforehand, and knew that he was to leave the shop by a different entrance, and return immediately to the Legation, departed with the note, an object of interest to the people who were gathered before the house. It was a saint’s day, and the truly orthodox had closed their shops or left their work and betaken themselves to pleasure, which at the present moment meant politics. A considerable number had found entertainment all day in standing and watching the different foreign and official personages who came to inquire after Cyril’s health, and they had remained to converse with the police who were guarding the house, so that there was a considerable crowd to criticise the British Minister’s carriage, and the pale little lady inside it. Happily for her peace of mind, Lady Stratford knew too little Thracian to understand their comments on her personal appearance; but presently a boy in the crowd, finding the entertainment a little monotonous, created a diversion by throwing a cracker—a species of ammunition with which he and his fellows were well provided in honour of the saint of the day—under the horses’ feet. The stately coachman had much ado to keep his seat as the animals began to kick and plunge, while the police displayed remarkable assiduity in chasing the boy, instead of trying to restrain them. But the noise had been heard indoors, and Sir Egerton ran hastily down the steps, followed by his footman, who sprang at once to the horses’ heads, and succeeded in calming them, although he was only able to use one hand. The police, having given up the pursuit of the boy in despair, returned panting to greet Sir Egerton, with profuse apologies for their failure and assurances of future zeal in tracking and punishing the culprit, but he cut them short somewhat curtly.

“That will do,” he said to the commissary. “Vera, were you frightened? Shall we give up the drive?”

“Oh no,” said Lady Stratford bravely, although her pale face was a shade paler than usual. “I shall not be frightened when you are here—and besides, I don’t want to disappoint mamma.”

“Mikhailoslav,” said Sir Egerton to the footman, who touched his hat and climbed to his place, and the carriage drove off. The streets were full of people, gathered in groups in front of the newspaper offices, the Legislative Chamber, and the houses of the Ministers, all discussing the political situation. An interesting episode was the apparition of M. Stefanovics in one of the Court carriages, proceeding, with a face of solemnity that would have befitted a European crisis, to the house of one of the seceding Ministers on an errand from the Queen. Every one turned to stare at him, and the British representative passed without much notice, although he himself did not fail to observe that public opinion, judging from the scraps of conversation he overheard, was extremely hostile to Cyril and his colleagues, and that there were crowds in the churches, in which special services were being held to pray for the triumph of M. Drakovics and Bishop Philaret, and the humiliation of the foreigners who sought to trample on the Orthodox Church.

The gate was passed without difficulty, and after a long country drive the carriage reached the village of Mikhailoslav. Here Sir Egerton and his wife descended to visit the pottery works, sending the footman back along the way they had come with some message. It had been noticed by the crowd outside Cyril’s house that shortly after the departure of the British Minister a horse was brought round to the door, and M. Paschics came out and rode away for a constitutional, while during the next two hours anxious inquirers were received by the doctor, who explained that he had insisted on the secretary’s obtaining some fresh air and exercise, lest his health should break down under the strain of his devoted attendance upon his Excellency.

About an hour later, the train which left Bellaviste every day for Vienna was boarded at a country station by a handsome Polish gentleman, with blue eyes and black hair and a beautifully waxed dark moustache. It was evident that he had lately been engaged in a duel, for his left arm was in a sling, and he was escorted to the train by an elderly man, apparently his second, who did not leave him until he had adjured him to see a good surgeon as soon as he reached his destination, and also entreated the rest of the passengers not to allow him to do anything imprudent. During the long journey the Pole made himself a universal favourite. He seemed able to speak all the languages represented on the train, with the single exception of Magyar, and he was full of good stories. The slight reticence which he showed respecting his late adventure was only natural under the circumstances, and was resented by no one, and when he was left with his bag on the platform of a small station not far from Vienna, on his way to visit an Austrian friend, it was with lively regret that his fellow-passengers looked back at him as the train moved on, and saw him standing bare-headed and bowing to them with inimitable grace.

It could only have been about an hour and a half later that a rubicund, wiry-looking Englishman, whose hair and whiskers were of a reddish sandy tint, and who wore a loud check tourist suit of original and surpassing hideousness, appeared at the inn of another village not far from the station at which the Polish gentleman had got out, but not connected with the railway. His arm was in an extemporised sling, and he was carrying a knapsack with some difficulty. It seemed that he had been on a walking tour, and had received an injury to his arm when trying to separate two men who had drawn their knives in a drunken brawl at his inn the night before, which had led him to determine to drive the remainder of the way to Vienna. A carriage was soon forthcoming, and after a meal at the inn, he proceeded on his journey to the capital, where he took up his quarters at one of the leading hotels, produced a passport, in perfect order, made out in the name of Ivory White, Esq., of Lowburn, Homeshire, England, and allowed it to become evident that he had plenty of money, although he did not care to lavish any of it on Vienna tailors. As soon as the formalities requisite before he could be considered a bonâ fide traveller in the Austrian understanding of the term were completed, he asked the porter for the address of the Chevalier Goldberg, whom he mentioned that he had met in England, and without seeing whom he refused even to pass through Vienna. The porter smiled incredulously as he marched off in the direction indicated, observing the manners and customs of the natives with the dispassionate criticism of an intelligent Briton in foreign parts, and quite unconscious of the amused or shocked glances levelled at his knickerbockers, his Norfolk jacket, his cap, and his gaiters.

“They are all mad, these English!” said the hotel autocrat meditatively; “but a madman’s money is as good as any one else’s, nicht wahr?”

Arrived at the appartement of the Chevalier Goldberg, which was situated on the second floor of a palatial building largely inhabited by co-religionists of the owner, Mr White found that it was by no means such an easy matter as he had considered it to obtain an interview with the millionaire. It was evident that the plea of friendship was too common to admit an unaccredited stranger to the presence of the great financier, and it was only by dint of a stolid refusal to leave without seeing him that the Englishman succeeded in meeting even the Chevalier’s secretary, an accomplished Hebrew, who lavished all the resources of eloquence and mendacity on the task of getting him to go away, but in vain.

“Take him my card, and see what he says. If he prefers not to see me, of course I shall not force myself upon him; but I am convinced he would never forgive me if he knew that I had been in Vienna and not paid him a visit,” was Mr White’s ultimatum.

“But the honourable gentleman has given me a blank card!”

“Of course I have. That’s my little joke—my name is White, don’t you see? The Chevalier will know it at once. Sir Raphael Meldola and he have had many a laugh over it with me in the smoking-room.”

With a sour smile at the Englishman’s childishness, the secretary carried off the card, and informed his employer that there was a madman in the anteroom who insisted on sending in a blank card. Would it not be advisable to send for the police, without irritating the lunatic or allowing him to suspect anything? But the Chevalier Goldberg astonished him by taking the card from his hand and scrutinising it carefully, even lighting a match and holding it close to it. Then, apparently satisfied, he allowed the card to catch fire, and held it in his fingers until it was almost consumed.

“Bring Mr White in,” he said. “He is my very good friend.”

Deeply disgusted, the secretary obeyed, hearing the visitor’s hearty English accents as he closed the door of the great man’s sanctum upon him.

“Well, Chevalier, and how are you? I couldn’t bring myself to pass through Vienna without looking you up. All right, eh?”

“Leafe my secretary out off account for de moment, and pity my curiosity,” said the financier, lowering his voice. “How iss it det you turn up at Vienna in goot health when we hear from de papers you are in a dyink state at Bellaviste? Are we to imachine it a miracle, or iss it only a ruse de guerre?”

“The latter, I fear.”

“Den you are enxious for secrecy, off course? Come into my cabinet here. Now it iss impossible for us to be oferheart. It iss a metter off money, neturally?”

“It is, like most of the matters that are brought to your notice, no doubt. You have not forgotten the last time I paid you a visit?”

“I hef not, my frient. It cost me too much,” and the Chevalier laughed encouragingly. “But you are always welcome, ess I told you at det time.”

“My errand then was connected with the marriage of my sovereign. You had been good enough to intimate that you were willing to pay the debts which King Otto Georg had contracted before being called to the throne, and which, while he could not well ask the country to discharge them, hampered him in his negotiations with the Court of Weldart. It fell to me to bring you the schedule of the various amounts, and otherwise to arrange the matter with you, and you were so kind as to express approval of my methods.”

“So!” observed the Chevalier assentingly. “I said det if you hed defoted yourself to de high finence instead off politics, you would be wordy to belonk to de Nation.”

“I know. I have never forgotten the compliment, for it struck me as overpoweringly flattering, coming from you. Now I want to ask a rather impertinent question. Do you mind telling me your reason for paying Otto Georg’s debts?”

“My reasson?” the Chevalier raised his eyebrows and looked at his visitor with a whimsical smile. “Perheps I wished to preserfe de belance of power in de Balkans—Thracia wass anti-Scythian den, you know—or perheps to place de house off Schwarzwald-Molzau under an obligation to me. Or perheps I wass concerned only in throwink away my money—in makink sure det so many hundret thousand florins at least should not return to me doubled. But why do you ask?”

“Because I am interested in knowing whether your kindness for Otto Georg extends to his widow and child.”

“Aha! and it iss a metter off money? Dere are oder debts newly come to light, and de persons concerned threaten an exposure, and I am to pay down my goot florins in order det de wife and child may nefer know how naughty de fader and husbant wass? But dis iss to atteck morelity, dear Count.”

“No, Chevalier, you are a good deal out. It is a much bigger thing this time—more in my line of business, you will say, than yours.”

“It iss political, den? My frient, I hef always said det Thracia wass too small to hold you. Gif me an outline off your plot. You are aimink to seize Czarigrad, and drife de Roumis out off Europe, det you may set your younk master on de throne off de Cæsars?”

“Wrong again, Chevalier. My plot is not quite so large as that. This is the situation at present,” and Cyril went on to describe the state of affairs in Thracia in much the same terms as he had used to the Queen three days or so before, his host listening intently, and putting in a shrewd inquiry now and then.

“I see,” he said at last; “you wish me to finence dis mofement? I am to profide de millions det must be forthcomink if de refolution iss to succeed?”

“No,” said Cyril, “I don’t want you to throw away your money this time. What I need is a loan, not a gift.”

“A loan? But a loan iss a metter off business, not off friendship. Wid loans one must hef security, formelities off all kinds. What security do you offer?”

“My word.”

“Ah, but det iss not sufficient. You are not an Enklishman now, my dear Count, you are too clefer. By de way, you did not arranche beforehent for your attempted assessination, did you, when you thought it adfisable to take dis little trip to Vienna widout attrectink attention?”

“No, I didn’t. I am really sorry, Chevalier, for it would have rounded off the whole thing beautifully. The affair was a pure coincidence, for the idea had not occurred to me.”

“And you would hef left such a plen dependent on coincidence?” said the Chevalier reproachfully. “Det shows a leck of experience such ess I should not hef expected in you, my dear frient. But you see det your wort iss not sufficient security for a loan, dough de money iss at your serfice ess a gift.”

“Well, let us call it a gift to be returned without interest in three months,” said Cyril. “I can’t consent to anything else, Chevalier. Thracia would be demoralised if such a river of gold was set flowing without the need of repayment. At any rate, I am not proposing to double your money for you in this case. You will sacrifice the three months’ interest on the sum.”

“Det iss true. But why do you offer me no prifileches, no concessions, in return for dis secrifice?”

“Because you are the only man in Europe who is not on the look-out for such things. Whatever you were when your money was in making, Chevalier, you are now a pure philanthropist—a universal provider for needy royal families—and in order to fall in with this taste of yours, I have forborne until this moment, when your mind is made up, to remind you that my colleagues and I are all strongly opposed to the anti-Semitic movement, and that the Queen is most anxious to improve the condition of your co-religionists.”

“And you take it for granted det I will gif you dese millions in return for a few fafours shown to de Thracian Chews!” cried the Chevalier, with hands uplifted in admiration. “Well, tell me, my frient, how shell de money be paid?”

“Have you an agent within reach who is thoroughly to be trusted, and yet is not known to be in your employment? If you have, he had better return to Thracia with me. He might travel as a Vienna surgeon called in for consultation, and I as his assistant, and he would naturally take up his quarters at my house, remaining there until I have seen Mirkovics and the rest, and ascertained whether they will agree to my terms. If we succeed, I intend you to get your money back, Chevalier, whatever happens to me; if we fail, I fear you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have really chucked your florins into the mud.”

“You will not fail; but do not think I want de money beck. Det iss de worst off it for me. Well, I will send Stockbaum wid you; he iss de men you need. You will introduce him to your frients?”

“As the agent of a syndicate from whom I am obtaining the money, I think. One must explain things a little, and yet not outrage your modesty by letting the whole truth come out, Chevalier. I can arrange with him the details as to the payment of the money into my account as well, for we must not arouse suspicion by making any undue display of bullion.”

“You are right. See here. Stockbaum telegrephs me one wort, and immediately I esteblish in Frankfort de office off dis syndicate. I arranche wid my achents to do business wid dem, and so your drafts are honoured in Bellaviste. Do not fear; de syndicate shell hef an abundant credit.”

“You are a born plotter, Chevalier. That idea of the Frankfort office is a master-stroke. But I fear you will have the other Balkan states trying to do business with you—or even Drakovics, if he gets an inkling as to the source of our wealth. He will want to turn us out, of course.”

“When you are once esteblished in power his prospects will not be goot enough to raise money upon,” was the dry answer. “And so you are to be Premier, Count? You are not afraid off what de worlt will say?”

“Scarcely, I think. What will be said?”

“Dey will say you are de Queen’s lofer.”

“I have no doubt that they would say I was secretly married to her if they thought that would damage either of us more; but it would not be true.”

“Ah, you will not let yourself be drawn efen by your frient! You are de right men, Count. When we go beck to Pelestine—you know det I am to be de paymaster off de migration, because I do not mind throwink my money away—you shell come wid me and be my vakil, ess dey call it dere. You and I, we will bemboozle de worlt. We will buy de Land”—the Chevalier pronounced it “Lent”—“from de Roumis, and cheat dem out off de purchase-money!”

“If I am not otherwise employed at the time, I shall be happy to take a hand in your nefarious schemes, Chevalier,” said Cyril, laughing, as he rose to depart.

“Now see,” said his host, “to-night you take a goot night’s sleep, and in de mornink—no, det iss too early; in de afternoon—I come for you. In de kerrich you chanche yourself from Mr White into de doctor’s assistant, and I drop you at de railway station, where you find Stockbaum. Den you go beck to Thracia.”

In pursuance of this plan, two men of medicine left Vienna by the Bellaviste train on the following day. The elder belonged indubitably to the Hebrew persuasion; the younger wore his hair somewhat long, and displayed spectacles and a short brown beard. They reached Bellaviste when the dusk had fallen, exactly three days after Sir Egerton and Lady Stratford had driven out to Mikhailoslav, were welcomed at the station by Paschics, and accommodated for the night at Cyril’s house. The next morning it was announced that the Vienna doctor gave such a cheering account of the invalid’s condition that he might be allowed to see his friends, and within an hour of the publication of the bulletin, the other dissentient Ministers had assembled at the house, and an informal council was held. Cyril, propped up with cushions in an arm-chair, with the injured arm in a sling, looked quite sufficiently ill to justify the alarmist rumours of the last few days, although it was the fatigue of his journeys, rather than the pain of his wound, which he had scarcely felt after the first moment of its infliction owing to his mental excitement, that ailed him at present. Paschics was placed on guard outside the door, and after the room had been carefully searched for concealed spies, Prince Mirkovics opened the proceedings by informing Cyril that the Queen’s attempts at mediation had failed. Nothing less than the abject submission of his recalcitrant colleagues would satisfy M. Drakovics, and negotiations had therefore been broken off.

“Very well,” said Cyril, “then I suppose we shall go to the Palace to present our resignations to-morrow. My doctor will not allow me out to-day. Have you any idea, Prince, what is to happen next?”

“I presume that Drakovics will reconstruct the Cabinet, and request her Majesty’s assent to Philaret’s nomination. She will refuse, and he will resign.”

“I wish we could be sure he would. It will be his aim to make her dismiss him, so that he may have a cry with which to go to the country. We must contrive to force his hand in some way, so that the onus of his resignation may fall on him and not on her. But we can talk of this later. Let us imagine Drakovics out of the way, and the stage clear. You will take the responsibility of forming a Cabinet, I suppose, Prince?”

“I?” cried Prince Mirkovics, much perturbed. “I have never thought of such a thing, Count. I am not a statesman. I can only govern my district and vote with my leader. How should I face the diplomacy of Europe, to say nothing of the opposition of Drakovics at home? You are our leader. When we asked you to head our revolt, did you think that we intended to rob you of the honour of victory? We are all prepared to serve under you.”

“We should most certainly have declined to join in the revolt against Drakovics under any other conditions,” said Georgeivics, the War Minister, and the assertion was corroborated by the rest. Cyril bowed to them collectively.

“I won’t express my sense of the honour you have done me just yet,” he said, “for I also have a condition to make before I accept the position.” The faces round the table lengthened perceptibly. “You are all aware that our taking office without any money at our disposal would be a mere farce?”

“It would be a protest,” said Prince Mirkovics; “and we may hope that it will be the first step in breaking down the tyranny of Drakovics.”

“Yes; but it would simply mean our retirement from public life if it failed—and it is bound to fail if we dissolve the Legislature and proceed to fight an election without money. No, I have a proposal to lay before you, gentlemen. A personal friend of my own—who was also a friend of our late sovereign—has promised to advance me the funds necessary to carry on the Government until we can vote our own Estimates. He asks no interest—the transaction is a personal favour to me—but I cannot accept his offer unless I have your promise that in case anything happens to me—for life is uncertain here at election time—you will see the sum that has been advanced duly paid into my account, so that it can be restored to him. For that, of course, I shall leave directions.”

The rest turned and consulted together for some little time, then Prince Mirkovics said hesitatingly—

“Count, we are not in the least impugning your honour; but we feel that we must in our own defence have a satisfactory answer to this question. Does your friend expect no consideration—in the way of concessions or of political power—in return for the inestimable advantage he offers us?”

“None,” returned Cyril. “He is not a politician, nor is he a company promoter. He is an amiable enthusiast, with a foolish belief in myself and in the future of Thracia. By the way, the agent of the syndicate through which he proposes to act—Outis, Niemand, & Other, of Frankfort—is in the house, disguised as a Vienna doctor. If you like, we will have him in.”

The suggestion was gladly accepted, and Herr Stockbaum was introduced and duly catechised. His employers, he said, were a cosmopolitan firm of bankers—Messrs Agathangelos Outis, Theodor Niemand, & A. N. Other, for Cyril had been unable to resist employing the familiar cricketing tag for the edification of his friends—and they had been authorised to place the sum named at the disposal of Count Mortimer. Questioned as to the person from whom they had received their instructions, he professed himself unable to reply, observing cynically that it was evidently some one who liked to fling away his money. As to the fear that some return might be expected, he pointed out that this could be obviated by Cyril’s holding with the Premiership the post of Foreign Secretary, instead of that of Finance Minister, which M. Drakovics had always kept in his own hands. The proposal commended itself to the meeting as much as it did to Cyril, who had originated it in private, and the Ministers dispersed in a very cheerful frame of mind.

“Stay and lunch with me, Prince,” said Cyril to Prince Mirkovics. “I can’t invite every one, or my doctor will interfere; but there are a few things to settle still. By the bye, Georgeivics, are the troops ready for action? If Drakovics should take it into his head to spring his resignation and a riot upon us simultaneously, we should be in a tight place, especially since the police will be on his side.”

“They are ready,” responded the War Minister. “Constantinovics is in charge of that portion of our programme. The excited state of the town during the last few days has furnished a pretext for keeping the Carlino Regiment to barracks, and they could be under arms in a few minutes. They would patrol the streets until the arrival of reinforcements from Feodoratz.”

CHAPTER XXI.
PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE.

“The more I think of the state of affairs,” said Cyril to Prince Mirkovics, when they were alone, “the more I am convinced that we must hurry things on. If possible, we must see that Drakovics resigns, and has not to be dismissed; but that is not so important as the necessity of preventing his bringing on a constitutional crisis. His aim will be to get up a strife between the Crown and the Legislature, which might end in her Majesty’s being deprived of the regency, and every day that passes adds to his power for mischief.”

“But how would you propose to force his hand, as you said just now?”

“We must bring things to a head as soon as possible—have no more haggling negotiations. Whether Drakovics resigns or is dismissed, he must go quickly, or he will oust the Queen—not to speak of ourselves. In some informal and unofficial way it must be brought to his knowledge that the Queen will refuse her assent to Philaret’s nomination. Of course he guesses that she will; but I hope that the thought that the matter was arranged with us would sting him to action. It will probably have to be done by means of an indiscretion.”

“An indiscretion, Count? On whose part?”

“Yes, a calculated indiscretion. The difficulty is to decide who shall commit it, since of course it would entail removal from public life—at all events for a time—or from the Court, according to the individual concerned, and that is rather a large order. One can scarcely ask such a sacrifice from any one. But let us leave the matter for the present; I will think it over. Luncheon is ready, I see. You may have noticed that I have a new footman? My servants were complaining of the extra work caused by my illness and the consequent troops of visitors, and therefore I imported this fellow in a hurry.”

But although Cyril had suggested leaving the consideration of politics for the present, it seemed that he was unable to dismiss the subject from his mind; for almost before he had been supplied with the invalid fare prescribed for him, he glanced across the table at Prince Mirkovics.

“I suppose there is no doubt that her Majesty will refuse her assent to the nomination of Philaret?” he said.

“None whatever. Stefanovics gave me the assurance in the plainest terms.”

“It is possible that he exceeded his instructions.”

“On the contrary, he repeated to me her Majesty’s words at her own desire. Nothing could be more definite than the statement of her determination. But, my dear Count”—as the servant left the room for an instant—“are we wise in speaking so freely before this new footman of yours? He may understand French.”

“Impossible,” returned Cyril carelessly. “He told me so himself; and he had no motive for concealing the truth, since his wages would have been higher if he had been able to speak a foreign tongue. In a polyglot household like mine, the man who knows most languages is the most useful. We have no reason to be afraid of him. But, by the bye”—the footman had now returned into the room—“do you think that her Majesty will have the courage to provoke a conflict with Drakovics. It will need a good deal of pluck.”

“She will not shrink from it,” was the emphatic reply. “She has gained remarkably in force of character of late, and her behaviour during this crisis has extorted universal admiration. She may not become more popular on account of her courage and tact, but she will be more respected. No; she will not fail us.”

“Ah, it is well to be assured of that,” said Cyril, and he changed the subject deftly. It was not until the footman had once more left them alone that he leaned back in his chair and remarked with a smile, “Well, my dear Prince, our business is done, and that without any complications or outside help.”

“To what are you alluding, Count?”

“To the necessity for allowing Drakovics to become aware of her Majesty’s attitude. That new man of mine is one of his spies—sent here to learn our plans. He has not discovered very much of them; but I hope he has heard enough about the Queen to bring about the explosion we want.”

“Then it is I who have committed the indiscretion?”

“Do not be so hasty, Prince. There is no indiscretion at all. You don’t imagine I would have allowed you to say anything important?”

“But surely I might expect to have been informed beforehand——?”

“Not at all. You are not a good actor, Prince, and it would have been evident that you were playing a part. Now you have spoken with the most complete good faith, and Drakovics will ask no more.”

“But suppose that he will not resign, even now?”

“Then I shall be compelled to advise her Majesty to end the deadlock by herself nominating either Bishop Socrates or your brother to the vacant see, on the ground of the Premier’s long delay. The crisis must come then.”

“You are playing a desperate game, Count.”

“Quite so, Prince. We are in a desperate position.”

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Late in the afternoon the Vienna doctor left Cyril’s house to return home, just after the police on guard had been relieved. His assistant, so they gathered from the doctor’s words to Paschics at the door, had gone on first to the station in order to make arrangements for the journey. A second reassuring bulletin as to the condition of the patient appeared in the one evening paper of which Bellaviste boasted, and it became generally known that the retiring Ministers would resign their portfolios on the following day.

The ceremony at the Palace in the morning was a brief and formal one. The Queen, who looked pale and grave, uttered the stereotyped words of regret and farewell that the occasion demanded, and when the public audience was over, requested Cyril to remain behind in order to explain to her the system on which he had been accustomed to manage the household details which came into his province. Going to his office to fetch his books, he returned to find her in the room in which she had held her first interview with him as Regent, with Anna Mirkovics on guard in the anteroom. Ernestine was walking up and down impatiently when he entered, but turning as he closed the door, ran to meet him.

“Put those down!” she said imperiously, taking the books from his hand, and throwing them on the table. “I am not in the least interested in them; I want you. Oh, Cyril, you must not let yourself be kept out of office long. I could not endure it. How I have lived through these four days without once seeing you I cannot tell.”

“But I warned you beforehand,” said Cyril.

“Not that it would be so long, and besides—— Oh, I know I disobeyed you, Cyril; but I was really frightened when I heard what Dr Danilovics said. I made Baroness von Hilfenstein go and question M. Paschics, and happily he was able to assure her that he thought the doctor was taking too gloomy a view of your case. That satisfied me, for I knew he could not say more, as she is not in our secret. But if it had been true what they said, nothing should have kept me from you. I would have come and nursed you; I would have refused to let you die. The world might know the truth, and welcome! I am not ashamed of loving you.”

“Sometimes I almost wish you were,” said Cyril, looking into her earnest face. “I don’t want to scold you, Ernestine; but you might have ruined us both——”

“But I did not, after all, so you must forgive me. And I am keeping you standing while I talk! Sit down here—yes, in my chair—and let me put this footstool for you. Yes, I will wait upon you—I love to do it. Dear Cyril, won’t you say that you are pleased to see me again?”

“Is there any use in saying what your Majesty knows already?”

“I should like to hear it from your own lips. You have found the days a little long, haven’t you?”

“Very,” responded Cyril, with perfect truth. “They seem to have had a lifetime crammed into them.”

Ernestine looked perplexed. “I should have thought they would seem empty,” she said hesitatingly.

“A lifetime of misery, dearest, of course. You cannot imagine how fast the brain works under such circumstances.”

“I believe you are trying to tease me,” she said, detecting in his tone something that, if not exactly false, was assumed; but as she bent forward to look into his face, the raised voice of Anna Mirkovics struck on their ears from the anteroom.

“Monsieur, I tell you that her Majesty is engaged in going through the household books with his Ex——with Count Mortimer. I cannot imagine that she will receive your Excellency at present.”

“Perhaps you will have the goodness to inquire her Majesty’s wishes on that point, mademoiselle,” replied the voice of M. Drakovics. “My business is of the gravest importance.”

“I hope your Excellency will excuse me to her Majesty for disturbing her in this way,” was the reply, given in the same distinct tones, as the maid of honour approached the door of the inner room, and knocked as loudly as she dared without arousing the suspicions of the intruder. But her precautions had not been in vain. Cyril had grasped the situation at once, and risen from the Queen’s chair. “Sit here,” he said to Ernestine, and drew another chair to the table for himself. When M. Drakovics was ushered in, his former colleague was sitting surrounded by account-books, and looked up with mild surprise as he entered. The response was immediate. After the first glance at Cyril, the Premier seated himself, unbidden. Ernestine’s eyes flashed, but she took no notice of the solecism save by rising from her own seat, an example which Cyril followed instantly, leaving M. Drakovics no choice but to imitate him.

“You wished to see me, monsieur?” said the Queen.

“I was anxious to obtain the settlement of a very important point, madame, or I would not have ventured to interrupt your interview with Count Mortimer.”

“I am ready to give you my attention, monsieur; but I must ask you to be brief. The details of these accounts are somewhat intricate, and I am determined to understand them myself before they are handed over to Count Mortimer’s successor.”

“Nothing could be more praiseworthy than such a spirit, madame. I will not detain your Majesty longer than is necessary to attach your signature to this paper—the mandate authorising the Synod to proceed to the appointment of a Metropolitan.”

“But this is a matter that needs consideration, monsieur. I cannot consent to make the appointment hurriedly in the midst of other business. I should prefer to see you about it at another time.”

“There is no time like the present, madame.” The Premier’s tone was dogged, even menacing, and Ernestine’s colour rose.

“That is a matter for me to decide, monsieur. If you will be good enough to leave the paper, I will read it at my leisure, and give you my decision to-morrow.”

“Madame, I cannot consent to leave about important state papers for the eyes of persons unconnected with the Government. If your Majesty wishes to discuss the subject of the nomination, I have the honour to be your adviser—and not any person who has thought fit to dissociate himself from me.”

“I do not understand you, monsieur. I am not prepared to discuss the subject at this moment, and I do not intend to sign the paper without consideration. You may be sure that it shall not leave my possession.”

“If you wish for plain speaking, madame, you shall have it. I decline to leave the document for the inspection of Count Mortimer, with the certainty that as soon as my back was turned he would advise your Majesty to act contrary to my recommendations.”

“Your language is very strange, monsieur. I thought you had just recognised the fact that Count Mortimer is no longer one of my advisers.”

“Then how comes it, madame, that you have entered into a conspiracy with him to defeat the measures I feel it my duty to bring forward? Do you imagine I am ignorant of the determination you have expressed to refuse your assent to this document, and thus force me to resign office? You may be a very clever woman, madame; but you have not yet succeeded in hoodwinking me.”

“What is the purpose of these remarks, M. Drakovics?” The question came sharply, as Ernestine looked at the Premier with icy disdain.

“To show your Majesty that I am not a man to be trifled with. This paper which I hold is of the nature of an ultimatum. If you sign it, I remain in office; if you refuse or temporise, I resign—and you take the consequences.”

“Thank you, I will take the consequences. Bonjour, feu M. le Ministre!”

The crisply spoken words came on M. Drakovics like a thunder-clap, and appeared literally to take away his breath. He glared round helplessly for a moment; then his eyes fell on Cyril, fingering his account-books unconcernedly, and he made a step towards him as though to seize him by the throat. Ernestine placed herself between them involuntarily, and by the movement drew down his wrath on herself.

“You will take the consequences? Ha, ha! do you know who I am and who you are, madame? You owe your crown to me, as your husband did his. I fear you have forgotten the days before you came to Thracia. Do you realise that I brought you from a German principality about as large as your palace garden here, from a Court which was the scandal of Europe—that I seated you on the Thracian throne—do you realise this, I say?”

“I had imagined that it was the King who did all that,” said Ernestine coldly, as he broke off, foaming with rage; but the warning tone in her voice only served to excite him afresh.

“I made you, and I will break you!” he cried furiously. “I might have done it before. Perhaps you did not guess that it was I who persuaded your husband to patience when he was goaded into wishing to seek a separation on account of your conduct towards him? That is new to you, is it? It was not for your sake I did it—it was for the sake of Thracia, that no slander might touch my country’s royal house. But it might have been well if I had allowed my master to take the course he proposed. Then at least I should have been spared the knowledge that I had bestowed my charity upon a treacherous, heartless coquette”—this was not quite the word which M. Drakovics used—“scheming to place her lover on the throne from which she had successfully removed her husband.”

“Drakovics!” cried Cyril, springing forward, but Ernestine waved him back.

“This is my affair, Count. M. Drakovics, you may go; and never venture to present yourself in my presence again. Your services are dispensed with.” M. Drakovics hesitated, tried to speak, then recoiled, unable to face the eyes burning with indignation which seemed to pierce him through and through, and departed; while as he went he heard the Queen’s voice saying in very different tones, “And now, Count, let us return to our account-books!”

But the words were the last effort of which Ernestine was capable. Cyril, stepping forward to close the door behind the fallen Minister, returned to find her cowering in her chair, with her face turned away from him.

“My dearest,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder; but she shuddered and shrank from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “I can’t bear it. You heard what he called me, Cyril?” her voice rose almost to a shriek.

“He was really not responsible for his language at the moment, dear. And you faced him splendidly. You certainly had the best of it.”

“That he—or any one—should be able to say such a thing to me!” she wailed, not heeding his attempts at comfort. “I know that I behaved wrongly to my husband—that I was hard, cold, proud—but never in word or thought was I—and that other thing he said—Cyril. Cyril, say that you don’t believe it.”

“Believe it? My dearest, the man doesn’t believe it himself. He wouldn’t have said it if he had been in his right mind, but he wanted to hurt you, and he said the first thing that came into his head, though he knows that no human being would credit it for an instant. It would stamp him as mad if he ever uttered it to any one.”

“No, no; I don’t mean that, though I should die of shame if I thought that any one knew it had been said. It is that he said it to me, and that you heard it. Oh, you can’t understand; it hurts, it hurts! Say something to me; make me forget it, or I shall go mad.”

Little as she imagined it, Cyril understood her feelings perfectly. He knew that she was quivering in every fibre under the insults hurled at her, knew how much the agony was increased by his own presence when they were uttered; and his own heart, which did not often interfere with his policy, supplied an additional sting, which Ernestine would not have inflicted even had it occurred to her mind—she owed it to herself that it was in the power of M. Drakovics to torment her in this way. For the moment, as he stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder, the thought was in his mind that, come what might, he would save her from further torture of the sort. He would cast away duties and prospects and high hopes and marry her at once, and face the world at her side, let that world say what it would about his motives. But the impulse was only momentary. Give up everything when his hand was even now grasping the prize, leave the field again to Drakovics when the day was his own at last, and for the sake of a woman? No, a thousand times no; although she was the woman he loved, and who loved him. After all, one must risk one’s queen in the game as well as one’s pawns.

“My darling,” he said gently, in response to her passionate outburst, for he could well afford to lavish upon her the small coin of kindness when the treasure of his ambition was untouched, “you are making me very unhappy by talking in this wild way. Can you imagine for an instant that I could remember a thing you wished forgotten? I will forget it completely if you will only banish it from your own mind, so that I may not be reminded of it by the look on your face. After all, it was aimed at me as much as you. Consider that it was addressed altogether to me, and help me to forget it. It hurt me far more than it did you.”

“Oh no, it could not do that,” sobbed Ernestine, but she allowed him to raise her head from the arm of the chair and lay it on his shoulder, and her tears became less bitter as he soothed and kissed her. Let no one under-estimate Cyril’s chivalry and self-control at this moment. He was wasting precious time in comforting her—time on which his political future might depend. There were a hundred things to do if he consulted his own interests, but he recognised that she possessed a claim upon him, and not a word or movement showed that he was putting strong constraint upon himself in remaining with her. To reward his patience, it was Ernestine herself who opened the way for the discussion of mundane matters.

“What have you done to your moustache?” she asked curiously, when she had dried her eyes, and could look at him again. “It seems to be a different shape, and surely the colour has changed?”

“I didn’t know you were such a keen observer,” said Cyril, taking off the false moustache he had worn since returning from his journey to Vienna, for he had been compelled to sacrifice his own to the efficiency of his various disguises. “You must put down the change to my illness—or to political exigencies if you like—but no one else must know, or we may have disastrous revelations. Shall I let it grow again, or not?”

“Of course. I don’t like you without it. It makes you look cruel, Cyril. But don’t let us talk of politics. I hate the word.”

“I am sorry to hear that, dear, for I am afraid that unless we can get through a little political business our lately departed friend may steal a march on us. I won’t mention him more than I can help,” as a shudder ran through her, “but if we are to make this escapade his last, we must strike while the iron is hot.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Ernestine, helplessly.

“I suppose we are to take it for granted that Drakovics will not be regarded as a possible Minister of the Crown in future?”

“Can you insult me by imagining that after what has passed I would ever receive him again as an adviser?”

“I did not imagine it for an instant, but your assurance was necessary. With your permission I will give directions for the issue of a special Gazette, setting forth that the Premier has resigned office on account of failing health.”

“Resigned? Failing health? I dismissed him—and in your presence—because he had grossly insulted me. What can you mean?”

“My dear Ernestine, the man was obviously out of his mind. He must have the benefit of the fact, and so must we.”

“I don’t understand, but he is not to be allowed to escape punishment.”

“Quite so. His punishment will be the most severe you can inflict—dismissal. It will not make it the less bitter for him if we call it compulsory resignation, but it will smooth the way for us. If we do not stop his mouth, he will raise the country against us to-morrow.”

“But I don’t see how your special Gazette will stop his mouth.”

“There is something else to be done as well. If you will allow me, I will send Stefanovics to him at once, with a message which must be delivered either to him or to his nephew, and only to them. If he will resign office promptly and without any fuss, on the ground of his health, you will overlook his conduct of to-day in consideration of his past services to Thracia, and permit him to retain the honours which have been conferred upon him, although he must remain at a distance from the Court. Moreover, we will give him a suitable pension, and find some permanent post under Government for Vassili. If he refuses, he will lose everything, and we shall take legal proceedings against him, of course in camerâ, for insulting the Crown.”

“He will prefer to appeal to the people,” said Ernestine decisively.

“I think not. In the old days he would have done it like a shot, and most effectively—the patriot Minister cast off in his old age by the ungrateful family he had raised to power, stripped of his well-earned honours, and persecuted revengefully by those whose unprincipled conduct he had sought to restrain. But he is not what he was, and I believe his outburst just now showed that he knew the game was played out. He has lost his nerve, he is in bad odour with the Powers—and he is afraid of me, while it is obvious that you and he can never work together again.”

“But it is not fair! You wish to allow him to escape altogether.”

“Not at all, pardon me. He has fallen; but I do not wish him to drag us down with him.”

“Oh, do what you like,” said Ernestine pettishly. “Make your own arrangements. It seems to me that whatever happens, I have always the worst of it. I should have thought——” tears choked her voice.

“If your Majesty will excuse me,”—Cyril’s tone was severely businesslike, and he ignored the tears altogether,—“I will proceed to take the steps I have mentioned, and also to communicate them to my colleagues. You will not require my presence again to-day, perhaps?”

“Yes, I shall,” was the angry reply. “You are to come back as soon as you have sent your messages. I could not be so cruel as to detain you longer now.”

Cyril made no answer, and departed with an absolutely unmoved face. When he returned, after despatching his business, he observed that Ernestine had evidently improved the interval by what an Englishwoman would have called “having a good cry.” She was calm again now, but in a frame of mind which could only be described as injured, and Cyril braced himself for a tussle.

“You wished to see me, madame?” he remarked.

“Sit down,” she said imperiously. “I don’t want you to be ill again, in spite of your unkindness to me.” She paused for a reply; but as Cyril only bowed in acknowledgment of the favour, she found it impossible to remain silent. “I am quite convinced,” she went on, “that you care far more for politics than you do for me. If I died to-day, I believe your first thought would be how to get yourself made regent to-morrow.”

Still no answer, and she became desperate.

“If it is not true, at least you might say so. You don’t—you can’t mean me to understand that you have only made—made use of me as a step to your own advancement—that you have never cared for me at all?”

“That is enough, Ernestine,” said Cyril bitterly, rising from his seat. “It is indeed generous and noble in you to taunt me with the difference in our positions. I thought that you believed me disinterested, if no more; but I see that I was mistaken. I will make no attempt to defend myself—how can I? It is quite true that at your entreaty I broke with Drakovics, and resigned office. This has led, as it happens, to the prospect of higher office, and therefore it is clear that I acted with that in view. I will not deny it; I will only say that I did not expect to find my action cast in my teeth by the woman for whose sake it was taken.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, frightened.

“I am going to see Mirkovics, and hand the Premiership over to him. Then I shall leave Thracia as soon as possible. I promise you that you shall not be offended by the sight of me longer than I can help.”

“Cyril!” She came flying after him, and fairly dragged him from the door. “You are not to go—you shall not. Forgive me. I was so miserable I scarcely knew what I was saying. I am a wicked, ungrateful woman. What can I do to show you how sorry I am? Oh, you are not going to leave me?”

“You have said too much,” returned Cyril resolutely, unclasping her hands from his arm. “I am afraid we have been mistaken in each other, Ernestine; but what I can do to mend matters shall be done.”

“If that means that you will leave Thracia, it shall not be done,” she retorted. “I forbid you to go. You belong to me, and I will not give you up. Dear, you have not forgotten that journey of ours? You know how unreasonable and angry I was so often then, and yet you found out afterwards that I loved you even when I was most cross. Won’t you believe it now?”

“Believe it or not, I cannot stand such accusations as you are bringing against me. My meekness is not equal to the strain.”

“I am glad it isn’t. I could not have been proud of you if it was. It was despicable of me to say what I did, Cyril. I can’t expect you to forgive it, I know. Only stay here, for I cannot do without you, and then you will forgive me in time, for you will not be able to endure seeing me so miserable. Promise me, dear, promise me—just that you will stay.”

“If you are content that I should remain here without forgiving you——”

“But I am not. I shall be perfectly miserable until you do. Ah, you do forgive me. You know that it is only because I love you so much that I cannot bear anything to come between us. I am jealous of politics, Cyril; I am afraid they may separate us from one another. I know it is wrong and foolish; but it is because I love you. You will forgive me? I will try to conquer the feeling, and I will never, never say again what I did just now. Like M. Drakovics, I was mad for the moment.”

“I don’t want to seem hard on you, Ernestine—on my honour I don’t—but you make it very difficult for me to stay here. I can never feel sure that you will not take offence at some necessary move of mine and do something that will shatter my plans and make a fool of me in the face of Europe. You see what I mean?”

“Cyril, you don’t think that I would let any one else see that I was displeased with you? My dearest, I would uphold you to the world if we were in the midst of a quarrel. Only try me; and see if anything would make me forsake you. Do you know that I had a letter from my mother this morning, scolding me for having taken you back to your house in my carriage when you were wounded—just as Baroness von Hilfenstein scolded me when she heard of it? How delighted I should have been to be able to tell them the truth! But since you will not allow that, I have written to tell my mother that I should despise myself if I had neglected to do such a small service to a man who had been attacked solely on account of his faithfulness to Michael and to me.”

“You quixotic little person! Don’t defy the proprieties too boldly, or we shall have a commission of inquiry consisting of your mother and aunts coming here to investigate matters, which might lead to alarming discoveries.”

“I should not mind. You cannot say that I should forfeit the regency if it became known that I was engaged to you.”

“No; but my remaining here would be very strongly felt to be an impropriety, and besides, dear, you don’t seem to see that we—or at any rate I—have more in view than simply being able to marry at the end of eleven years or so without damage to Michael and his kingdom.”

“Why, what is that?” she asked, surprised.

“I want our marriage to be recognised. If your cousin Sigismund—who is very strong on these matters—chose to regard it as morganatic, all Europe would go with him.”

Ernestine’s eyes blazed. “Let it!” she said; “I don’t care. You and I know what we mean to do, and when we are married we will go to England and live in a cottage, and be simply Mr and Mrs Mortimer. There are no morganatic marriages there, are there?”

“You would at least be Lady Cyril Mortimer, so there is no need to contemplate quite such a descent,” said Cyril, disregarding the question. “But I think you must see that it would be more satisfactory to me if the marriage was recognised.”

“I would not have you degrade yourself by appealing to Sigismund for any favour—or even any right—whatever.”

“There is no question of appealing to any one. My aim will simply be to establish myself in such a position that either Sigismund or the Emperor of Pannonia will have no difficulty in recognising our marriage—or might even be glad to do it.”

“But how would you do that? Have you any plan?”

“I have some sort of an idea.”

“Cyril, you are wonderful! I will never grumble at your devotion to politics again, since I know what is involved. Oh, there is Michael!” as youthful footsteps crossed the anteroom at a run, and the handle of the door was violently agitated. “He will want me to tell him a story now that his lessons are over. Say good morning nicely to Count Mortimer, my little son. Then I will not detain you longer, Count.”

“Poor dear little woman!” was Cyril’s thought as he left her. “She is so easily managed that it seems almost a shame to try it on with her. But it was really necessary to make that no more scenes of jealousy should occur at inconvenient times.”

He went back to his house, passing on the way Sir Egerton Stratford, who was taking an afternoon ride. It gave Cyril intense pleasure to respond to the startled and almost mechanical salutation of the British Minister, and he anticipated with glee the explanation which could not be long delayed. But he had no time to call at the Legation at present, and there was a good deal of business to be arranged immediately with Prince Mirkovics and the rest of his colleagues, in view of the important political changes to be announced on the morrow. When he had got rid of them he returned to the Palace, where he had a long interview with Stefanovics in his office, after which he prepared to go home, thinking that he had accomplished a pretty fair day’s work for an invalid. But his time for rest had not yet arrived, for just as he was on the point of locking his desk for the night, Baroness von Hilfenstein entered the room, to his great astonishment.

“What can I do for you, Baroness?” he asked. “Pray sit down.”

The old lady complied, but seemed to have some difficulty in declaring the object of her visit. At last she spoke in a kind of gasp.

“Count, I have been making up my mind for some days—since I saw how political events were tending, indeed—to seek this interview with you, but I have found no opportunity hitherto. At last, fearing that I should be too late, I asked her Majesty’s permission not to appear this evening, pleading a headache, and thus succeeded in finding you alone. May I ask if it is settled that you take office to-morrow, and if you have any hope of retaining it?”

“It is a little unusual to communicate political details of this kind to any one outside Cabinet circles,” said Cyril, “but to you, Baroness, I cannot hesitate to speak freely. So far as anything human can be said to be settled, it is settled that I enter upon office, and (although this is not generally known) I have strong hopes of being able to maintain my position.”

“Would it appear to you extremely strange, Count, if I entreated and advised you very strongly to give up your intention, and to return to England for good?”

“I fear I should regard it as inconceivably strange, Baroness.”

“Nevertheless, that is what I am here to do. Can you not imagine a reason?”

“Really, Baroness, I am unable to do so.”

“Think. Is there nothing, no possible complication, in your circumstances, or in those of the—Court, which might make it undesirable for you to remain?”

“I fear I am very dense, Baroness, but I do not see anything of the kind.”

“Then I must speak plainly. I know that you are a gentleman and a man of honour, Count, and therefore I need not entreat you to keep what I say a secret. I trust you as I would a son of my own.”

Cyril bowed, in much perplexity. “Is she going to tell me that her daughter has fallen in love with me?” he thought. “That would be a complication with a vengeance!”

“On the evening on which you left Tatarjé, Count,” the Baroness went on, “you may remember that in view of your plan of escorting her Majesty in disguise to a place of safety, I told you that I was afraid of circumstances. Now I have reason to believe that my fears were justified. Need I speak more plainly?”

“I begin to understand you, Baroness. You would imply that her Majesty does me the honour to regard me with more than friendly feelings?”

“You are right, Count. I have observed a change in her Majesty’s way of speaking of you since our return from Tatarjé, but that I ascribed simply to natural gratitude. Her anxiety when you were wounded, however, and the grief she displayed on learning of your serious condition, have made it evident to me that—that her feelings towards you have changed in the direction you indicate.”

“I can never sufficiently admire, Baroness, the delicacy and discretion with which you are handling this most difficult topic. But you must consider that you have revealed to me a most astonishing and gratifying fact. What steps do you expect me to take in consequence of this revelation, if I may venture to inquire?”

“Can you ask, Count? To a nobleman of your high character there is but one course open—to sever immediately and for ever your connection with the Court, and thus render it easy for her Majesty to forget this temporary indiscretion.”

“I see; and you do not think that such a course might tend to bring matters to a climax?”

“Count! her Majesty is a Princess of Weldart, and knows that noblesse oblige. She could only be grateful to you for the delicacy of your conduct.”

“And my feelings in the matter, Baroness——?”

“It is quite impossible that you can have any feelings in the matter, Count. The crisis is one which demands a correct attitude, not fine feelings.”

“Thank you, Baroness. It is unfortunate that you should have pointed this out a little late in the day. Who knows but I might have been able to assume a correct attitude if I had been warned in time! But as it is—I know that you are a woman of honour, and will keep what I say a secret. Are you prepared for a shock, Baroness? I do not want to startle you too much. The Queen and I have been engaged ever since our return from Tatarjé—nearly a year ago now.”

“Lieber Himmel!” was the shocked exclamation of the Baroness. “I wish you had not told me,” she broke out, after a few moments of horror-struck silence.

“Not at all,” said Cyril politely. “We shall be glad to think that you are a sharer in our secret.”

“I do not doubt it, Count. But do you consider what is my duty in the matter?”

“I know what I should consider your duty, my dear Baroness, but whether you will see it at first in the same light is open to question.”

“And what is your view of my duty, may I ask?”

“To go on as before, seeing and knowing nothing. Anything else could do no good, and would only make the Queen miserable.”

“You appear to disregard the absolute necessity of my laying the matter before her Majesty’s family, that they may exercise their influence to bring about your removal from Thracia.”

“But why should I be removed from Thracia?”

“Because it is absolutely impossible for you to remain here.”

“How? If we have been engaged for nearly a year without so much as rousing your suspicions, it seems to me quite possible that we should go on in the same way.”

“When you have the presumption to aspire to the hand of her Majesty?”

“Precisely. Now, Baroness, listen to me. The Queen does not propose to marry me until the King is of age, and the regency at an end—which means a twelve years’ engagement. You will be at hand to watch over the decorum of the whole thing—as you have been doing unconsciously hitherto. Now isn’t it better to acquiesce in that quiet and peaceful state of affairs than to hound me out of Thracia, and then discover one fine day that the Queen had escaped to join me?”

“But you cannot marry her Majesty.”

“Pardon me, Baroness; we differ on that point. I mean to try.”

The Baroness sat nonplussed for a time. “After all,” she murmured, “eleven years may bring about many changes.”

“Quite so. It is natural that our hopes with regard to any such changes should differ, but we will not quarrel over that.”

“You are inducing me to betray my trust, Count.”

“I would not do such a thing for the world, Baroness. Only remind me, and I will see that the Queen relieves you formally of your duties before our marriage takes place. You shall not be forced to countenance it in your official capacity. As a private friend of both parties, of course——”

“I am overwhelmed,” said the Baroness, not in allusion to Cyril’s considerate offer, as he opened the door for her. “I could never have suspected this of you, Count.”

“Ah, Baroness, we live and learn—some of us. Others live and love.”

And he went back into the office to laugh quietly over the disdainful pose of the Baroness’s head and the contemptuous swish of her skirts as she swept away from him. He had no fear that she would betray him, or even attempt to prejudice Ernestine against him. The whole affair was a crime that admitted of no palliation—but the good lady had a tender corner for him in her heart.

To his great relief, Cyril found that no further interviews were demanded of him that night, for he was so tired that he made no objection when Dr Danilovics arrived, in a towering rage, to conduct him home. The doctor’s lectures on the proper treatment and correct behaviour of invalids during the drive back to Cyril’s house might have edified a whole medical school, but they were lost on their present auditor, for Cyril was fast asleep in the corner of the carriage when he reached his destination.

“Take charge of him,” said the doctor wrathfully, delivering the invalid over to Paschics and Dietrich; “I wash my hands of him. What can a self-respecting medical man do with a patient who acts like a madman, and expects nature to cure him—especially when nature does it?”

In spite of his own indiscreet behaviour, and thanks to the unprofessional conduct of nature, Cyril slept well, and awoke refreshed in the morning, to hear from Dietrich that the British Minister had called to see him, and on being told that he was not up, had said that he would come again in an hour.

“He means to have it out,” said Cyril to himself. “Well, one can’t say that life has been dull during the last few days. It’s only a pity that all this pleasurable excitement can’t manage to distribute itself a little more.”

When he went down to his study, he found Sir Egerton waiting for him—not sitting down, as would have been the case on ordinary occasions, but standing wrathfully in the middle of the room, like Nemesis armed with a riding-whip. As Cyril entered, the British Minister stepped forward with a stiff bow.

“Good morning, Count Mortimer. Your sudden restoration to health is as astonishing as it is gratifying. You may have observed that I was surprised to see you yesterday. As a matter of fact, I had heard it said that you would accompany your colleagues to the Palace, but I imagined that the report had been spread by your servants in order to put off as long as possible the discovery of your escape.”

“I am sure you can’t have been half as glad to see me again as I was to see you. A friendly face——”

“Excuse my interrupting you. Five days ago, by representing yourself to be in a state of abject terror almost amounting to madness, you induced me to smuggle you out of the city, on the understanding that you would not return to Thracia. Now I find you back again, and apparently quite restored to health. I should be glad to know what all this means.”

“Simply that three days’ rest and change gave tone to my nerves and set me up again. You forget that I expressed my intention of returning if that should prove to be the case, Stratford.”

“Sir Egerton Stratford to you in future, if you please.”

“I beg your Excellency’s pardon most humbly. Well, then, Sir Egerton Stratford, may I ask to what you object in my return?”

“You were no more ill at that time than you are now. You had some scheme in your head for capturing the government, and you made a catspaw of me to enable you to carry it out. Instead of getting you out of Thracia, I have in some way or other made you a present of the Premiership. I don’t pretend to understand how you have worked it, but it is quite clear that I played into your hands and ensured the success of your plot.”

“Not at all. You are judging yourself too hardly. You did a kindness to a poor beggar in a tight place. Well, don’t try to get behind that. You may be sure that I shall keep your act of charity dark, and I don’t think you’ll want to publish it abroad, though I fancy you had some idea in your head of preventing me from returning to Thracia by making known the manner of my leaving it, eh? If I had not been so anxious to keep you from getting into trouble I should have taken you into my confidence, so be grateful.”

“You know perfectly well that if you had told me your intentions I should have refused entirely to take any part in furthering them.”

“Ah, well, perhaps that was one of my reasons for reticence. But you shouldn’t go back on your good deed now it’s done.”

“I have not asked advice from you, Count Mortimer, and after what has happened, I am scarcely likely to take it. You succeeded in getting my help in a discreditable job by means of a dirty trick, which was successful because I regarded you as a friend and an honourable man. Now that you are proved not to be the one, it is impossible for you to continue to be the other. I wish you a very good morning. In future, if you should take the trouble to call at the Legation, Lady Stratford will not be at home.”

“I knew Stratford would be fearfully wild when he realised that he had been had,” reflected Cyril, as the British representative departed, “but I didn’t expect he would put on frills quite to such an extent. I suppose he can’t get over my having worked on his feelings. Well, the best of friends must part. But it will be a bore not to be able to drop in at the Legation in the evenings.”

CHAPTER XXII.
THE EDUCATION QUESTION.

The coup d’état was complete. M. Drakovics had accepted the ultimatum conveyed to him by Stefanovics with a submission which was as touching as it was generally unexpected. It was true, he said, that the overwork and excitement of the last few weeks had so affected his health that in a moment of irritation he had lost command of his temper, and addressed the Queen in terms which were wanting in the respect due to her position. That this one indiscretion should blot out the remembrance of long years of faithful service to the Crown and to Thracia was only just, and he would retire meekly into private life, not to leave it again unless summoned by some peril threatening his beloved country. This pathetic farewell was not, of course, intended for the public ear. The ‘Gazette’ and other newspapers announced merely that the Premier’s resignation was due to the state of his health, but a more detailed explanation was necessary for the benefit of the Ministry and of the foreign Courts which were connected by ties of relationship or of traditional policy with that of Bellaviste. By these Courts the news of the fall of M. Drakovics and of Cyril’s accession to power was received and acknowledged without comment or opposition—a fact which would have confirmed Cyril, had he needed confirmation, in the belief that the end was not yet. The Powers were waiting for some further development of the situation.

As for the members of the Drakovics Cabinet, they accepted the state of affairs, for the most part, with great philosophy. One or two of the more violent partisans of Bishop Philaret resigned rather than become involved in the nomination of Bishop Socrates as Metropolitan; but the rest, the most important of whom was M. Milénovics, the Minister of Public Works, transferred their allegiance to Cyril without difficulty. A possible cause of unpleasantness was also removed by the resignation of Vassili Drakovics, who had occupied the position which in England would be called that of Parliamentary Under-Secretary to his more distinguished relative. If he had not taken this step, it would have been difficult to know what to do with him, since to allow him to remain in the Treasury would have been to keep M. Drakovics informed of the financial circumstances of his successors, with which it was most undesirable that he should be acquainted; but his appointment to the lucrative, if slightly incongruous, post of curator of the National Museum in Bellaviste immediately upon his resignation, satisfied all parties. The populace of Bellaviste, finding the streets patrolled by troops, public meetings prohibited, and a strict censorship maintained over the Press, realised that the new Administration was as well able to protect itself as the old one had been, and that it did so in much the same way, and they acquiesced contentedly in the change.

Cyril was far too prudent to expose his slender forces to defeat in a Legislature elected to support M. Drakovics, and the only business which he laid before the House was the voting of a valedictory address to the ex-Premier—a patriotic duty to which no opposition could be offered. As soon as the address had been voted, the Legislature was dissolved, and Thracia found itself in the throes, somewhat artificial in the case of a Balkan State, of a General Election. Thanks to the custom of the country, according to which it was unnecessary for a Minister to occupy a seat in the Legislature, Cyril and the majority of his colleagues were not troubled by any need of looking after their own positions; but the fight was none the less carefully organised. During the time which elapsed between the dissolution and the actual election, Cyril worked out his dispositions with the greatest precision, observing with amusement that M. Drakovics was still acting the part of the sulky Achilles, evidently waiting until the sinews of war should fail the opposite party. His expectation that victory would fall into his hands without an effort on his part was so obvious that his inaction began at last to alarm the more nervous of Cyril’s colleagues, who thought that the ex-Premier must have some great coup in preparation. Their leader succeeded in calming their apprehensions by reminding them of the solid financial basis on which the Cabinet rested, but not before the uneasiness had spread to the Palace, where M. Drakovics was regarded much as a foreign foe would have been.

“Cyril,” said Ernestine, when her Prime Minister sought an interview with her one day, “are you sure we shall win?”

“I never prophesy unless I have got a straight tip, but I see no reason why we should not win.”

“But elections always seem to be so uncertain.”

“They need not be so here, at any rate. It is the natural thing for the Government to win, and I believe it will.”

“But isn’t there something not quite right about that?”

“There might be in England, but not in Thracia. What good is a Government if it is not to tell the people how to vote?”

“But suppose they won’t vote as you tell them?”

“What should make them turn rusty? And besides, the local authorities throughout the country have received the warning they have always been accustomed to get from Drakovics, that any district which elects an Opposition candidate will immediately suffer a change in its governing body. Of course other precautions have been taken as well, but that is sufficient to show them that we mean business.”

“But did not M. Drakovics himself begin his career by winning an election against the Government candidate?”

“Yes, but the Government was caught napping first, and then bungled the whole thing. I don’t intend to repeat either mistake.”

“If he comes back there will be a struggle between him and me, for we cannot both rule in Thracia after what has happened. But if your precautions are so complete, Cyril, what is M. Drakovics depending upon? You don’t think that he has really accepted his defeat, and means to retire altogether?”

“Not in the least. He is counting on our cash giving out. He knows to a piastre what he left in the treasury, and can calculate what we could raise in the way of advances out of our own pockets, and perhaps—as you once suggested—by selling your jewels. He thinks, no doubt, that we shall be stranded just about the time that the elections come off—I refrained purposely from hurrying them on in order to give him a little pleasurable excitement—that we shall try frantically to borrow money all over Europe and be unable to do it, that the army will mutiny for want of pay, and that the permanent officials everywhere will turn to the man who was so long responsible for their salaries, and that he will have a walk-over. That is as may be.”

“But how is it that we shall not be stranded?”

“Ah, that is a state secret.”

“But it ought not to be kept a secret from me.”

“I’m afraid it must be, in this case. You see, if your mother or any of your relations ask you where we got the money, I want you to be able to answer with a clear conscience that you don’t know.”

“But why should they ask? I daresay Ottilie will—she is always interested in politics—but I don’t think it would occur to my mother.”

“Not unless she was put up to it, but it would not surprise me if she was. Did I understand you to mean that the Princess of Dardania is coming here?”

“Yes; she has been talking of it for some time, but in her letter this morning she says that she hopes to come as soon as the elections are over, and to bring the children as well.”

“‘When the hurly-burly’s done; when the battle’s lost and won’? Does she intend to stay long?”

“Not long in Bellaviste, I think, but she talks of taking a villa at Praka for the summer. They have no sea-coast in Dardania, of course, and it will be so good for the children to spend a month or two by the sea. It will be delightful for me to have her so close. I daresay I shall take Michael and two or three attendants, and stay with her for a week or so.”

“Very delightful. I suppose, Ernestine, that it is no use——”

“Now, Cyril, I know that you are going to say something against Ottilie, and I don’t want to hear it. You have a prejudice against her, and I am sorry for it, but I can’t give her up because you and she don’t get on.”

“‘Don’t get on’ is a mild term for the relations existing between her Royal Highness and myself. You know that she detests me, and that she would do anything in the world to injure me?”

“You don’t imagine that I would let her turn me against you?”

“Quite the contrary. I fear that you may defend me so vigorously when she speaks against me as to arouse her suspicions and give her an opening for action. When you saw her last you and I were at daggers drawn, you know, and the sudden change of front——”

“But what would it signify if she did suspect? If you would only allow me, I would tell her everything, and enlist her on our side. I am sure she would sympathise with us.”

“Undoubtedly! No, Ernestine—I am speaking seriously—I must put my veto upon that. If you inform the Princess of Dardania of our engagement, you are deliberately ruining our hopes.”

“I would never tell her without your leave, of course. But you will persist in regarding Ottilie as an intriguer, and she is my favourite cousin, an excellent wife, and the best mother that I know.”

“I would not attempt to deny it. But perhaps you will allow me to point out that she practically governs Dardania, since her husband is only too well pleased to go out hunting while she does his work. She has got him into hot water several times through her endeavours—which, I will do her the justice to say, are generally successful—to add to the power and influence of the principality, and she has a finger in every pie in Europe. Not an intriguer! My dear Ernestine, that woman is one of the great intriguers of the world.”

“At least, she is my cousin,” said Ernestine, much vexed, “and therefore deserves consideration at your hands. Well, we will not talk of her, Cyril, since we cannot agree, and I will remember your warnings, but I cannot behave coldly to her—far less have nothing to do with her, as you evidently wish. She and I have always been special friends.”

With this the subject was dropped, and Cyril found political affairs sufficiently engrossing for some time afterwards to cause him to forget his old enemy. His forecast of the conduct of M. Drakovics proved correct. Immediately before the elections there was a recurrence all over the kingdom of the activity of the ex-Premier’s party, although their leader himself continued to remain in retirement. Deliberate bids were made for the support of the army and of the Government officials, as Cyril had prophesied, and riotous mobs assembled as though at a preconcerted signal in all the larger towns, and perambulated the country. If M. Drakovics had been right in his calculations, he would have snatched a complete victory, but so well had the secret of the Chevalier Goldberg’s millions been kept, that the chief source of his opponent’s strength was absolutely unknown to him. The army remained loyal, the officials fulfilled their bounden duty in promoting the return of Government candidates, the priests who had inculcated rebellion were arrested without provoking an insurrection, and the mobs melted away at the sight of the troops. The Ministry met the Legislature with a majority almost equalling that which had first raised M. Drakovics to power, and Europe awoke to the fact that Count Mortimer was established as Premier of Thracia. To the Powers which had expected to see a conflict in which both aspirants to office would find political destruction, leaving the way open for the administration of advice ad libitum to the Queen, and even (for a consideration) of help in money or men, the reality was startling, but there was nothing to do except to submit to circumstances. The Mortimer Ministry was in possession, and it had evidently come to stay.

Already, before the dissolution, Bishop Socrates had been nominated as Metropolitan, and duly elected by the Synod. Until the elections were over he held his post as it were on sufferance, feeling not at all sure that he might not find himself suddenly superseded by Bishop Philaret; but now he settled down to improve the discipline of his diocese, his labours being much lightened by the depression which had fallen upon the more vigorous malcontents, owing to the collapse of their hopes. Very shortly after the meeting of the Legislature the Estimates were introduced and promptly voted, the greatest admiration and praise being expressed for the patriotic conduct of the new Premier, who had, as it was now understood, advanced from his own pocket a sum large enough to tide the country over the election. This sum, for which he was firm in refusing to accept any interest, was duly repaid to him, and by him handed over immediately to Herr Stockbaum, whose employer wrote at once to say that he had never believed Cyril would be able to repay the money, and he had therefore written it off as a bad debt. Merely to avoid giving him the trouble of altering his accounts, would not Count Mortimer do him the favour of accepting it? But Cyril was obdurate. He had a high respect for money, coupled with a lively sense that in some positions it was advisable to be known to be without it, and his bank-account remained at its former modest level, much to the disgust of M. Drakovics, who felt certain that he was on the track of a very ugly conspiracy, which might be exposed with much profit if only he could put his finger on the source from which his successor had obtained the much needed assistance.

That the money was not a part of Cyril’s hereditary fortune, and could not be the result of savings from his salary, no one knew better than M. Drakovics, who had always been wont to keep an eye (but privately, in order not to hurt their feelings) on the pecuniary position of his colleagues. Moreover, it had not been provided by any of the Powers, the ex-Premier’s spies assured him of this, and just at present there was no company or individual seeking concessions from whom it might have been received as a bribe. To deepen the mystery, the offices occupied at Frankfort by Messrs Outis, Niemand, and Other were closed immediately after the money had been repaid to them, as M. Drakovics ascertained easily, and the enterprising firm disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen, leaving not a rack behind.

It was while M. Drakovics was pursuing these financial researches, in the vain hope of tracking down his successful rival and bringing him to ruin, that the Princess of Dardania arrived at Bellaviste with her four children—the Princesses Elisabeth and Ludmilla and the Princes Alexis and Kazimir, whose arrival was hailed with joy by King Michael. The Prince of Dardania had gone to Pavelsburg on a visit to the Scythian Court; but his wife, who had been invited to accompany him, was of opinion that her presence was more needed in Thracia. For some days she observed with great care the facts which came to her notice, and arrived at several provisional conclusions, which she laid aside for future consideration, but she made no attempt to discuss matters with her cousin. It was Ernestine herself who first touched upon the subject of politics, when the Princess had spent about a week at the Palace.

“I have had such a strange letter from mamma,” said the Queen, coming in her impulsive way into the room where her cousin was sitting alone. “I wrote to ask when she was coming to see me again, for it is a year and a half since she was here, and she says that she will not enter Thracia so long as Count Mortimer is Premier.”

“Does she expect him to resign in order to open the way for her to return?”

“Oh no, but she seems to expect me to turn him out. She says that she sympathises with me deeply in having such a man forced upon me, but that the present state of affairs is entirely my own fault, since the Court influence, properly used, would have prevented him altogether from attaining power. She advises me to set in motion intrigues against him, and so render his position untenable. When that is effected she will gladly return to Bellaviste; but she cannot consent to humiliate herself by meeting Count Mortimer under present circumstances.”

“My dear Nestchen, your mother is a frightfully bad conspirator! Do you mean to say that she has written that in black and white? Why, Count Mortimer could desire nothing better in order to strengthen his position than the publication of such a letter, which he has no doubt read before it reached you. And when do you intend to set these intrigues on foot?”

“Never!” said the Queen emphatically. “I cannot tell why, Ottilie, but you, like every one else, seem to think that I regard Count Mortimer as an enemy.”

“Well, Nestchen, you must pardon us if we are wrong, but when I saw you last, at Tatarjé, I certainly heard from your own lips that you hated Count Mortimer, and that he was the cause of all the unhappiness of your married life.”

“Oh, please don’t remind me of the dreadful things I said then! It makes me ashamed to think that I could ever have been so blind. Wasn’t it only a just retribution that such a short time after I had been abusing Count Mortimer, Michael and I should owe our very lives to his devotion and presence of mind?”

“It provided you with a reason for modifying your opinion of him, no doubt. But surely, Ernestine, your gratitude might have stopped short of allowing him to make himself the most powerful man in Thracia. You may be sure that it will not be long before he will make use of his elevation to try and oust you from the regency.” This last remark, be it observed, was what is known in vulgar parlance as a feeler.

“Oust me from the regency!” cried Ernestine hotly; then her tone changed. “My dear Ottilie, how little you know him!” she said, with a superior smile. “I assure you that you are quite mistaken.”

“But he has ousted Drakovics, and is in possession of his place;”—the Princess was observing her cousin curiously, but with something of satisfaction in her look.

“No, there you are wrong again, Ottilie. He would be in his old post now, if it were not for me. When M. Drakovics tried to force upon me an appointment which was most distasteful to me for many reasons, I sent for Count Mortimer and ordered him to oppose him. I can’t tell you the whole story now, but although it has ended in Count Mortimer’s becoming Premier, it was due to me that he severed himself from M. Drakovics at all.”

“How delightful to have a knight-errant at command, ready to fight one’s battles in this way! Really, Nestchen, I envy you. I wish we had a Count Mortimer (with a few variations) in Dardania. But you don’t imagine that he would have accepted your commission if it had not fallen in with his own views, and promised to lead to the goal at which he was secretly aiming?”

“I can’t judge about that, since I am not Count Mortimer’s confessor.” The Queen spoke sharply, and as though the thought were an unwelcome one. “At any rate, if the idea of the Premiership had entered his mind, I am sure that he well deserved the prize, and I feel quite content that he should hold it.”

“There is nothing like a thorough conversion when one is about it. And you are now in the habit of taking Count Mortimer’s advice on every subject that may happen to be under discussion, I suppose?”

“I ask it, certainly—and in nearly every case I take it.”

“That is just what I thought. Well, Ernestine, doesn’t it strike you that it would have been kinder to let me know this before I visited you?”

“Why, what possible difference can it make to you, Ottilie?”

“I came here,” pursued the Princess of Dardania sadly, “full of hope for the future. It seemed to me that this visit of mine to you would mark the beginning of the fulfilment of the compact which you and I made with one another a year ago, before this change had come over you. Our children were to grow up together, and to learn to love one another from their earliest years, you will remember. Surely you might at least have warned me not to bring Lida with me.”

“But why should you not bring Lida? What change has come over me? I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“My dear Ernestine, you must be very well aware that Count Mortimer would never sanction a marriage between your son and any child of mine.”

“I am sure you are mistaken, Ottilie. Count Mortimer would be as anxious to secure Michael’s happiness as we are. I am so certain of this, that nothing but my agreement with you to keep the matter secret has prevented me from telling him of our plan. I have only been waiting for your consent.”

“And nothing would induce me to give it. To betray our scheme to Count Mortimer would be to ruin it. No, Ernestine, hear me out. Though you have so strangely constituted yourself his champion, you cannot forget the man’s past record. He would have sacrificed his own brother by a loveless marriage for the sake of a political advantage—he would have sacrificed me. So much for his general practice. Now as to this particular case. I refused to be sacrificed, and succeeded in outwitting him: he has never forgiven me. Even if political considerations rendered the match between Michael and Lida advisable—and from his point of view they do not—I believe that his hatred for me would lead him to prevent its taking place. His aim will be to marry Michael to one of Sigismund’s daughters—you know what their surroundings are like, and what amount of choice would be given to them in the matter, poor things!—and to tell him of our compact would simply ensure its never being fulfilled.”

“But Michael and Lida could not be married without his knowledge. Besides, I am sure I could persuade him——”

“When you know as much of Count Mortimer as I do, Ernestine, you will know that you might as well try to persuade a stone wall.” The Queen flushed indignantly, but checked the protest which had nearly escaped her lips. “Our hope lies in his having no suspicion of what is going on until the young people are old enough to have come to an understanding. Then you would have everything on your side in preventing their being sacrificed to political considerations; and if, after all, Count Mortimer was too strong for us, we could arrange for the children to be married as Alexis and I were.”

“A runaway match!” said the Queen, shocked, but a recollection that occurred to her served to modify the feeling. It was not so very long ago that she herself had suggested a similar proceeding to Cyril. “I don’t for a moment think that we shall be obliged to adopt such an expedient, Ottilie. I am sorry you won’t let me tell Count Mortimer what my wishes are, for I think you are making a mistake, but please understand that I was never more determined to adhere to our compact. My first duty now is to Michael, and nothing—not even Count Mortimer—shall induce me to allow him to be sacrificed to political expediency.”

“If you please, madame,” said Paula von Hilfenstein, appearing at the door, “your private secretary” (Baroness Paula called him “the Herr private secretary von Essen”) “has brought a number of letters, and asks whether your Majesty will be pleased to sign them.”

“Just as I was having my first long talk with you, Ottilie!” said the Queen, rising. “Well, the Regent must be at the service of the State, I suppose; but do wait here, and I will come back when I have finished.”

She rustled out of the room, her long black robes trailing after her, and the Princess watched her with a curious, meditative smile.

“Ah, my dear Ernestine,” she reflected, “it is a good thing I came here when I did! It is the merest chance that your new friend has not already broached a project of marriage for Michael, and converted you to his views. In not doing so he has committed a fault in tactics, by which I shall contrive to profit. But what I should most like to know is, what there is exactly between you and him. You are in love with him, of course—any one could see that—and I have not a doubt that he knows it, but the question is, do you know it as well? That innocent manner of yours might mean either that you were quite ignorant or that you had everything settled with him. Now which is it?”

She sat musing, with her chin supported on her hand, weighing probabilities in her mind, and not knowing that the information she needed was at that moment on its way to her. The messenger of fate burst into the room in the person of King Michael, following a wild fumbling at the door, and pursued by retributive justice in the form of Baroness Paula. “Majestät!” she was beginning, “why have you run away from your nurse?” but like the intruder, she stopped short on catching sight of the Princess of Dardania.

“I will take care of him until his nurse comes to fetch him,” said the Princess pleasantly, holding out her hand to the child, and Baroness Paula retreated. “What do you want here, my little Michael?”

“I want to hide something—something of mamma’s,” returned King Michael, recovering his presence of mind, and beginning to pull the curtains about. “You won’t tell, will you, Tant’ Ottilie?”

“Certainly not. What is it—a piece of paper?”

“Mamma keeps it in her Bible,” returned King Michael, exhibiting a crumpled paper ball, “and to-day it fell out. I want her to look for it. It will be so funny. Oh dear, there isn’t a place anywhere!” with a heavy sigh, “and I hear nursie coming.”

“Why not smooth it out, and put it under the corner of the rug?” asked the Princess. “Your mother would never think of looking there.”

The King obeyed precipitately, and was patting the rug down with his hand to make it lie flat again when Mrs Jones appeared, panting.

“Well, sir, and wherever have you been and got to, may I ask? There was your cousins all playin’ so quiet and pretty, and me just turnin’ my back like for a moment, when you up and slip out of the nursery. You come along back this minute, if you please, or I’ll tell Count Mortimer of you when he asks me next how you’ve been behavin’ yourself of late. You’re gettin’ beyond me, and that I’ve said before. Beggin’ your Highness’s pardon, ma’am, but anything like his Majesty’s contrary ways no one ever did see.”

The Princess of Dardania smiled graciously as Mrs Jones disappeared, dragging her refractory charge by the hand, but the moment the door was shut she moved her chair across to the corner of the rug with which King Michael had been busied. What the paper he had purloined might contain she had no idea, but it was evidently precious to Ernestine, and her cousin was too clever a woman to let slip any chance of gaining information that might prove valuable. Stooping slightly as she sat, she lifted the corner of the rug, holding it ready to drop into its place again on the slightest alarm, and took up the paper. It was in Ernestine’s writing, and at first sight resembled nothing so much as the calendars which schoolboys make to show how many days remain before the holidays, but the Princess’s eyes gleamed as she realised its purport. At the top was written, “April 12th, 18—” (the date was that of the preceding year), and below came “June 18th,” King Michael’s birthday, repeated twelve times. Two of these were crossed off, bringing the record to the time at which the Princess held it in her hand.

“April 12th of last year!” she said to herself. “That was when she was wandering about the country with him. Michael was three then, he is just five now. By the time the end of this list is reached he will be sixteen, he will have come of age. And after that, what? Nothing! But no doubt it would be unnecessary, as well as dangerous, to add anything further. They have an understanding, then. But what if she married him secretly on that 12th of April? Oh, if only she did, I could ruin him with a word! Is it possible? Married, actually married, and concealing the fact lest she should lose the regency, and he his chance of the Premiership? Could it be? Let me think; I must not be rash. It would not do to put myself in his power by accusing him of having married her, and finding that he had not. He would make me the laughingstock of Europe. Besides, is it probable? No; he is not the man to risk his political future for the sake of a woman. Take it, then, that they are merely engaged. They will be married when Michael is of age—if I allow it. I do not think I shall, but it might be necessary to buy his acquiescence in something—perhaps in Michael’s marriage with Lida, and then I should have an equivalent to offer. Silence for the present, then. I hold the card, but do not show it. And above all things, I must keep Ernestine from telling me the whole affair. I could get her to confide in me now, if I liked to try, but it would hamper my action. No; she has chosen to link her fortunes with his, and she must not be surprised if I fight for my own hand.”

The sound of the opening of the anteroom door reached her. Ernestine was returning. She replaced the paper, dropped the rug over it, and moved her chair back to its former position. When the Queen entered the room, her cousin looked up lazily.

“I don’t know whether you have lost any of your State documents, Ernestine, but Michael was very busy hiding a paper of some kind under the rug just now.”

The Queen stooped to pick up the paper. Her face flushed as she saw what it was, and she thrust it hastily into her pocket, with a glance at the Princess, whose eyes were fixed on her novel.

“What was Michael doing here?” she asked.

“Oh, he escaped from his nurse and ran in, that was all. What a splendid little fellow he is, Ernestine—so high-spirited and impatient of control! And I think it is so wise of you to keep him with you so long. I had practically lost my boys when they were his age—they were always about with their father. Of course that is all right, for Alexis is no disciplinarian; but when I think of Sigismund’s poor little sons, how they are made into soldiers before they are out of the cradle, so to speak, and tormented with drill all day long, it makes me feel that Michael is far better off with his mother alone.”

“Some one was saying the other day that he was getting too old to be left entirely with women,” said the Queen.

“Ah, I know who that was—Count Mortimer, of course. He actually made the same remark to Fräulein von Staubach. The poor thing told me about it, and owned that it came as a painful shock to her.” The Princess forgot to mention that when the first surprise had passed, Fräulein von Staubach had admitted the truth of Cyril’s words. “Really, Ernestine, you will be obliged to take measures to keep that man in his place. He interferes in everything.”

“I think you forget that I value Count Mortimer’s opinion highly, Ottilie. I have myself often thought of late that a stronger hand over him would be good for Michael. He is very passionate at times, and fearfully self-willed. He ought to be taught self-control, and I am afraid we are too gentle with him.”

“Ah, that is Count Mortimer again! He wants the poor child brought up like English boys, who call their father ‘sir’ and ‘the governor,’ and never see their mother except in full dress. Seriously, Ernestine, think before you hand your boy over either to the English or the German system. You have to be both father and mother to him, remember. At least keep him with you as long as possible.”

“I will. You are right, Ottilie. It was only because your advice agreed so well with my own wishes that I distrusted its wisdom at first. Of course Michael must be educated as a German—his father would have wished it, I am sure—but I will not let him be subjected to military discipline for some time yet.”

“I think I have put a spoke in your wheel for the present, my dear Count!” said the Princess to herself. “While you are discovering that, I shall hope to find a few other ways of smoothing your path. Just now I should like to see Drakovics, and find out exactly what he knows about your matrimonial schemes.”

When the Princess of Dardania conceived a wish, it was usually not long before she contrived to gratify it, and the first portion, at any rate, of this one was attained by means of a morning visit to the town Museum. It was only natural that the curator should conduct her Royal Highness round the building, and in the course of conversation with him, the Princess learned that M. Drakovics was anxious to sell a part of his Praka estate as building-land. As the Princess wished to buy land on which to build her proposed villa, the next step was obviously to run over to Praka and see the estate, in order to report upon it to her husband. Unfortunately for the Princess’s hopes, although the building-land was satisfactory, the interview with the ex-Premier was not. M. Drakovics could not forget the day when he had shared with Cyril the ignominy of being outwitted by the Princess Ottilie of Mœsia, and while he was obviously ready to work any ill to Cyril that he conveniently could, he was much more anxious to find out what his visitor knew than to impart any information of his own. As this was exactly the Princess’s case, the two diplomatists parted with mutual dissatisfaction, tempered only in the one case by the prospect of receiving a good price for his land, and in the other by the hope of possessing in the future a coign of vantage from which to direct the development of the situation. But if the Princess had failed to find the helper she desired in her campaign against Cyril, she had at least succeeded in leading Ernestine to thwart him in the matter which at present he had most at heart, the method of the little King’s education. When, after due consultation with the officials of the Court and the Treasury, he had drawn up a scheme constituting a technically separate household for the King, and arranging for the appointment of military and other instructors, Ernestine refused so much as to consider the subject at present.

“He is only five years old, Cyril. Even his father would have left him under my control until he was seven.”

“But he is not under your control—that is the worst of it. I do not want to hurt your feelings, Ernestine, but you must have noticed that it is no use to tell him to do anything unless you are prepared to back up your order with physical force. It is the same with his nurse and with Fräulein von Staubach.”

The Queen flushed with vexation. “You cannot think that you know as much about children as a mother does,” she said.

“Won’t you allow that I know more about boys, having been one myself?”

“Not about German boys.” She thought of her cousin’s remarks on the subject. “We educate our children much more by means of love than you English do.”

“My dear Ernestine, I don’t care what the means may be, so long as the result is satisfactory, which it is not at present. Your boy wants discipline. If his father had lived, his authority would have reinforced yours.”

The word “discipline” was an unfortunate one, for Ernestine’s thoughts flew at once to the poor little Hercynian Princes whose woes the Princess of Dardania had described so feelingly. “I like Michael to be happy and free,” she said. “I will not have him turned into a miniature drill-sergeant.”

“No one wishes him to be, but he ought to feel that there is some authority he must recognise. It is not only you and the other women who spoil him, Ernestine, but Batzen and the rest as well. The other day I caught him imitating poor old Batzen to his face, with Pavlovics and two of the pages looking on and laughing at him.”

“How can they help it when he is so quaint? He picks up things in the most extraordinary way. You want to crush all the fun out of him.”

“My dear Ernestine, you seem to think that I have some personal feeling in the matter. Please leave me out of account. What I am anxious about is the future. The boy is a king already. There are plenty of people, and always will be, to flatter and encourage him, but if he once gets out of hand we shall never be able to train him properly. And what will the result be? I am not exactly what any one would call straitlaced, but I don’t mind saying that even you have seen enough of the world to know that he will simply rush to ruin. He must learn to obey—to subordinate his own wishes to those of others—if he is ever to rule. I only wish we could have sent him to an English public school. The games, and the association with other boys, would have done him a world of good.”

“I knew it!” cried Ernestine, almost in tears. “I knew you wanted him to be brought up in that barbarous English way, without even the necessaries of life, and to break all his limbs at football.”

“Don’t misrepresent me, please. I know that the English school is out of the question, unfortunately. Nor would I wish to take him entirely out of your hands at his present age. All I wanted to do was to appoint a military man as his governor, with authority to raise a small cadet corps of little boys with whom the King could work and drill, and learn something of discipline. Other lessons would follow, of course, and other instructors be necessary, but Michael would not find it such a change if things were done in this gradual way, and if the other boys shared all his work and play.”

“That can all come later. He is too young at present. I give way to you very often, Cyril; but I must stand firm in this. I know that it is a temptation to let you regulate Michael’s education for me as you do everything else; but I must not yield to it. I am his mother, and I must use my own judgment in dealing with him. I could not bear that his spirit should be broken at his age. Oh, yes; I know that he is precocious; but that only means that he needs more care and tenderness than other boys. You mean well; but how can you enter into a mother’s feelings?”

“Very well; don’t worry about it,” said Cyril, accepting the situation with easy philosophy when he saw that her resolution was fixed. “I was only anxious for the child’s own good, so don’t blame me if he turns out badly.”

He shrugged his shoulders as he went away, reflecting that even the most sensible of women would make fools of themselves over a child, and Ernestine—as he had long known—was not one of the most sensible of women. It was just like her to look at things in this absurd way, and he was sorry he had wasted his time and wounded her maternal feelings to no purpose. After all, as she said, she left everything else in his hands, and if she chose to ruin her boy by over-indulgence, that was her own affair. Long afterwards, in looking back at this time, Cyril reflected cynically that in the matter of King Michael’s education he must have been afflicted with judicial blindness, for it did not occur to him that it must have needed an external stimulus to rouse Ernestine to such strong opposition to his views. Had it done so, he would have known where to look for the intrusive force; but he was content to ascribe her perverseness to her own character, and the part which the Princess of Dardania had played in the matter remained unsuspected.

The Princess was very busy for some time after this. Her bargain with M. Drakovics for the piece of land at Praka was duly approved by her husband (a mere form this) and ratified, and then came the business of the building of the villa. What with interviews with architects and contractors and her own passion for overlooking the progress of affairs and paying surprise visits to the workmen, it is not astonishing that the Princess of Dardania spent a good deal of time in Thracia during the next year. To a lady of her mental and bodily activity, it was a mere trifle to undertake the eighteen hours’ journey from Bashi Konak to Bellaviste, run down to Praka and inspect the building operations, and return home to take her part in a Court festivity; but she felt it necessary to apologise for her restlessness to the Queen.

“You know,” she said, “some one must see that things are properly done, and Alexis cannot endure to be dragged away from his hunting and his model farm. He is quite an Englishman in that respect. I feel dreadfully ashamed to make your house an inn in this way, Ernestine; but I can’t resist having a peep at you and the boy, and the children always give me so many messages for Michael. You must return the compliment when the villa is built. I shall expect you almost to live with me in the summer.”

Ernestine saw her come and go with a vague feeling of alarm. It seemed to her as though Ottilie now regarded Michael as her property, held in trust for Lida, and that these frequent visits were merely excuses for seeing that he was being brought up according to her wishes. There was now an effectual barrier between Cyril and the Queen on the subject of her son’s education, and neither of them alluded to it. Ernestine ought to have been satisfied; but she was not. She felt as though it would have been safer to have Cyril as her confidant in the matter than her cousin. It so happened that an invitation to Scythia for the whole princely family prevented them from occupying the Villa Dardanica during the first summer after its erection, and, encouraged by her temporary emancipation from the Princess’s guardianship, Ernestine herself suggested to Cyril that the changes which he had proposed in the King’s surroundings should be carried into effect at once, although the child was still only six years old. But the opportunity had gone by. The Estimates for the year had been passed without making the necessary provision for the change, other employment had been found for the elderly officer selected as the King’s governor, and nothing more could be done until the pupil attained the age of seven.

The next year, therefore, the change took place. Mrs Jones returned to England with a pension and the proud consciousness of duty done, Fräulein von Staubach resumed her old post of lectrice (the Queen hated reading aloud), a learned young Lutheran “candidate of theology” was imported to replace the venerable Herr Batzen, and King Michael contrived to learn much at the same time the necessity for outward obedience to his military tutor and the delights of tyrannising over his regiment of boys. His life was not a very arduous one, for it did not take long for his instructors to discover that his Majesty had ruled his own immediate circle so completely that it was impossible without an undignified and generally unsuccessful struggle to make him do anything that he did not wish to do. It might even be said that he had succeeded in discovering a royal road to learning, for his natural precocity and his strongly developed imitative faculty combined to enable him to pick up knowledge, whether it was of a desirable character or the reverse, with extraordinary facility.

In spite of this fairly easy life, however, the Princess of Dardania discovered that her future son-in-law was overworked. Not content with carrying him off to Praka for his summer holidays and inviting him to Bashi Konak to spend Christmas, she gave him instructions to let her know whenever his surroundings bored him or he felt that a change from his lessons would be desirable, and an invitation immediately followed. His mother protested, but in vain. If King Michael wished to stay with his cousins, stay with them he would, and Ernestine did not at first perceive that while she represented to her son law and order, the Princess and her family were becoming more and more closely identified in his mind with liking and liberty. The Court at Bellaviste was dull—none knew it better then Ernestine—but the Princess of Dardania dispensed on all but State occasions with the strict etiquette which Baroness von Hilfenstein imposed on all who came beneath her sway. In his capital the young King was necessarily surrounded by attendants and tutors, but the one condition of his visiting his cousins was that he should bring with him only the minimum number of servants and no one in authority. Again his mother remonstrated, but this time the Princess was her opponent, pointing out the benefit to the boy’s health of the freer life, the advantage to him of leading the happy outdoor life of her own boys with their father, and the humanising influences of the constant society of the Princesses Bettine and Lida. Ernestine was worsted at every point, but it was the knowledge that her boy’s wishes pointed in the same direction that induced her to submit.

“Ernestine,” said Cyril to her once, “that boy of yours is being weaned away from us. He had far rather be with your cousin and her family than here.”

“Oh, do you think so?” asked the Queen, with a sharp pang at her heart, for she had been cherishing the belief that the change which was so sadly evident to herself was invisible to others. “But it is natural that he should like to be with other young people, and he is so fond of them all.”

“He is fonder of your cousin than any of them. I hear that he sits listening to her for hours together as she talks. My dear Ernestine, is it a matter of indifference to you that another woman is stealing your son’s heart from you?”

It was a cruel question, but he was anxious to arouse her to a perception of the greatness of the emergency. She grew whiter as she answered.

“Should I make things any better by trying to detach him from his chosen friends? No; at least I am happy while he is happy.”

“He will be obliged to detach himself from them some day. This Paul and Virginia kind of life can’t go on for ever. Can’t you try to get hold of him again, Ernestine? He was absolutely devoted to you at one time—that time when you were so jealous of his being fond of me.”

“Ah, but I am growing old and grey-haired and tired,” she said wearily, “and I feel differently, too. He does love me still, but I dare not risk the loss of his love by setting myself against his friends. I have so little that I am afraid of losing everything.”

“Old? nonsense!” cried Cyril. “My dear child, I am nearly ten years older than you are, and I feel as young as ever. You are not thirty-five yet.”

“Thirty-two,” she said seriously, not perceiving that he had purposely over-estimated her age. “But I feel old. Ottilie has her husband and children—she keeps young. Surely she need not have stolen my one child from me? Oh, Cyril,” she threw out her hands towards him with a passionate gesture, “you are all I have left. Don’t forsake me.”

“Forsake you? Who ever thought of such a thing?” asked Cyril, putting his arm round her tenderly. It was one of the moments at which something (it could not have been conscience, for he prided himself on having none) asked him inconvenient questions as to his share in the hardship of this twelve years’ waiting as compared with Ernestine’s. “We have not very long to wait now, dear. In less than three years Michael will be of age.”

“Yes, but—I have become so much accustomed to this waiting that I can’t believe in happiness, Cyril. I am afraid—I feel still that even yet, if I stood in the way of your political success, you would brush me out of your path—me!”

“I think you don’t believe in me, that is very evident. Never mind; in three years’ time we will see which was right.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
IN SIGHT OF THE GOAL.

“Half an hour to wait here! Wake up, Mansfield, and don’t be so atrociously slack. We must have a little walk and stretch our legs.”

The speaker was a young Englishman, scarcely more than a boy, who had just returned from questioning the guard as the Balkan express to Vienna slowed down preparatory to entering the station at Bellaviste. His companion, the appeal to whom was emphasised by throwing a folded newspaper at his head, was a man some five years older, with “Cambridge” written all over him.

“Oh, draw it mild, Usk. What a troubled spirit you are! You know your father begged us not to set foot in Thracia if we could help it.”

“But we can’t help it. It would be a sin and an impossibility not to seize such an opportunity of getting a little fresh air. Look here; we won’t even go into the town—just trot up and down that street leading from the station. There can’t be any danger in that, for I’m not like Philippa. No middle-aged Thracian, coming across me casually, would strike an attitude in the gutter and gasp out, ‘Carlino’s child! Will your Highness graciously permit me the ineffable honour of kissing your hand?’ I might be any one, from a scion of British royalty——”

“To a junior Irish member,” said Mansfield. “I say,” as they walked down the platform, “look at the gorgeous saloon they are adding to our train. Some one very great must be expected.”

“The Thracian royalties, no doubt,” returned Usk, “on their way to this wedding at Molzau. What luck to see them! Philippa will be awfully jealous.”

“No; don’t you remember that we saw they arrived at Molzau some days ago? But it must be some one big, for look at these grave and reverend signiors who are assembling to give him a send-off. Perhaps it’s your uncle.”

“What a lark! I think we will go and annex seats in his carriage, Mansfield. It would be such a spree for the railway people to be trying to get us out, while we persisted that we couldn’t understand what they said.”

“And such a spree for you to be arrested and to have to give your name, after all Lord Caerleon’s warnings. Don’t be an ass, Usk. If you want a walk, come out.”

“Wretched dull street this,” grumbled Usk, as they tramped steadily up and down outside the station. “I suppose it’s too soon to expect the people to have begun their decorations yet for the King’s coming of age. Queer idea for a fellow to come of age at sixteen, isn’t it? I wonder how he feels when he thinks of this day fortnight—whether he is much cocked-up about it. I say, do you happen to have observed that this place is a café? Let’s sit down and refresh the inner man.”

They took their seats at one of the little tables outside, and were welcomed with enthusiasm by the proprietor, who proved able to understand their German and also to make them understand his. Business was slack just at this hour, and he remained to talk to them while they drank their coffee, observing artlessly that it was not often that two honourable foreign gentlemen honoured his house with a visit. The street was beginning to fill now, and Usk and his friend gained a good deal of information as to the national costumes and the callings pursued by their various wearers. But it was not long before their attention was distracted by the appearance of an old man, for whom, as he was drawn slowly along in a bath-chair, the crowd everywhere made way respectfully. His hair and his bushy moustache were snow-white, but the eyes, which flashed a suspicious glance at the two Englishmen, were full of life.

“Who is that?” asked Usk of the landlord, when the old man passed.

“Is it possible that the honourable gentleman does not know? That is the great patriot, Milos Drakovics.”

“Drakovics!” said Usk and Mansfield together, rising to look after the bath-chair, and the elder man added meditatively, “It’s a case of ‘Under his hoary eyebrows still flashed forth quenchless rage,’ isn’t it? One wouldn’t care to stand in that old man’s path even now.”

“The honourable gentlemen are fortunate in being able to get such a good view of the Liberator of Thracia, since they have never seen him before,” observed the landlord. “Of late years he has been in bad health, and has lived on his estates at Praka, in the provinces, but no doubt he has come to Bellaviste to be present at the King’s coming of age. The festivities will take place in a fortnight, and it would be impossible to hold them with Drakovics absent. The honourable gentlemen are come to Bellaviste to view the ceremony?”

“No, we are merely passengers by the express,” said Mansfield. “Surely M. Drakovics has come up from the country a little early?”

“Ah, no doubt he needs time to recover from the fatigue of the journey. But I must say it surprises me that he should be here to witness the departure of his Excellency the Premier to attend the royal marriage at Molzau. From all that is said, there is no love lost between them.”

“Ah, the Premier—that is Count Mortimer, surely?” asked Usk, adding in English to Mansfield, “Now we shall have a chance of seeing my uncle as others see him. He is an Englishman, is he not?” he asked in German.

“That is so. A countryman of the honourable gentleman’s, I make no doubt?”

“Yes, we are English. Is Count Mortimer popular?”

“Ah, there you puzzle me, honourable sir. His Excellency is universally recognised as the greatest statesman in the Balkans—some say in Eastern Europe—and any measure advised by him is as good as carried already. But popular—no, I think not. His Excellency is a man without friends. At one time, so they say, he was often at the British Legation, and enjoyed himself occasionally among his own countrymen there; but years ago—when he became Premier, indeed—he broke off this habit. No doubt he felt that he must now become altogether a Thracian, and not risk the discovery of his plans by any foreigner, even one of his own people, in the hours of social intercourse. It is the same with his subordinates, who respect him while they fear him, but do not love him. Those who do their duty are well paid and liberally rewarded, but they say that Count Mortimer never hesitates to sacrifice a man for the sake of a scheme. That gives a feeling of insecurity, as the honourable gentleman no doubt sees? It is a very fine thing to have a share in setting the current of European policy, but not so fine for one’s dead body to be used as a stone in the embankment that determines its course—even at the will of his Excellency. And the common people do not like him because he does not care either for their applause or their disapproval, and also because—the honourable gentleman will not misunderstand me?—he has no vices. Drakovics every one knew. He would come down to the Hôtel de Ville and explain his policy and carry the people with him. He was violent often, and they said unscrupulous—he did not object to make money occasionally, he took his glass of brandy when he wanted it—but he was a man whom other men could understand. Count Mortimer is mysterious—not like a man at all. He lives on politics, he never unbends. Everything he says or does is directed to some end, like the movements of a machine, and produces, as surely as the machine does, the intended effect, but he never explains anything. He cares as little for hooting as for cheering, and as little for his supporters as for his opponents. Now you shall see. Here he comes.”

A carriage and pair was approaching. Facing the horses sat a small thin man whose hair and moustache were of that ashy shade peculiar to fair hair when it is turning grey. His eyes were keen, but devoid of expression, his face perfectly impassive. As he passed the café, the proprietor stepped forward, and bowed almost to the ground. The very slightest acknowledgment was given in return, barely more than the raising of a finger, and the Premier went on his way, pursued by many glances, some careless, some unfriendly, not one enthusiastic or cordial.

“The honourable gentleman sees?” asked the landlord triumphantly, red in the face from the exertion of his salute. “His Excellency would make the same response if any one cried, ‘Down with the Englishman!’ but the man would be in prison before another hour was over. Now you see why I said the people do not like him. They know that he despises them.”

“This is a sensation we never hoped to experience, Mansfield,” said Usk to his friend, when they had paid their bill, and were hurrying back to the station. “What is your opinion of my redoubtable relative?”

“I think he has got a very comfortable berth—for a man without friends or vices—so long as he keeps it, but a very hot one if he should ever be threatened with losing it.”

“Just what I think. It’s rather difficult to believe that he’s younger than my father, isn’t it? He might be any age, from his face.”

“Will the English gentlemen he pleased to come this way?” said a voice, as they entered the station, and they found themselves confronted by a tall dark man who had occupied the seat opposite the Premier in the carriage. “His Excellency Count Mortimer requests the honour of their company for part of the journey. I am his Excellency’s secretary. My name is Paschics.”

“Could he have seen us?” whispered Usk in surprise to Mansfield, as they followed the secretary. “It was only a moment, and he didn’t appear to notice us at all, but nobody else could know who we are.”

Emerging on the platform, they found Count Mortimer in the midst of the officials who had come to witness his departure. He shook hands with one or two, spoke a few words to some, and nodded to others, then entered his carriage, whither Paschics conducted the two young men. To their bewilderment, the Premier received them as strangers.

“I think I cannot be mistaken in supposing that you are English, gentlemen? It is a pleasure to an old exile to meet two fellow-countrymen in foreign parts. If you have no objection, may I count on the pleasure of your company as far as Vienna? The railway people will fetch your things, if you will tell them which your carriage was.”

Much mystified, Mansfield gave the required directions, and retreated into the background with Usk while Cyril stood at the window and conversed a little with his colleagues on the platform. When the train had started, however, he turned towards them, and broke into a laugh at the sight of their blank faces.

“Well, Usk, are you thinking that I am an unnatural relative? Why, my dear boy, I knew you at once from your likeness to your mother; but there is a look of Caerleon about you too. Introduce your friend, pray.”

“Old Mansfield, my guide and philosopher, otherwise bear-leader,” responded Usk promptly. “He is supposed to be preparing me for Trinity, and looking after my morals and manners by the way.”

“I fear, Mr Mansfield, that you have rather an arduous task?”

“I must admit, your Excellency, that Usk is a lazy beggar, but his people are set on his passing well, and I am doing my best to get him through.”

“You old fraud!” cried Usk. “Don’t believe him, Uncle Cyril. He has deluded my guileless parents into thinking him a kind of Admirable Crichton, whereas in reality he couldn’t get me into Trinity to save his life. The fact is, he wanted a trip abroad, so he pretended a willingness to take a ‘pup.’ I wanted the same thing, so I made out that I needed a coach, and our extremes met. We have been loafing about Asia Minor and Constantinople for nearly two months, and never done a stroke of work except when our consciences were stirred by trustful letters from home.”

“Really, your Excellency, it is not quite so bad as that——” protested Mansfield, but his pupil interrupted him.

“No, it isn’t. I was forgetting the plains of Troy. When we camped there, Uncle Cyril, I said that we ought simply to let the atmosphere soak in and have its full effect, while we gassed about the decadence of the Turkish Empire, or anything else that was as far removed as possible from the associations of the spot; but this fellow would insist—and it was perfectly spontaneous, too—on our going all over the place with the ‘Iliad’ and trying to realise the whole thing.”

“Rather a new idea,” remarked Cyril, “to utilise the site of Troy as part-preparation for an exam. But all this doesn’t explain my catching you talking politics to a shopkeeper in the street at Bellaviste.”

“Oh, the Governor told us on no account to invade Thracia, lest we should be suspected of revolutionary designs, but we couldn’t resist having a little turn when the train made such a long stay. And how do you know that we were talking politics, uncle?”

“I know the symptoms. You were discussing me. Well, I won’t ask you what you learned on that interesting subject. You see, of course, why I pretended not to know who you were when I sent for you.”

“Lest the Thracians should spot something suspicious in our being in the country?”

“Exactly; and particularly just now. Any one who was inclined to be nasty would find ample material for making trouble in your turning up just before the King comes of age, and when the Queen and he are away, so I thought it best to get you out of the place without provoking a scandal. You know, of course, that I am on my way to Molzau, to the wedding of Princess Theudelinde to Prince Karl Friedrich of Hercynia. It sounds inhospitable to say so, but I hope fervently that your destination is not the same as mine?”

“Oh, no. We wanted to go to Molzau and pretend to be special correspondents—old Mansfield has done something in that way once or twice, knows a man who’s third cousin to an editor, or something of the sort, you know”—Mansfield blushed and looked unhappy;—“we meant to fool around with kodaks and notebooks and make ourselves general nuisances in the orthodox style, but the Governor said that we were sure to be found out, and that it would be bad form.”

“It would—shockingly bad form, to say the least. You are going straight home then? By the bye, if you are disappointed at missing the sights at Molzau, I will send you photographs. Of course I shall have a set.”

“Thanks awfully, uncle. It was really Queen Ernestine that we wanted to see. She’s a tremendously pretty woman, isn’t she? Phil says that she remembers her, but I don’t believe it. Mother fell deeply in love with her too—that time we came to Thracia when we were little kids—and she has infected Mansfield and me with a desire to see her.”

“She is a handsome woman,” said Cyril temperately. “I am afraid it is impossible for you to get a glimpse of her on this journey, Usk, but it is not improbable that you may see her in England some day.”

“On a visit to the Queen, I suppose? Do you know, Uncle Cyril, our infant minds—Phil’s and mine, I mean—were tremendously stirred by your adventures when you escaped with her from Tatarjé. We were always playing at Uncle Cyril and the pretty lady. The game ended up with a wedding, I remember, but the Governor suddenly put a stop to that. He said that our talking of such a thing might do harm, and the game lost its interest afterwards.”

“Good old Caerleon!” was Cyril’s mental observation. “No doubt that was when he got the letter I sent him through Stratford, telling him the state of affairs, and begging him to do what he could for Ernestine in case I got wiped out. And so ‘the subsequent proceedings interested you no more’?” he asked aloud.

“Not much. You see, there were so few vicissitudes after that.”

“Your Excellency was happy in having no history apparently,” said Mansfield.

Cyril smiled, not quite as if he agreed with the remark. “Well, our politics have intervals of dulness, certainly,” he said. “But of late, as you may have noticed in the papers, we have been developing a regular Opposition. It’s a nuisance in some ways, but I am not altogether sorry, for it keeps our men up to the mark to know that there is some one watching to catch them tripping and quite ready to pull them up. The Opposition have got hold of a leader, too, a man named Milénovics, who was in the Cabinet until last year. He used to be a strong supporter of Drakovics, but transferred his affections with the rest when I became Premier, and I thought he was safe. I fancy it must have struck him suddenly that so long as I remained on the stage there was no room for my supporters in the principal part, but that if I were out of office, there might be an opening for youthful talent. However that may be, he ratted, and to-day the fragments of the Drakovics party are rallying round him. That, I think, is the only recent incident of interest in our tranquil political life in Thracia.”

But although Cyril dismissed the subject of Thracian politics so lightly, he had much to tell that was interesting in answer to the eager questions of both the young men, to whom it was a novel experience to be able to discuss European problems with one who was still actively engaged in their solution. The journey to Vienna appeared astonishingly short in his company, and such was the effect of his reminiscences, that when Usk and Mansfield had bidden him farewell and taken their homeward train, the former declared suddenly that, but for the dislike his parents would feel for such a course, he would seek a post under his uncle instead of going to Cambridge, only to discover that his friend was possessed by a like aspiration. As for Cyril, the thought of “the boys,” as he called them, disappeared quickly from his mind, for he had much to think of as he continued his journey to Molzau. The Emperors of Hercynia and Pannonia were both to be present at the royal wedding, and it had not needed a hint from Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, the Hercynian Chancellor, who was an old ally of Cyril’s, to warn him that an opportunity was likely to be found for discussing matters more serious than the marriage, and that a crisis might well be approaching in his life and Ernestine’s.

European politics were not at the moment in a very settled state, and this condition of disturbance had left its mark even on the wedding festivities. The Princess of Dardania, whose father, the late King of Mœsia, had been a Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, was duly invited to the marriage with her husband; but with the invitation came a strong hint that it was not advisable it should be accepted, and the Princess, who was a wise woman, stayed away. The reason for this in hospitable behaviour was twofold. In the first place, the Princess had just accomplished the betrothal of her elder daughter, Princess Bettine, to the young King of Mœsia, a cousin of her own, and son of a younger branch of the house of Schwarzwald-Molzau, whom her father had chosen to follow him on the throne. None of her successes ever came about by accident, and she had been preparing this step for years; but it was unfortunate that the Roumi province of Rhodope, which abutted on her husband’s principality, and which had been guaranteed by Europe in the enjoyment of administrative autonomy, should have chosen this particular moment for carrying through a small revolution on its own account, and declaring, without asking the leave or advice of the Powers, its intention of uniting itself to Dardania. This occurrence, also, was by no means wholly unforeseen by the Princess; but she objected to the conjunction of the two events because it directed the attention of Europe to her doings, and with this attention she could very well have dispensed. Ever since her runaway marriage with the Prince of Dardania, Princess Ottilie had devoted herself with great singleness of purpose to avenging herself upon her father’s family for their attempt to force her into a marriage with Caerleon, then King of Thracia, and she had combined with this object that of the aggrandisement of her husband’s dynasty. The means of gratifying both ambitions she had obtained by ranging herself resolutely on the side of Scythia in all European questions—which meant, of course, that her husband and Dardania followed her lead.

Not long after her marriage, the Princess became a convert to the Orthodox faith, and all her children were brought up in it—a fact which caused much wrath among her own relations and considerable embarrassment to her husband, who, although a devoted adherent of the Eastern Church and a cousin of the Emperor of Scythia, was in no sense a bigot, and feared, somewhat unnecessarily, that it might be thought he had brought pressure on his wife to induce her to embrace his own creed. Having thus taken her stand in such a way as to cause the maximum of annoyance to the Germanic Powers, and win the largest amount of sympathy from the Scythian Imperial family, the Princess had proceeded to lay the plans which she was now working out. Her elder son would succeed his father in the principality, and a Scythian alliance was already arranged for him; it only remained, therefore, to enlarge his dominions in every possible way. But far more important were the marriage projects devised for the benefit of the Princesses Bettine and Lida. With her daughters seated on the thrones of the two Balkan kingdoms, Princess Ottilie looked forward to finding the whole peninsula in a measure under her control, thus enabling her to form a confederation which could defy the Western Powers, and would need to be reckoned with by Scythia. The changing of her husband’s coronet into a kingly crown, and the putting forward of a claim to the heirship of the European portion of the Roumi Empire, were among the visions which floated before her eyes—not yet planned out in detail, but affording endless possibilities of activity.

And now, as she recognised without difficulty, her schemes were threatened with failure. The Germanic Powers had taken alarm at the two latest evidences of her ambition and its success, and the gathering at Molzau would be occupied in laying plans for her overthrow. The Schwarzwald-Molzaus would muster strongly, regarding her as a renegade, and eager to avenge the sedulous slights of years; the Emperors of Hercynia and Pannonia, whose one anxiety was the maintenance of the balance of power in the Balkans as the security for European peace, would spare no effort of diplomacy to thwart her; and Cyril, her old enemy, would have the game in his own hands. Unless she could forestall him, that is—for the Princess of Dardania was not in the habit of leaving the game in the hands of any opponent.

“Let me see,” she mused; “is it possible to bind Ernestine and Michael before they can be approached by the enemy? No. Ernestine is as deeply committed to her son’s marriage with Lida as is possible, short of an actual engagement, and to broach the project to Michael would have a very ugly appearance while he is actually under age. Only a fortnight, and everything would be right! Well, I must try delay. If we can tide over the fortnight, Michael’s betrothal shall be announced simultaneously with his assuming the reins of government. It is evident that I must distract the attention of the assembled diplomats from my delinquencies to the indiscretions of some one else—draw a red herring across the trail, in fact. I regret to be obliged to sacrifice you, my dear Ernestine, but I see that the moment has come for making use of that interesting piece of information which I have been keeping so long. You and your lover must be denounced. It will not be the first time that the apple of discord has been thrown into the midst of a wedding-feast, and I am very much mistaken if your friend Count Mortimer is consulted on the affairs of Europe when it has once made its appearance. Even if his presumption is ever pardoned, it will not be for a long while hence.”

The next point to be considered was the manner of the disclosure. To write to either of the Emperors or to her Schwarzwald-Molzau kindred would be to ensure failure, for her letter would be regarded as a palpable attempt to break up the concert of the Powers. The secret must be revealed by an apparent accident, and if possible by means of some other person. The person on whom her choice fell finally was the Princess Amalie of Weldart, the canoness, her own aunt and Ernestine’s, who was known as “Tant’ Amalie” to half the royal personages of Europe. In spite, or perhaps in consequence of, her semi-conventual status, the Princess Amalie took great delight in the weddings of her many relations, and was scarcely ever known to miss attending one. She was also an authority on the subject of the etiquette proper for such occasions, and her kindred invariably consulted her as to the descent and consequent precedence of the innumerable ramifications of their family trees, and the complicated Court ceremonies which were necessary in German eyes almost to the validity of the marriage itself. To her the Princess wrote—a pleasant chatty letter, describing the doings of her children, who kept her so busy that she could not find time even to come to Molzau for dearest Theudelinde’s wedding, and commenting on such details of the dresses and the company as had reached her.

“I wonder what you will think of your new nephew,” she remarked towards the close. “I call him new, because when you saw him before, I am sure you never thought of him in this light. I shall be interested to hear whether Ernestine takes advantage of the family gathering to introduce Count Mortimer as her future husband. It is a task that will need a good deal of courage, but no doubt the bridegroom’s self-possession and urbanity of manner will smooth over any awkwardness. I have it on unimpeachable authority that if they are not married already, they will be so as soon as Michael has been declared of age. If Ernestine has not announced her intention by the time this reaches you, pray say nothing to any one. The Emperor Sigismund would be very likely to take the matter up in an unsympathetic spirit, and it would be sure to reach him if you told any one about it. In any case, do not mention my name. I suppose it is incautious in me to have said anything before hearing that Ernestine has broken the ice, but I know that it is quite safe to make an exception in your favour, for there is no one who keeps a secret so wonderfully. You will not get me into trouble with Ernestine, I am sure.”

To say that the Princess Amalie was surprised by the little item of news thus tacked on at the end of her niece’s letter would be wilfully to understate the case. She was thunderstruck for fully two minutes, and only recovered owing to the necessity she felt of communicating the tidings to some one else. As the Princess of Dardania had remarked, her method of keeping a secret was truly wonderful, but she was mindful of the injunction not to give her informant’s name, and tore off the signature carefully from the letter before proceeding in search of some of her relations, preserving the letter itself in order to exhibit it as a guarantee of her good faith. As it happened, the first person she met was the Emperor of Pannonia, and knowing that, like his brother monarch of Hercynia, he prided himself on the rigidity with which he maintained the barriers separating the caste to which he belonged from the lower world, she congratulated herself on being able to astonish him with her appalling news before it had been so much as breathed to any one else.

“Why, what is the matter, Tant’ Amalie?” asked the Emperor, as he saw the old lady approaching him in eager haste, with her cap on one side and the letter clasped tightly to her bosom. “Has anything happened to spoil the programme?”

“Oh, my dear cousin, I have received such a shock!” panted Princess Amalie. “Had you any idea that my niece Ernestine was intending to marry her Prime Minister—that Englishman, the Mortimer?”

“Oh, come, that’s an old story. Drakovics set it afloat just before his dismissal, in order to prejudice Count Mortimer in the eyes of the world. But there was no truth in it. Your brother went to Bellaviste to inquire into the matter, and was quite satisfied that there was nothing wrong.”

“My dear cousin, I know all about my brother’s visit to Thracia, and if there was nothing wrong then, M. Drakovics is all the more to blame, for he must have put the idea into their heads. I learn now, from an authority I cannot doubt, that it is probable—almost certain—that they are married already, but that if this is not the case, they will marry as soon as Michael comes of age.”

“This is a serious matter, Tant’ Amalie. Who is your informant?”

“My niece—oh, I forgot. I must not give you her name. But I assure you that she has the best means of knowing the truth.”

“Perhaps you would not object to my seeing her letter?”

Princess Amalie congratulated herself on the foresight which had prepared her for this demand as she handed over the mutilated letter without demur. The merest glance at the opposite page showed the Emperor from whom the news had come, and the discovery gave him no surprise. Passing from the Princess of Dardania’s description of her rural life at Praka, he read the important paragraph carefully, and restored the letter to its owner.

“Now, can you doubt it any longer?” asked the old lady vehemently. “I know you did not believe me just now—you thought that I was exaggerating, or had made some mistake—but you see that it is quite clear. One cannot even give Ernestine the benefit of the doubt. Is it not shameful?” and the black lace of Princess Amalie’s headgear seemed to bristle with indignation as she prepared to pass on and denounce the culprit before a new audience. But the Emperor made no movement to allow her to leave him.

“I must ask you to spare me a moment longer, Tant’ Amalie. What steps would you suggest ought to be taken in such a matter as this?”

“Steps, my dear cousin!” The word was far too mild. Princess Amalie would have expected the Emperor to ask what punishments ought to be inflicted on the two offenders. “I suppose——” she realised suddenly that it was not easy at the present day to order a presumptuous Minister to the block, and hesitated. “Of course you can imprison him in a fortress,” she said, more confidently, “and deprive Ernestine of her regency and sentence her to live in retirement. All her family will support you, I am sure. She, a Princess of Weldart, and willing to disgrace herself by marrying beneath her!”

“I fear there might be difficulties in the way of executing this salutary discipline,” said the Emperor, with a perfectly grave face. “Count Mortimer has relations in high places in England, you see, and they might think we were going beyond our powers in dealing so severely with the sovereign and Prime Minister of an independent state. On the whole, Tant’ Amalie, I think it will be well if you leave the matter in my hands for the present.”

“You will allow Ernestine to talk you over,” said Princess Amalie suspiciously.

“You think that the honour of our order is not safe in my hands, I see. Well, if I promise to associate Sigismund of Hercynia with myself in the consideration of the matter, will that satisfy you?”

“My dear cousin, I would not presume to doubt you, but I am not unaware,” and Princess Amalie looked extremely knowing, “what an effect the sight of a pretty woman in tears produces on the firmness of most men. Still, if the Emperor Sigismund is with you——”

“You think that no tears would melt him? Well, Tant’ Amalie, is it settled? You say nothing to any one until we have inquired into the matter?”

“Not to any one? Oh, nothing in public, of course. But just to one or two——”

“Absolutely nothing to any one—on pain of my severe displeasure.”

“Of course, if you take that tone, my dear cousin—— But still, I think I have the right to know something of your reasons——”

“My reason is simple. We do not know that there is any truth in the story. That they are not married I am perfectly certain, for Mortimer is far too prudent a man to cut the ground from under his feet by putting himself so flagrantly in the wrong, and the rest of the tale may be equally false. Would you subject your niece to the pain and scandal of such a charge before it is proved to be true?”

“I think that she deserves any humiliation if she can stoop to contemplate such a misalliance,” was the stout reply.

“But if she is not contemplating any such thing? And even if it should be true, we must deal with the matter prudently. To stir up ill-feeling either in England or Thracia is not to be thought of at this moment. Rest assured, Tant’ Amalie, that the honour of your house is safe with us, and tell no one what you have told me. Especially do not answer that letter at present.”

He passed on, leaving the old lady not at all satisfied. The fact of possessing such a secret and being obliged to keep it hidden was almost worse than the feeling that Ernestine was escaping so much of the obloquy which she deserved, but the charge so solemnly given was not to be disregarded if there was still to be a welcome for Princess Amalie at the Pannonian Court. This consideration acted effectually in helping her to preserve the secret, and the wedding and its attendant festivities passed off without any one’s becoming aware of the matter. Ernestine and her son were treated with the most marked cordiality by all the royal personages assembled, and Cyril shared in the favour accorded to them. He knew the reason for this, and attributed it less to the personal friendliness of the entertainers than to their desire to detach Thracia from the possible Balkan Confederation projected by the Princess of Dardania. For the diplomacy which threw King Michael continually into the society of the younger members of the Hercynian Imperial family, however, he saw a further reason, at which he smiled as one not ill-pleased at his own penetration—a smile which was reflected on the face of the absent Princess, to whom Ernestine had written in all innocence that “Sigismund and his wife are so kind to Michael, and he is continually riding or bicycling with Frederike and Hermine and their youngest brother, but he says that they are dreadfully dull, and that Bettine and Lida are worth dozens of them.”

Affairs were in this state when, on the evening preceding the departure of the royal and imperial guests from the Schloss at Molzau, Cyril was invited by his friend Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal to come to his room and talk European politics when every one else had gone to bed. This request from the Hercynian Chancellor did not mislead Cyril in the least, and he neither felt nor showed any surprise when he was conducted by means of a secret staircase from the Baron’s sitting-room to one on a different floor, and found there the Emperors of Hercynia and Pannonia and the Grand-Duke of Schwarzwald-Molzau, who was brother-in-law to one Emperor and cousin to the other, while their relationships had just been further complicated by the marriage of his daughter to a Hercynian Prince. The gathering was evidently intended to be a secret, for the one candle which lighted the room was placed so as not to throw the shadow of any of the occupants on the window-blind, and Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal reconnoitred the passage outside as soon as he had admitted Cyril, and remained on guard at the door during the whole of the interview.

“Count,” said the Emperor of Pannonia, “we have requested your presence here this evening for the purpose of discussing the situation in the Balkans, especially in so far as it has been affected by recent events in Dardania. Your position as the faithful friend and servant of the late King of Thracia, and the way in which you have exercised the duties of your responsible office during the minority of his son, entitle you to our fullest confidence and esteem.”

“My late brother,” said the Grand-Duke, as Cyril bowed, “assured me more than once, Count, that in his opinion you would prove yourself a most efficient guardian of European peace, and this confidence has not been misplaced.”

“Come, come,” said the Emperor Sigismund, who had been moving restlessly in his chair, “we are wasting time. Be good enough to answer a few questions, Count.”

“At your Majesty’s pleasure,” returned Cyril, resisting an impulse to bring his heels together with a click and stand at attention, so vividly did the Emperor’s tone recall that of the drill-sergeant at Eton long ago.

“You have considered the bearing of the late events in Dardania upon Balkan politics as a whole, Count?”

“I have, sir.”

“And what, in your opinion, do they foreshadow?”

“The confederation, sir, of the three states under the hegemony of Dardania.”

“As Premier and Foreign Minister of Thracia, have you taken any steps towards entering such a confederation, or expressed your willingness to do so?”

“Neither, sir.”

“Is it your intention to do so in the future? No? Then upon what are the promoters of this scheme relying as an inducement to Thracia to join them?”

“If I am to give my candid opinion, sir, they are relying upon the means which have already proved successful in the case of Mœsia.”

“You mean that a marriage is projected between your sovereign and the younger daughter of the Prince and Princess of Dardania?”

“That is my impression, sir.”

“Have any steps been taken, either publicly or privately, towards bringing about this marriage?”

“None, sir, so far as I am aware.”

“It is possible that communications on the subject have been exchanged without your knowledge?”

“It is possible, sir, but I have purposely refrained from alluding to the subject in conversation with her Majesty the Queen-Regent. My wish was to leave myself a free hand in the matter.”

“You were very wise. Purely personal and family arrangements need not be regarded in such a case. Well, Count, this marriage must not be allowed to take place.”

“Your Majesty’s opinion is my own.”

“What steps would you suggest as likely to prevent it? Speak freely.”

“In my choice of weapons, sir, I would take a lesson from the enemy.”

“In other words,” said the Emperor of Pannonia, “you would counteract the plans of the Princess of Dardania by arranging another project of marriage for the young King. A marriage with whom, Count?”

“With an Imperial Princess of Germanic birth, sir, belonging preferably to the illustrious Hercynian house.”

“You aim high for your sovereign. Why an Imperial Princess?”

“In order, sir, that the splendour of the alliance may reconcile the nation to a Queen not belonging to the Orthodox faith.”

“Good!” interrupted the Emperor of Hercynia. “But why a member of my family?”

“That the complications might be avoided which would arise from the introduction of a third form of religion into the Thracian Court, sir.”

“I see,” said the Grand-Duke; “that is well thought of You have considered the matter on all sides, Count. Have you gone so far as to think of any particular lady in connection with the subject.”

“Your Royal Highness asks the question merely for form’s sake. The Princess Frederike of Hercynia alone fulfils all the conditions, so far as I am aware.”

“Are you making proposals for my daughter’s hand on behalf of your master, Count?” snapped the Emperor of Hercynia.

“I have no authority to take such a step, sir. My place is merely to offer the suggestion for which your Majesty asked.”

“He is right,” said the Emperor of Pannonia. “Why should we stand on ceremony in a secret council such as this? Count Mortimer’s solution of the difficulty is the same as that which occurred to ourselves, and provided that the preliminaries are arranged now, everything can be done in due form later. But, Count, it is important for us to know whether you can ensure the acceptance of the arrangement by Thracia. The hand of a Princess of Hercynia must not be made the subject of factious discussion.”

“I can answer for the acceptance by the country of any measure proposed by myself, sir, if the precautions I have suggested are observed. The danger lies in a different direction.”

“You mean that the Princess of Dardania is likely to set herself in opposition to the scheme? But is it in her power to do any harm?”

“That depends upon our method of procedure, sir. What was your Majesty’s intention with respect to the settlement of the matter?”

“What course would you recommend, Count?”

“There is no time like the present, sir. My advice would be to arrive at a distinct understanding with her Majesty the Queen-Regent, and allow the affair to come to the knowledge of all the royal personages here before they leave Molzau. No formal announcement could be made as yet, owing to the youth of both parties, but it would quickly become known that the marriage was in prospect, and the desired impression would be produced.”

The Emperor of Pannonia shook his head. “Your advice is excellent, Count, but the understanding must not become known before the King is of age. It would appear that the influence of his family had been used to entrap him into an engagement before he was old enough to judge for himself. One must pay some heed to popular illusions, even in matters of state; and you know that in the Princess of Dardania we have to deal with an unscrupulous woman, who will seize with avidity on any opportunity that may offer itself for casting odium on the decision at which we have arrived.”

“This must be as your Majesty pleases, but I fear that the Princess of Dardania is the only person who will gain by the delay. With the arrangement once ratified, I should not be afraid to defy her misrepresentations.”

“The matter is not in your hands, Count,” growled the Emperor of Hercynia. “My daughter’s marriage cannot be made the talk of Europe.”

Cyril bowed. “May I at least venture to entreat your Majesties to represent the matter to the Queen-Regent, and show her its importance, in order that her voice may be entirely on our side in the matter?”

“Nothing shall induce me to entreat my cousin Ernestine to allow her son to marry my daughter for the sake of European peace,” was the Emperor’s retort.

“It is unnecessary to parade these family differences,” interrupted the Emperor of Pannonia. “No, Count; I think you will see that the suggestion cannot come either from the Emperor Sigismund or myself. It is for you to represent the matter to Queen Ernestine, and convince her of its vital importance. If we had not believed you capable of bringing her to regard it in the desired light, you would not have been admitted to our private counsels.”

“Your Majesty may rely upon my doing my best, although I fear I shall be severely handicapped by being obliged to act ostensibly on my own motion. If even a hint could be given to the Queen——”

“It is impossible, Count. But we leave the matter with confidence in your hands. And a word in your ear. It has come to our knowledge that you entertain certain views—or aspirations—the nature of which is at present immaterial. If this matter of your sovereign’s marriage is arranged to the satisfaction of all parties concerned, and conducted with the zeal and promptness for which you are so well known, I can promise for myself—and also for the Emperor Sigismund and my brother-in-law—that these plans of yours shall receive the most sympathetic consideration, and be furthered in so far as the exigencies of state allow. We should be loth to lose your influence on the side of peace in the Balkans.”

“I am overwhelmed by your Majesty’s condescension,” was Cyril’s guarded reply, but as he descended the secret staircase his heart was beating with unwonted speed. “A bid! a distinct bid for my support!” he said to himself. “With the two Emperors and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus on our side, Ernestine and I could face the world without a qualm. How did they come to know of our little affair, I wonder? Well, it doesn’t signify—some devilry of Princess Ottilie’s, I suppose. If they will recognise our marriage, and help me to get the Constitution altered, so that I can keep my place in Thracia, that is all I want. It would scarcely look well for me to introduce the Bill to amend the Constitution myself, though, even after the Powers had given their consent. Mirkovics could do it, and Ernestine and I would absent ourselves delicately from the kingdom while it was being discussed, and take a honeymoon trip. But talk of counting your chickens before they are hatched! The recognition has to be earned yet, and the Princess won’t allow me to do it without a big fight, I foresee. Well—— to the victor the spoils.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
A COMBAT À OUTRANCE.

“Good morning, ladies! Is her Majesty disengaged at present?”

“Her Majesty will see you, Count, I do not doubt,” and Anna Mirkovics rose to inquire the Queen’s pleasure.

“You are early, Count,” said the other lady, who was Paula von Hilfenstein no longer, having married the eldest son of Prince Mirkovics some seven years before. Her sister-in-law, in spite of the large fortune she inherited from her mother, was still single, but more, people said, by reason of her whole-hearted devotion to the Queen than from any lack of suitors.

“Yes, Princess, I am early; but there are many things to settle.”

“So I should imagine, since the Queen has been seeing people all morning. You are arranging the details of next week’s festivities, I suppose? I hope you are allotting plenty of room to us ladies? I have ordered the most exquisite gowns imaginable from Paris, and it would be heart-rending to have them crushed.”

“Your wishes are law, Princess, and I will give orders, if you like, that twice as much space shall be allotted to you as to any of the other ladies, so that your gowns may be properly displayed. That is the real secret of your anxiety, is it not?”

“Her Majesty will receive you, Count,” said Anna Mirkovics, returning and interrupting her colleague’s laughing disclaimer, and Cyril passed on into Ernestine’s presence. She was sitting in a low chair, looking white and tired, for the Court had only returned from Molzau the day before, and there were endless details to be arranged for the celebration the following week of her son’s attainment of his majority, but the soft flush which never failed to appear at Cyril’s approach crept slowly up her cheek as he kissed her hand.

“I know you would not have asked for an interview unless there was something important to tell me,” she said.

“You are right in supposing my errand to be of importance, but I have nothing to tell—merely a suggestion to make. I want to speak to you about your boy’s marriage.”

Ernestine sat upright, and looked at him in dismay. “Michael’s marriage!” she cried. “But he is only a boy. We need not think of that for five or six years yet—certainly not for four.”

“We need not under ordinary circumstances, I agree with you. But there are reasons in the present case which render it advisable——”

“It is absurd, Cyril. I won’t hear of it. Michael is far too young. He doesn’t know his own mind. He——”

“My dear Ernestine, please hear me out. Nothing could be further from my mind than to suggest an immediate marriage for him, or even a definite betrothal. But it is highly desirable that it should be generally understood that his choice—or our choice for him, if you like—is fixed.”

“Oh, that is not so bad, of course,” said Ernestine, trying to speak calmly. “But,” her tone thrilled with anxiety, “upon whom does your choice fall?”

“On the only possible person, Princess Frederike of Hercynia, your cousin, the Emperor’s daughter.”

“You know that I detest Sigismund, and don’t care for his wife. Nothing shall induce me to allow Michael to marry one of their girls.”

“The feeling seems to be mutual,” thought Cyril, remembering his midnight meeting with the Emperors. “You must not allow your little differences with your cousin to prejudice you against his children,” he added aloud. “I made it my business when at Molzau to observe and find out all I could about the Hercynian Princesses, and I am convinced that they are most excellent and amiable young people, and very well brought up.”

“Well brought up!” said Ernestine scornfully. “They are dull, Cyril—fearfully dull. Michael cannot endure them.”

“That speaks badly for his taste. But as you said just now, he is only a boy, and doesn’t know his own mind. All we have to do is to bring him in contact with Princess Frederike in due time, and propinquity will do the rest.”

“I wish you would not talk like that. I tell you it is impossible. Michael must be allowed to choose for himself.”

“You don’t seem to perceive that by my plan he will choose for himself—as far as any monarch can. You would not wish him to choose a shop-girl or a village maiden, I presume? Try to look at it sensibly, Ernestine. There need be no fuss and no difficulty. Your cousin will write to congratulate you on your son’s coming of age, of course. In your answer, you hint that it is your hope that your families may one day be more nearly connected, and you make the same remark to the Hercynian Envoy when he presents the Emperor’s letter. It is merely the expression of a pious wish on your part—doesn’t even bind you if Michael turns rusty when he gets older, but it tides over this crisis, and makes a good impression. Why, in the name of all that is unreasonable, should you hang back?”

“Because—oh, I must tell you—because my cousin Ottilie and I have arranged for years that he is to marry her daughter Lida. There, you know the truth now!”

“And how long has this beautiful arrangement been in force?” Nothing in Cyril’s tone showed that he had suspected its existence for a long time past.

“Since Michael was three years old. We were at Tatarjé at the time—it was before you and I became friends—and we determined to bring them up together as far as possible, that they might really learn to know one another.”

“And so this is the explanation of all the running wild in woods, and so on?” said Cyril indulgently. “Upon my word! it’s a very pretty idea, Ernestine. Pity that it’s so utterly out of the question.”

“Out of the question! Cyril, I have promised Ottilie. It is to be.”

“Oh, indeed, and what becomes of Michael’s youth, and the impossibility of his knowing his own mind, and so on? It seems to me that you are trying to pin him down pretty strictly to one young lady.”

“It is quite in a different way. They have been destined for each other nearly all their lives.” (“Probably quite all, by Princess Ottilie,” interjected Cyril, sotto voce.) “You cannot say that I have entered into the arrangement upon impulse. I was sacrificed in marriage to political considerations, and I determined solemnly that my son’s life should not be spoilt in the same way. You helped to sacrifice me, and that is why I cannot accept your advice about Michael. He shall make his own choice, and fall in love properly with the girl he is to marry.”

“But how are you going to make him fall in love with Princess Lida? It is the last idea that would come into his head after their having been brought up together like brother and sister. More probably he will fall in love with some maid of honour old enough to be his aunt.”

“Cyril, what a coarse thing to say!” Ernestine spoke with chilling disapproval, but it was evident that the shaft had gone home, and Cyril improved his opportunity before she had time to recover herself.

“I know you don’t like it if I venture to say a word against your cousin, Ernestine, but at the risk of displeasing you I must tell you this. She is the champion intriguer of Europe, and this projected marriage is merely the finishing touch to her schemes for bringing the whole of the Balkan States under the control of members of her family. She has almost succeeded in plunging the Powers into war already, by the annexation of Rhodope and the betrothal of her elder daughter to young Albrecht of Mœsia, and for years she has been trying to alienate Michael from you and attach him to herself in order to ensure the success of her plans—a success which would in all probability lead at once to the Great War.”

Ernestine sat silent, with the tears rolling down her face. Ottilie’s schemes and their probable result had never been presented to her so baldly before, although an inkling of their nature had forced itself into her mind. But even now, taken at a disadvantage as she was, she refused to yield her point.

“It is very dreadful, Cyril, and perhaps if I had known it all at the time, I would not have entered into the compact. But Michael and Lida shall not be sacrificed now. I will not break the children’s hearts.”

“My dear Ernestine, pray remember their youth. As you said, it is impossible that Michael can have fixed his heart on her as yet. Unless—surely you have not put the idea into his head?”

“No, indeed. We wanted it all to be quite natural and unprompted. They were to grow up together, and drift into love gently.”

“Well, then, the current must be diverted into another channel, that is all. There need be no difficulty about it. When I am gone, send for your boy, and talk to him about next week. Oh, you know the kind of talk I mean. What do women say on such occasions? Then when you have got him into a suitably softened frame of mind, just let out how happy it would make you if you thought he would one day bring home a bride from Hercynia——”

“But it would not. It would make me miserable.”

“If it preserved the peace of Europe, and thwarted your cousin’s ambitious schemes? Besides, Ernestine, this affair has a further significance for us. If we can spoil the Princess of Dardania’s great plan, the Emperors will look kindly upon our marriage.”

“You expect me to sell my son as the price of my own happiness?”

“No, I don’t. I know you far too well to expect you to do anything so businesslike. But what is the good of our rubbing each other the wrong way like this? Think of me a little, even if the prospect offers no temptation to you. Won’t you allow that to find all I have worked for suddenly within my reach is a thing to tempt a man? I don’t ask you to force your son’s inclination—only to let him know which way your wishes turn. Is that so very much to do for me? I do not often ask a favour from you.”

“No; but when you do they are so very hard to grant. Still, I will moot the matter to Michael, as you wish it so much, Cyril. It cannot well do any harm. But I must wait until he returns from Praka.”

“You don’t mean to say that he is at Praka now? I thought he came home with you, and was in the Palace.”

“No; we separated at Witska, and I came on without him. He wanted to see his cousins again, and besides, he heard that Ottilie had been slighted in some way with regard to the invitation to Molzau, and nothing would satisfy him but going to sympathise with her.”

“This is very bad, Ernestine.” Cyril was seriously disturbed. “If your cousin’s suspicions are aroused as to anything that passed at Molzau, she is quite capable of ruining our plans. You must telegraph to Michael immediately, and desire him to return without delay. I would advise you to send Pavlovics and some of his suite to fetch him—for he is getting too old to be running about the country with only a servant or two—but the Princess might get wind of our intentions and forestall us.”

“But even if Michael is heart-whole, Cyril, and does not object to the idea of marrying Frederike in the course of time, what about Ottilie? How can I ever explain the change to her? And there is no explanation. I am simply breaking my solemn promise.”

“Refer her Royal Highness to me, if you like. We are old acquaintances, and I may be able to remind her of a promise or two that she has herself broken. Lay the blame on Europe, tell her that you object to the honour of being one of the causes of the Great War—but send for your son at once.”

“I will. The telegram shall go immediately.”

The Queen kept her word, without taking any one into her counsels; yet only an hour or so later a second telegram left Bellaviste, also for Praka, but addressed to the Princess of Dardania. The contents were in cipher, and translated, read thus:—

“Mortimer had long private interview this morning with Queen, who was afterwards observed to have been weeping. A message of recall was despatched to King instantly on M.’s departure. Be on your guard.

D.”

The Princess of Dardania received this missive early in the afternoon. When she had read it, she glanced sharply at the telegram addressed to King Michael, which was lying on her writing-table awaiting his return. The young people had started out in the morning for a picnic, chaperoned by an elderly lady-in-waiting and Princess Lida’s French governess, and the Princess was to meet them with tea at a point agreed upon on their homeward way. As she realised the situation she stretched out her hand towards Ernestine’s telegram, but withdrew it again quickly.

“No, there is no need,” she said to herself. “Drakovics has given me all the information I require, and Ernestine will not attempt an explanation in a telegram. But I think, my dear Michael, that on the whole it will be as well for you not to receive your mother’s message until you return here.”

It was not, therefore, until the picnic-party had reached the villa again that the Princess informed King Michael casually that there was a telegram waiting for him. Before going out she had placed the envelope in the hall, so that it might appear to have arrived during her absence, and she passed on into her sitting-room as she spoke. She was still standing by the table and taking off her gloves when the door was flung open, and King Michael burst in.

“Tant’ Ottilie, my mother wants me to go home at once. She says there are so many things to arrange which she can’t settle without me. And I have only been here one day, and not seen you a bit. It’s shameful—intolerable!”

“Why, Michael, you ought to feel flattered that your mother can’t do without you. It seems very hard that you should be obliged to leave so soon, just when Lida and Bettine had been planning so many delightful excursions, too; but then——”

“I’m not going. My mother doesn’t really want me. She has Count Mortimer to help her with all her fads——”

“Oh, hush, my dear boy! I can’t allow you to speak of your mother in that way, nor can I keep you here when she sends for you. It would appear that I was encouraging you in disobedience. But it is quite evident that it is too late to start to-night, so telegraph to say that you will leave by the nine o’clock train in the morning. And I have a plan. I will come to Bellaviste with you, for I am not satisfied about the decorations I have ordered for the villa next week. I want this house to testify—even though we are away—how much we love our dear Michael and rejoice in his coming to his own, and therefore I must go and see how the devices look before they are quite finished. But don’t tell your mother I am coming. It will be a little surprise for her.”

“When I am really King, I shall stay here as much as I like,” grumbled the boy, moving unwillingly to the door; but as he reached it he found the Princess’s eyes fixed sadly upon him. “Tant’ Ottilie!” he cried, rushing back to her, “what is the matter? Why do you look so sad?”

“Dear Michael, it is nothing—merely that it grieves me to lose you again so soon,” but again and again during the evening King Michael found that fixed, sorrowful gaze upon him. As Cyril had remarked three years before, he cared as yet far more for the Princess of Dardania than for her daughter, and her evident sadness made him miserable. Not until the next morning, however, did an opportunity of asking an explanation offer itself, but as soon as the Princess and he were established in the royal saloon for the journey to Bellaviste, and the attendants dismissed to their separate car, he recurred to the subject immediately.

“Oh, Tant’ Ottilie, tell me what it is that makes you so unhappy. I cannot bear you to look sad. Is it anything that I have done?”

“Dear Michael, no. Will you not believe me when I assure you that it is only sorrow at losing you? It is like losing one of my own sons—almost as bad as when Kazimir first went to join the Scythian army.”

“But that was for such a long time, and I shall come back as soon as ever all the fuss is over. You don’t imagine that I would let anything keep me away?”

“My dear boy, you will not find yourself your own master then any more than you are now—in fact, you will have even less time at your disposal. No, we have been very happy, but we must learn to look upon that particular kind of happiness as past and gone for us.”

“Tant’ Ottilie, how can you say such things? I shall almost live here.”

“I am afraid Count Mortimer will have something to say to that.”

“Count Mortimer? What has he to do with it? Surely,” as a thought occurred to him, “you don’t think that it was through him that my mother sent for me home?”

“It looks very like it. She made no objection to your coming—did she? but as soon as she has had time to consult Count Mortimer, she recalls you.”

“It’s too bad. But after next week he shall see whether I——”

“Oh, no insubordination, Michael, please! But come and look out of this window. We shall pass the villa in a moment, and you will like to have a last look at it.”

“It is not my last look. It shall not be. Oh, there are the girls!”

Yes, there they were, standing on the terrace which bounded the grounds of the villa on this side, Princess Bettine demure and dignified—she had cultivated dignity largely since her betrothal had conferred upon her the distinction of being a kind of modern Helen, whose charms were not unlikely to plunge Europe into war—and Princess Lida leaning forward and supporting herself by the branch of a tree as she waved her handkerchief vigorously.

“I am glad they came to see you off,” said the Princess, adding with a sigh, “you will never meet them quite on the same footing again, Michael.”

“Oh, why is everything so horribly mysterious and doleful, Tant’ Ottilie? You talk as if things were all going to be different now, and Lida is just as bad. She ran away when I wanted to say good-bye to her, and wouldn’t let me kiss her, and was as crotchety as she could be.”

“Michael, you are not in earnest? Oh, my poor innocent child, am I too late? No, no, don’t mind what I say, Michael. Forget it—promise me you will forget it. Promise faithfully to banish it from your mind, dear boy.”

“Of course I promise, if you wish it, Tant’ Ottilie,” replied the King, a good deal astonished, but the Princess did not appear to be satisfied.

“I ought to have thought of this. How could I be so culpably blind? But she is so young—it seemed quite safe. Poor little Lida! you will have to learn your lesson early. And Bettine is so thoroughly happy!”

“What do you mean, Tant’ Ottilie?” asked the puzzled boy. “Is any one unkind to Lida? I daresay she will feel lonely just at first when Bettine is married, but I shall come very often, and——”

“My dear Michael, you don’t understand anything about it. You are far too young—but Lida is younger, and she—— Oh, it is hard for her to be sacrificed at her age! But I blame myself. Your mother was wiser. She saw that mischief might happen, when I only thought of you all as children together. But I am punished. If only Lida had not to suffer for my blindness!”

“But she shall not suffer!” cried King Michael. “What is the matter with her? You are not going to send her to Scythia, like Kazimir?”

“Into the army, I suppose? No, Michael; your path and Lida’s will lie very far apart in future. The thought of her suffering need not trouble you; you will know little about her, and care less. You will marry one of the Hercynian Princesses, and live an exemplary domestic life——”

“What! one of those girls with the light-blue eyes and the hair like tow? No, thank you, Tant’ Ottilie. I had as soon marry a doll.”

“My dear boy, you will marry the wife who is chosen for you, without reference to your tastes, and she will not approve of your running down to Praka every now and then. So we shall be left without you, and I shall lose Bettine, and then I suppose Lida will go, for she too must learn, poor child, that with kings and princesses marriage is an affair not of love but of state, no matter what illusions one may have cherished in one’s youth——”

“Look here, Tant’ Ottilie. I have an idea. Why shouldn’t I marry Lida?—when we’re grown up, I mean, of course. It would be better than Frederike or Hermine, at any rate, and we need not do it for a good long time.”

The manner of the proposal was not flattering, but the boy’s face was suffused with an honest blush, and the Princess could have kissed him there and then. Yet her response was not encouraging.

“My dear boy, you must not think of such a thing! Count Mortimer—I mean, of course, your mother—would never allow it. And pray don’t breathe such an idea to any one. It would be said that I had taken advantage of your stay with us to entrap you into marrying my daughter.”

“But I could swear you didn’t. You never even suggested the idea, much less mentioned the word. So if you were thinking of making Lida marry some prince who would be unkind to her, and that is what was making you miserable, you can feel that it’s all right now. I suppose that I shall have to marry some one, and I’ll marry her some day.”

“Your views are charmingly naïve, dear boy. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that Count Mortimer is the person who will choose your wife for you. I daresay he has everything arranged already.”

“Then he will have arranged it in vain. I hate the fellow,—he twists my mother round his little finger, but he shan’t get hold of me. I know too much for him, thanks to hearing you talk, Tant’ Ottilie, and if he expects to have me under his thumb, as he has my mother—why, he’s mistaken, that’s all.”

“Ah, but you don’t realise, Michael, that Count Mortimer is a very important person. Thracia would fall to pieces if he were not at the helm, and you must be prepared to make any sacrifices to keep him in office.”

“But look what a pull that gives him over us! No, Tant’ Ottilie, it will be the other way about after next week. Count Mortimer will have to make the sacrifices if he means to hold office under me.”

“Why, Michael, you are quite a youthful Cromwell! But I must warn you that Count Mortimer will make no concessions.”

“Don’t you see that’s exactly what I want? He will have to go then. Why, it makes me want to marry Lida just because I know it will mean getting rid of him. How I hate that smooth, cynical manner of his, as if he were worlds above me! He has done nothing but try to thwart and restrain me all my life, and my mother would have let him have his way. It was you who opened my eyes and helped me to get the better of him.”

“No, my dear boy, I am sure you are mistaken in thinking that I ever spoke against the Premier in your hearing, or encouraged you to oppose him. You may possibly have heard me lament the extraordinary and pernicious influence he exercises over your dear mother, or remark upon the unconstitutional way in which he uses the power he won by such peculiar means. But you drew your own conclusions, and I have merely done my best to protect you against the worst results of his system of training.”

“Very well, Tant’ Ottilie. It comes to much the same thing, after all, and that is, that he goes at the first opportunity.”

“I fancy that you will have to reckon with your mother there, Michael.”

“My mother? But when he is gone he will have no more influence over her, and she will not oppose my marrying to please myself.”

“But will she let him go? I am certainly not the person to speak against love-matches, Michael, for my own marriage was a shining example, and I fancy your mother would agree with me in any case but yours, especially——”

“But what in the world have my mother’s views on love-matches to do with Count Mortimer?” asked the boy, bewildered by what seemed to him the sudden change of subject. “Do you call Lida’s and mine a love-match?”

“Of course.” The Princess was not disturbed by her prospective son-in-law’s undisguised amusement at the idea. “What else could it be? But if you don’t see the connection which led me to say what I did, you must not expect me to enlighten you. I am the very last person to do so.”

“What do you mean, Tant’ Ottilie? What are you hinting at? I will know. Don’t sit there and look mysterious, but tell me.”

The Princess opened her firmly closed lips. “My dear Michael, if you are so happy as not to have noticed what every one in the Court knows and every one in the country has heard, it is certainly not for me to destroy your paradise.”

“It would make me unhappy, then? Something about my mother? Tant’ Ottilie, you cannot say that—that she has done anything wrong?”

“Far from it, my dear boy. At the worst it can only be called an amiable indiscretion. Oh no, there is nothing wrong—but I fear you will scarcely be charitable enough to say so when you are invited to receive Count Mortimer as——”

“As what? I insist on knowing.”

“My dear boy, you quite frighten me. As a stepfather, then, if you must be told.”

“My mother intends to put that upstart in my father’s place?”

“That she can scarcely do, but she intends to marry him.”

“She shall not do it. I will have him killed first.”

“Calm yourself, Michael.” The Princess was a little alarmed by the storm she had raised, and she drew the boy down upon the seat beside her, and laid her soft hand on his clenched fist. “You must make allowances for your mother,” she went on. “When she was left a widow, Count Mortimer occupied a high position in the Court. He made himself useful to her, and worked his way into her confidence. When those Tatarjé difficulties arose, he was able to make it appear that he had rendered her very important services. Your mother was young and impressionable, and very lonely. If she had had a father or brother at hand to advise her—if even I had known what was going on, she would have been held back from the rash step she took. But it so happened that she had no relations near her at the time, and she engaged herself privately to him.”

“And married him?”

“No; I think it is safe to say that they are not married.”

“Then it is not too late. I am here to save her. She must be protected against herself. The fellow shall go in no time.”

“My dear Michael, you must be careful. Count Mortimer has not been Premier for eleven years without knowing how to entrench himself in his position. He is hand and glove with the Three Powers, and to dismiss him precipitately might lead to very disastrous consequences, besides blazoning abroad the whole matter, which is the last thing one would wish to do. Decidedly you must not give such a reason for dismissing him—and yet it would not do to dismiss him without a reason.”

“I have my reasons—I hate him, and he would oppose my marriage with Lida, and he has the presumption to wish to marry my mother—but I need not give them.”

“You must give some reason, my dear boy. But if possible let it spring out of some misconduct on Count Mortimer’s own part. If only he were Finance Minister, one might produce evidence of peculation; but as Minister of Foreign Affairs, all we can do is to suggest that he has entered into secret understandings with other States. If the Three Powers once come to believe that he has had dealings with Scythia, they will be only too anxious to throw him over; and even if we could not furnish any direct evidence after all, a suspicion of that kind never quite dies away.”

“I see; you mean to disgrace him as well as get rid of him? That will suit me all right. I believe you hate him as much as I do. But you will help me, Tant’ Ottilie? I don’t quite see how I could carry the thing through alone.”

“Help you, dear boy? of course. But tell me first; you are sure that you really love Lida?”

“Of course I do. You said so yourself. Should I want to marry her if I didn’t?” was the unanswerable rejoinder, and the Princess forbore to press the question further.

“Leave everything to me just at present, Michael, and do not appear to have discovered your mother’s secret. I shall try to persuade her to consent to your marriage first. After that, we must take other measures.”

Having attained her various objects in starting the conversation, she said no more, leaving the boy to brood over his discoveries. She had succeeded beyond her utmost expectations in rousing him to the two emotions of love and hate, and now her only fear was lest a chance interview with his mother or with Cyril should lead to an explosion before she had had time to prepare her ground. It was evident that the campaign must be opened quickly on her side if she was not to find her movements anticipated. Her plans were soon laid, and when she met Ernestine, without appearing to notice the start of dismay with which her unexpected arrival was greeted, she whispered as she advanced to kiss her—

“I must have a nice long talk with you to-night, darling Nestchen. I have such sweet, delightful news to give you.”

Princess Ottilie as a sentimentalist was appearing in a new character, and Ernestine felt a thrill of alarm when she heard her words; but with the conviction that it would be of no avail to defer the evil day, she granted the private interview which her cousin had asked for.

“I do not know when I have felt so happy!” said the Princess, when she had sent her maid away, and she and Ernestine were facing one another in the rose-tinted light of her dressing-room. “Even when dear Albrecht came to tell me that he loved Bettine, I could not feel such complete satisfaction as I do to-day, for you and I have always been such close friends, and it is so thoroughly suitable that our children should—— But how I am running on! Well, Nestchen, our children understand one another. Dearest Michael confessed his love to me to-day—quite without any prompting on my part—and as for my Lida, I have known her innocent little secret for a long time. Is it not delightful that all should have fallen out exactly as we planned?”

Ernestine was sitting very straight in her chair, and her face looked drawn and ghastly in the soft light. “But, Ottilie——” she said, with a sort of gasp.

“What, Ernestine?” cried the Princess. “You don’t mean me to understand that you have changed your mind? You have never even hinted at such a thing.”

“I have not changed my mind,” said Ernestine, speaking with difficulty, “but I wish this had happened two days ago or not at all.”

“I must insist on knowing what you mean, Ernestine. My daughter’s happiness is at stake—which seems to be more to me than your son’s happiness is to you.”

“My son’s happiness is of the very highest importance to me, Ottilie. Your news comes as a shock, because only yesterday morning I was told, by one in whom I have every confidence, that it was impossible, for political reasons, for the marriage to which we have both been looking forward to take place.”

“And you imagine that I shall be content to sacrifice my child to the opinion of some anonymous busybody? But no—I know only too well who your sapient adviser is. It is Count Mortimer.”

“You are right. It was Count Mortimer.”

“Of course it was. I knew that only to your lover would you dream of sacrificing your child.”

“Are you mad, Ottilie? How dare you say such a thing to me?”

“Because it is true. Deny that he is your lover, if you can—a fact that everybody knows.”

“I have no wish to deny it. I do love Count Mortimer, and I am proud to say that he loves me.”

“And to please him you will sacrifice your son? Are you proud to say that?”

“There is no question of sacrificing him. What you have told me has put a new complexion on affairs, and it will be necessary to modify any other plans we may have had in view. You are the last person to suggest that I am likely to sacrifice Michael’s happiness, Ottilie. For years I have sacrificed myself in allowing him to spend every spare hour of his time with you, because it seemed to make him happier than keeping him at home.”

“Or because it allowed you to enjoy more of the society of your lover?”

“I do not wish to quarrel with you, Ottilie, but your tone is exceedingly strange.”

“Yes, it is strange, is it not, when my Lida’s happiness is wavering in the balance? I don’t know whether you expect me to acquiesce meekly, Ernestine, when in one moment you spring on me your determination to upset the arrangement which was entered into at your own suggestion, and towards which we have been working ever since. Unfortunately I care more for the broken hearts of those poor children than for the success of Count Mortimer’s projects of self-advertisement.”

“I should be glad if you would remember that you are speaking—as you have mentioned once or twice—of the man I love. As I said just now, I shall tell Count Mortimer what you have told me, and inform him that the original scheme must be carried out.”

“And when he pooh-poohs the whole affair—declares that the children are babies, and that the peace of Europe (oh, I know his ways) is not to be imperilled for the sake of giving them what they cry for—what then? Do you think I don’t know that he will talk you over in five minutes, and that you will agree with everything he proposes, wiping away a tear to the memory of the love-story you have ended so cruelly?”

“I must beg of you to leave the matter with me, Ottilie,” said the Queen, rising and going towards the door. “I have confidence in Count Mortimer, if you have not, and I feel sure that he will find a way of settling things happily.”

“Wait, Ernestine!” cried the Princess, crossing the room and putting her hand on the door. “Things would be settled happily for you and him, no doubt, but what about Lida and me? No settlement devised by Count Mortimer would ever prove favourable to my daughter. He will laugh at your scruples, and bring you round to his own way of thinking—or if you should venture to hold out, he would proceed with his plans without reference to you. And do you think that I am going to allow you to sue humbly to such a man in my name, entreating that my daughter shall be permitted to marry your son? No; put things on the right footing at once. It is not Count Mortimer who is master of the situation—it is myself. I hold the winning card, and that is Michael. There is less than a week now before he comes of age, and if Count Mortimer succeeds in obtaining for him in that time the promise of the hand of Frederike of Hercynia, he will repudiate the arrangement as soon as he is his own master. Then your friend must resign, disgraced before all Europe. If he is unwilling to face the prospect, he must give the lie to the whole of his past policy, and accept Lida as his future Queen. That is the choice you have to offer him—a surrender to Michael, and to me, or political ruin.”

“Ottilie,” said the Queen, looking at her in agony, “be merciful. I cannot take him such a message. I love him.”

“Then leave him to discover the alternatives for himself. It will only make his ruin all the surer. He can find no third course. For any other man I would have built a golden bridge—enabled him to make his escape with some remnants of dignity—but for him I have no pity.”

“But what has he done to you, Ottilie? His plan to marry you to his brother failed.”

“Yes; but how did he accept his failure? He insulted me in a way that I shall never forgive. It was the evening of our wedding—the ceremony was just over—and this wretch Mortimer approached Alexis and myself under pretence of offering his congratulations. Every word was an insult, though veiled under the form of politeness. He ventured—he even ventured—to warn Alexis that I should probably prove unfaithful to him. ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee,’ were his words. Alexis did not perceive the drift of the remark, but if I had had a dagger at hand——! I smiled then, but afterwards I vowed that he should pay dearly for the outrage; and now the time for payment has come.”

“But why through me? It is too cruel. Why do not you tell him? But no; at least I can save him from that bitter tongue of yours by telling him myself.”

“Yes, and see how he will regard you afterwards. I wish he loved you, Ernestine—as you love him, poor silly child!—that he might suffer more, but you are nothing but an item in his plans. He has made use of you to work his way to power, he is using you now to recommend himself to the Emperors, and when you prove unable to help him to mount any higher, he will kick you aside. You are of no use to him unless you represent success.”

“Please let me pass, Ottilie,” said the Queen coldly, her calmness restored. “Your calumnies against Count Mortimer are worthy of yourself; I will say no more. As I had decided, I shall see Michael first and question him, and then communicate the situation to Count Mortimer, and ascertain his views.”

It was not until noon of the next day that Ernestine succeeded in obtaining an interview with her son, and in this her cousin anticipated her. King Michael entered his mother’s room armed at all points, and the sight of his sullen, determined face gave Ernestine a strange pang, bringing back, as it did, the first year of her unhappy married life. One day, as she was quitting the room in outraged dignity after a violent quarrel with her husband, she had chanced to catch a glimpse of herself in the great mirror she was passing, and the look which had met her then was repeated now in the face so like her own. After all, for much that was amiss in Michael’s character the blame was hers, and the thought gave a sudden softness to her voice as she stretched out her hand to the boy.

“Come and sit here beside me, little son.” The endearing diminutive came naturally to her lips, although King Michael was as tall as herself. “I have scarcely had a word with you yet. What is this that I hear about Lida?”

“I love Lida, and I am going to marry her,” was the answer, as King Michael declined the proffered seat, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, glowering at his mother with wrathful eyes.

“You are sure that you really love her, Michael?”

“Of course I am. I can’t tell why you should think I don’t know my own mind. If I didn’t love her, why should I want to marry her?”

The plea did not sound as irresistible to Ernestine as it had done to her cousin, but she betrayed no impatience. “I don’t want to appear to cast a doubt on the sincerity of your love, dear boy,” she said, without showing any resentment at his tone, “but you know that it is not with kings as with ordinary men—there are so many things to think of. If you marry Lida, it will mean that some important changes have to be made, and perhaps some sacrifices. I don’t grudge making sacrifices for my boy—I think you know that, Michael?”

A dogged silence was the only answer, and she went on, “I have given you up so much of late years, Michael, that perhaps you scarcely realise how much it has cost me to do it. It never struck you, did it, when you were at Praka or Bashi Konak with your cousins, how lonely I was here? But you were so happy with them that I had not the heart to keep you in this dull place with no one to play with. No, dear, I don’t shrink from any sacrifice for your sake, but I want to be sure that it will not be wasted.”

“I shall never marry any one but Lida,” responded the boy gruffly. “Everything that I like is connected with her—Tant’ Ottilie, and going to Praka, and getting away from ceremony and fuss. I can’t give her up.”

“I am not asking you to give her up, dear boy. If you are sure you love her, I will speak to Count Mortimer, and ask him to make the proper arrangements, though I shall be left more lonely than ever.”

“I am sorry,” said King Michael awkwardly, kissing his mother on the forehead, “but I love her too much to give her up. And, little mother”—the words came with a rush—“you have been so kind about it, I’ll not say anything against your—your settling things with that fellow Mortimer.”

And the King departed in haste, as though fearing that he had compromised himself by his impulsive generosity, and left his mother to face the worst ordeal of all—her interview with Cyril. He arrived not long after King Michael had left the room, and found Ernestine sitting idle, with her hands locked together. She looked at him almost fearfully as he approached her.

“Cyril,” she said in a half-whisper, “I have something to tell you that you will be sorry to hear. Michael and Lida of Dardania are in love with one another.”

“Then it is the Princess’s doing, and nothing else, for any one could see that they had no thought of anything of the kind before.”

“I don’t know how it happened, but it is too late to stop it now.”

“Too late, my dear Ernestine! A boy of sixteen and a girl of fifteen! I will undertake to put a stop to it in no time.”

“But, Cyril, you must not. I cannot allow that.”

“Not allow it? Surely you have forgotten that I explained to you the other day that such a marriage was out of the question?”

“So we thought at the time, but this alters everything. We must think of some way in which things can be arranged satisfactorily.”

“But it is impossible. No arrangement could be satisfactory which would give the Princess of Dardania a pretext for interfering in our affairs. Besides, the whole balance of power would be upset.”

“You will be able to devise some scheme which will put things right. You are so skilful; I am depending on you.”

“My scheme is simply to pack Michael off to Vienna as soon as all the fuss next week is over. He has never seen any girls but his cousins, and you will find very soon that there is safety in numbers. I would take him to Paris myself, if it was safe to leave the kingdom for so long. That would cure him very quickly of his calf-love, but Vienna is the next best place.”

“But you don’t seem to understand, Cyril, and yet I told you only two days ago that it was a matter of conscience with me not to thwart Michael in an affair of this kind. I suppose I can’t make you see it quite as I do, but it always seems to me”—her voice faltered—“as if in this way I could make a sort of atonement for the way in which I treated his father. I daresay it sounds very foolish and illogical to you,” as Cyril’s lip curled, “but if I could feel that Michael’s married life, at any rate, was likely to be a happy one, it would not seem as if our unhappy marriage was to go on causing unhappiness to generation after generation.”

“Let me beg of you to look at things from a common-sense point of view, Ernestine. Your husband would have been the last to wish the good of Thracia to be sacrificed for a foolish fancy about making atonement to him.”

“I knew you would not see what I meant. But still, Cyril, even if change and distraction helped Michael to get over his trouble, as you suggest, I should never forgive myself for allowing poor little Lida to be cast aside. No; I have often heard you say that when a misfortune is irremediable, the only sensible thing to do is to accept the situation and start afresh from it.”

“But when the situation is absolutely impossible, what then?”

“But it can’t be, if you accept it. I thought you might perhaps arrange a compact with Ottilie, that the wedding should not take place for five years, until Michael is twenty-one, and that during that time she should not make any attempt to interfere in Thracian affairs, or to prejudice Michael against you. What do you think?”

“Truly excellent, if the wit of man can devise any possible means of making the Princess of Dardania keep a promise which it suits her to break. And what about breaking faith with the Emperors, and reversing the policy which I have laboured for twelve years to establish? Have women no idea of political morality, of duty to the country? Can you in cold blood imagine that I am likely to hand over Thracia, bound, to Scythia, after all I have done to strengthen her independence and give her a voice among the Powers?”

“But she says you have no choice,” faltered Ernestine.

“Who says?—the Princess of Dardania? That was the secret of your anxiety for me in your suggested compromise, was it? What is the dilemma into which she hopes to force me?”

“She said that you must either reverse your policy and allow Michael to marry Lida, or oppose him for a week and then be dismissed—that there was no alternative. She says Michael will do what she tells him.”

“No doubt. But she is a little out in her calculations. There is another alternative, and it is in your hands. It lies with you to save the situation, Ernestine. Refuse your consent to the marriage. Break with the Princess openly, and take measures to remove Michael from her influence. Your family and the Schwarzwald-Molzaus will back you up, and the Emperors will see fair play.”

“But I have told you I cannot do it, Cyril. I cannot break the children’s hearts.”

“No one wishes you to break their hearts. All that you have to do is gently to guide their vagrant fancies into the right direction. In so doing you will checkmate the Princess and rescue Michael from her clutches. He will see the world a little, and come back to you free from the trammels of his adoration for her; and she, like a wise woman, will have found another match for Princess Lida. Come, I’ll undertake to pull the matter through. You understand? You must do it.”

“Cyril, I can’t. The thought of the children’s misery would haunt me ever after.”

“Nonsense! Michael will be the first to thank you when he is settled down with a quiet, good-tempered girl as a wife, instead of the pretty little intriguer whom your cousin has so carefully trained up to follow in her own footsteps. As for the girl, there is no heart on her side of the question. She is simply doing as her mother tells her. This is not a matter of choice, Ernestine. You must do as I advise you, and there is no time for thinking about it.”

“Oh, Cyril, wait!” She came close to him, and laid her hands on his arm. “I cannot do it; I am pledged both to Michael and Ottilie. I would save you if I could, but not in this way—anything but this. Explain to the Emperors how the matter stands, and resign at once. Then I will marry you next week, and we will leave Thracia—leave Michael to be happy. If you will give up office for me, I will give him up for you—if I can do it knowing that all is well with him. We love each other; we will live somewhere quietly, and forget politics. Am I not enough for you?”

“Good heavens, Ernestine, you would drive a man mad! Well, if you must have an answer, you are not enough, if Thracia has to be left to the Princess and to Scythia, and all my work undone.”

“Cyril, I have obeyed you, yielded to you, given up so much for you already. Give up this for me.”

“It is impossible, Ernestine. You must choose between your boy and me.”

CHAPTER XXV.
TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.

“Will your Excellency be pleased to see the Baroness von Hilfenstein?”

“Certainly, Paschics. I will go to the carriage to meet her.”

But the Baroness was already standing in the hall, to the discomfiture of Paschics, who felt that he had erred in not escorting her up the steps. She accepted his hurried apology graciously, however, and passed on with Cyril into his private office. It was the day following that on which Cyril had delivered his ultimatum to Ernestine.

“I am the bearer of a message from her Majesty, Count,” said the Baroness, when she was satisfied that they could not be overheard. “My daughter had offered to bring it; but one cannot be too careful in questions of etiquette, and Prince Boris is extremely particular.”

This was no exaggeration, for Boris Mirkovics was commonly reported to be the most jealous husband in Thracia, although his pretty wife made the best of things by affecting to regard the feeling as a compliment; and Cyril was grateful to the Baroness for saving him from a possible complication in that quarter. His patience was sorely tried, however, when the old lady, after settling her laces, clearing her throat two or three times, and refreshing herself by a sniff at her bottle of smelling-salts, remarked, in a tone of chilling disapproval—

“You are aware, Count, of the aversion with which I have always regarded the—the state of things between her Majesty and yourself——”

“Pardon me, Baroness,” interrupted Cyril, “but would you have any objection to giving me your message at once? We can go into the moral aspects of the situation afterwards. Has the Queen come to any definite decision upon the matters which I had the honour of laying before her yesterday?”

“Forgive me,” said the Baroness. “I should have remembered that the question was one of deep importance to you. No, her Majesty has not arrived at any definite decision, save that she is still convinced that it is impossible for her to break her pledges to the King and to the Princess of Dardania; but she begs that you will be good enough to postpone any further discussion of the subject, or action in connection with it, until after the conclusion of next week’s festivities. She is anxious that they should pass off without any disagreeable contretemps, and trusts that in the interval you may be able to devise some settlement that may be satisfactory to all parties.”

“No one can be more desirous of obliging her Majesty than I am,” returned Cyril; “but you must know, Baroness, that it is not so much a question of my doing nothing, as of the Princess of Dardania’s consenting to remain inactive. I appeal to you, without fear of misconstruction, for I know that since her mother’s death the Queen has confided everything to you: do you think the Princess may be trusted not to steal a march on me?”

“Perhaps I am not too friendly to the Princess,” said the Baroness thoughtfully, “for her Royal Highness and I have long had a difference of opinion on the subject of etiquette, on many points of which her ideas seem to me inexcusably lax for one in her high position, but I think she would scarcely break the truce which the Queen proposes. I know that her Majesty has had a long interview with her, in which she steadily refused to retreat from the ground she took up immediately upon her arrival, but consented to the postponement of the question.”

“If she could be depended upon to play fair, it would be the best temporary solution possible under the circumstances, but that’s where the doubt comes in. However, one may almost say that it’s the only thing to be done, and it certainly gives us a breathing-space. If we can only get through the festivities without an esclandre, we may be able to hit on something. By the bye, Baroness, I believe I was rude enough to interrupt you just now?”

“It is forgotten,” said the Baroness graciously. “I was about to say, my dear Count, that in spite of the horror with which I am bound to regard anything in the nature of a misalliance, I cannot bring myself to hope that this difficulty will end in the breaking-off of the engagement between her Majesty and yourself, as it is, I fear, my duty to do.”

“You are extremely kind, Baroness.”

“I am afraid that I may be failing in my obligations to her Majesty, Count, but it is certain that I have lately come to regard this affair as differing from others of the kind. It may be that one’s judgments soften as one grows older, or it may merely be that I am getting old and foolish, but I hope that it may be possible for her Majesty to marry you. I have watched the sad course of her life, I have seen her misery since her quarrel with you yesterday, and my heart fails me when I think of her suffering if she lost you. You will wonder that I should thus betray the Queen’s feelings to you, but I have a reason. Count, I was aghast when I heard of the definite choice you had placed before her Majesty.”

“I agree with you, Baroness, that the form of the words was unsuitable. If I had been wise I should have employed a different method—entreated and not commanded. I’m afraid the truth is that I lost my head in the excitement of the moment. I never did such a thing before, but my nerve is not what it was. Twenty years of hard work, with practically no holidays, take it out of a man. But it’s no use hedging now, and besides, the Queen’s yielding furnishes the only possible solution of the difficulty.”

“But you would not in any case proceed to the extremities you threatened? You have unfortunately arrayed all her Majesty’s highest feelings against you in thus placing her own happiness in the scale against that of her son. It was not wisely done. And surely, my dear Count, the mental fatigue of which you speak is a warning to you to rest? Marrying her Majesty, you would live quietly and happily, as your English poet says, ‘The world forgetting, by the world forgot.’”

“Are you holding that out as an inducement to me, Baroness? I am afraid you scarcely realise the hold which the world has upon some people. What, you must go? Let me entreat your influence to induce her Majesty to yield, for the sake of the Powers and of European peace, and also, if you will have it, because I cannot pretend to say that if she is obdurate I should not carry out my threat, as you called it just now.”

The Baroness shook her head sadly as Cyril escorted her to her carriage, and he himself failed, for once, to regard the outlook with any confidence. The postponement of the necessity for decision was a great relief, but he could not see any means of saving the situation if the Queen should fail him.

Meanwhile the preparations for the festivities went on apace, and royal guests began to arrive at Bellaviste, until the Palace was fuller than it had been for many years, and extra accommodation had to be found in some of the principal hotels. Among the earliest arrivals was the Crown Prince of Hercynia, representing his father, and attended by Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal. The news that the Imperial Chancellor would visit Thracia had caused much comment, and some excitement, throughout Europe, and it had been freely stated that the object of his coming was to arrange a match between the young King and one of his master’s daughters. The futility of this course under the circumstances had not become generally known, but Cyril was relieved to find that it was not necessary for him to recount to his fellow-statesman the untoward events of the past week. The Hercynian Government had been kept informed by its own representatives of the appearance at Bellaviste of the Princess of Dardania, and of the evident strain which had ensued in the relations of the King and Queen, and had drawn the obvious conclusion, so that Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal had been specially commissioned to ascertain whether Cyril was concerned in the plot, and had played the two Emperors false. If this should prove not to be the case, he was empowered to concert with him as to the means by which the Princess might be baulked of the results of her diplomacy.

Nothing could have come as a more acceptable balm to Cyril’s wounded feelings than this tacit acknowledgment that he alone was considered capable of dealing with the situation satisfactorily, but he was unable to give much comfort in return. Everything depended on the Queen, and although Cyril did his utmost whenever he saw her alone to emphasise the importance of the crisis, he could not flatter himself that he had secured her assistance. He had not expected her to hold out so long after receiving his ultimatum, and he blamed himself ever more and more for the form in which he had chosen to present it. Labouring day by day to remove the unfortunate impression he had produced, he still found himself compelled to report failure to Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, and when the week of festivity began, he had not so much as obtained from Ernestine a promise to consider her ways. But his ill-success made him only the more determined to win in the end, and he grudged the loss of time caused by the state ceremonies, which kept him from taking active measures, such as were beginning to suggest themselves to his mind, although they were of the doleful nature of counsels of despair.

Balls and banquets, church services and gala performances at the theatre, the reception of congratulatory addresses and the taking and receiving of various oaths of allegiance, filled up day after day, and the guests, with an endurance and a politeness only to be found in royal personages, contrived to appear not only tolerant of the rush of uninteresting events, but even pleased with it. No contretemps marred the festivities, and the concluding function was reached without even the symptoms of a difference of opinion among those assembled to do honour to King Michael. The Pannonian Arch-Duke showed no signs of remembering the barrier which had arisen of late years between the Three Powers and the princely family of Dardania, the Princess and the Queen were on almost oppressively good terms, and M. Drakovics comported himself in a sufficiently friendly manner even towards Cyril. Thus the last of the series of entertainments, the luncheon-party on the Saturday, to which the foreign royal personages were invited previous to their departure from Bellaviste in the course of the afternoon, marked the conclusion of a week of perfect harmony.

When lunch was over, King Michael rose to propose the health of his guests, and to express due gratitude for their presence and support during the ceremonies of the week. His speech had been written out for him by Cyril in order that he might commit it to memory; but it seemed that among the many distractions of the past few days he had failed to study it as carefully as he should have done, for he was noticeably nervous—a quality which no one had remarked in him before. He succeeded, however, in getting through his list with a little prompting and some reference to his notes, and his audience, who were prepared to be more than merciful, applauded in the right places and helped to cover his confusion. But when the end of the speech was almost reached, and the requisite compliments had been paid to the delegates of the Emperors, to the Kings present or represented by members of their families, to the houses of Weldart and Schwarzwald-Molzau, from which the speaker traced his descent, he hesitated for a moment. There was only one family that still remained to be complimented, and the King’s slight pause merely rendered more effective the raised tones in which he uttered words which had never appeared in Cyril’s written oration:—

“And lastly—although my own wishes would have led me to propose this toast first of all—I ask you to drink to the health of my dear cousins the Prince and Princess of Dardania, with whose family it is my hope and purpose to be even more intimately connected in the future than at present. Hoch, hoch, hoch!” and he bowed to the Prince and Princess over his raised glass.

A bombshell exploding in their midst could scarcely have proved more startling to the company assembled than this sentence. All had guessed at the plans of the Emperors, and most were more or less definitely acquainted with them; but now it was plain that the diplomacy of Hercynia and Pannonia had suffered a defeat, and that the victory lay with the dark-haired lady in yellow brocade and sable, whose eyes were brighter than her diamonds as she replied smilingly behind her fan to the whispered congratulations of the young King of Mœsia. Cyril’s glance had met that of Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, as the fateful words were uttered, and the monosyllable “Done!” had escaped his lips, while the Baron replied by a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders to the look of blank helplessness which the Crown Prince of Hercynia turned upon him. The Pannonian Arch-Duke was the only person who had sufficient presence of mind to drink the toast without betraying the conflicting emotions which were agitating him at the moment; but before there had been time to respond to it the Prince of Dardania created a sudden diversion.

“The Queen!” he cried,—“the Queen is ill!”

Ernestine had fallen back in her chair, her face as white as the ermine on her gown, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Her jewelled fingers were clenched before her on the table—clenched, as the Court physician remarked afterwards to a confrère, like the contorted hands of a person in fierce bodily agony. She did not seem to notice the alarm and anxiety around her; but when the Princess of Dardania waved away the rest of the guests with, “Leave her to me: the agitation of this joyful week has been too much for her,” she drew herself away from her with a shudder of repulsion which did not escape the notice of others. The Princess laughed lightly, but not without some embarrassment, as she resigned her place to Baroness von Hilfenstein, who ignored her with a wrathful contempt which was patent to every one as she helped to convey the Queen to another room. Pausing on the threshold, Ernestine made a painful effort to speak; but her blanched lips refused their office, and her eyes, full of dumb anguish, wandered helplessly over the sympathising faces around. The Baroness understood her, however.

“You wish his Excellency the Premier to wait on you, madame? Count, will you be good enough to hold yourself in readiness until her Majesty is sufficiently recovered to receive you?”

The rest of the company passed on into the other rooms, but Cyril waited in the deserted dining-room. It was not long before he was summoned by one of the ladies, and under her guidance entered the room in which interviews with Ernestine had so often been granted to him. She was seated now beside her writing-table, with her hair and her rich dress in disorder, and as she turned towards him at the sound of his step a fit of strong trembling seized her.

“I knew nothing of it,” she gasped. “Oh, Cyril, you believe me?”

“I accept your assurance, madame.”

“Cyril, upbraid me, scold me—anything but look at me like that! Don’t speak so coldly, I can’t bear it. Cyril, what are you going to do?”

Her voice was almost a scream as she rose from her chair and tried to reach him, but tottered and fell at his feet, clinging to his hands in an agony of terror. He raised her silently, and placed her in her chair again.

“Cyril,” she said, holding his hand fast, “say something. Don’t look at me in that way. I thought you loved me once.”

“So I did—once,” he replied.

“And now—now?”

“I think it would be unnecessary, and perhaps painful to your Majesty, to enter into that question.”

“But you could not be so cruel as to punish me when I was as much astonished by what Michael said as you were? I have lost my son, I have lost Ottilie, who was once my friend—you cannot mean that I must lose you?”

“It is surely self-evident, madame, that a discredited politician out of office is not a fit match for a Queen.”

“Discredited—out of office! As though I cared! I love you, not your office—you more than ever, now that you have failed and are in trouble. You could not punish me so cruelly, Cyril? You will not forsake me after all the years that I have waited for you?”

“Pray do not lay the blame upon me, madame. The choice was in your own hands. You preferred your son’s whim to the success of my policy, and it only remains for me to congratulate your Majesty upon the acquisition of a most charming daughter-in-law, and to withdraw.”

“No, you shall not go.” She clung to his hand so tightly that he was unable to free himself. “You must hear me, Cyril. Ottilie promised me solemnly that nothing should be done until the festivities were over, and I believed her. So did you. Why punish me, then? Only let me come with you if you mean to leave Thracia. I do not mind being poor. I had rather be poor, with you.”

“I think, Count,” said King Michael’s voice, as the newly enfranchised sovereign appeared at the door which led into the ante-room, “that you can scarcely be aware that Dr Danilovics gave special directions that her Majesty was not to be agitated. Need I point out that so long an audience is extremely injurious to her in her present condition of illness and excitement?”

“I did not know that you had been invited to assist at this interview, sir.”

“If I choose to protect my mother from the schemes of a political adventurer, Count, that is my affair.”

“Such a remark, addressed to one who was your father’s friend and has served your mother faithfully, comes with an ill grace from you, sir, and necessarily deprives me of the honour of serving you in the future.”

“The proper official will relieve you of your portfolio, Count.”

“Your Majesty’s consideration is unbounded. That I may not appear backward in responding to it, allow me to say that should my successor desire any information as to the routine work of the post, I am entirely at her service.”

“At her service? Whose?”

“Surely, sir, it is patent to all that her Royal Highness the Princess of Dardania becomes, ipso facto, Foreign Minister and Premier of Thracia. It is impossible that I should be mistaken.”

The King frowned heavily. “This is not a time for joking, Count,” he said.

“Pardon me, sir, but it is a little unkind to wish to keep all the enjoyment to yourself. The practical joke which her Royal Highness has just carried out with your Majesty’s assistance would make the fortune of a farce.”

The King’s dignity was touched. He had an uneasy feeling, which would never have oppressed the Princess of Dardania, that the suave, cynical man before him was amused rather than thunder-struck by his great coup, and he grasped eagerly at the first chance that offered itself for terminating the interview. “This wrangling, Count, is unseemly in the presence of her Majesty,” he said reprovingly, with a glance at his mother, who was looking from one to the other in bewildered misery.

“Nothing, sir, could be more contrary to my wishes than that my presence should cast a shadow on her Majesty’s pleasure in this joyful occasion. With your permission I will retire to England as soon as the formalities attendant upon my resignation are completed.”

“No, Count. There are certain charges”—the King looked sharply at Cyril to see whether he blenched, but in vain—“to be inquired into first.”

“As your Majesty pleases. I can only hope that the result may be as satisfactory to my accusers as it is bound to be to myself.” It was his turn to look at the King, who moved uneasily.

“Cyril,” cried the Queen, rousing herself from her lethargy, as he prepared to retire, “you will not leave me in this way? Cyril!”

“You forget, madame, that we are not alone,” Cyril heard the King say, laying a hand on his mother’s shoulder as she tried to rise, and with her despairing face before his eyes, the defeated Premier left the room. Once outside the door, the realisation of all that this meant came upon him like a flood. One moment he gasped for breath, and his hands gripped his coat as though to tear it open: then his self-control returned to him, and he stepped out from under the portière to pass through the rooms filled with the gaudy, glittering crowd, that knew him to be discomfited and disgraced. If they had expected him to show the consciousness of his failure in his face, they were disappointed, for he appeared amongst them absolutely unmoved, although a smile lingered on his lips for a moment as he noticed the rapidity with which men and women alike hastened out of his way, leaving him a clear path, for fear of his attempting to speak to any of them, and thus branding them with the taint of having been an intimate of the fallen Minister. He spoke to no one, but before he had crossed the first room a tall awkward youth, with his honest face ablaze with indignation, had deliberately stepped forward and placed himself at his side, glorifying the retreat by the splendour of his uniform and the magnificence of the decorations with which his breast was covered. It was the Crown Prince of Hercynia, whose incurable kindness of heart made him the despair of his father, and who was reported to run no small risk of being passed over in the succession in favour of his younger brother, Prince Friedrich Karl. He placed his arm through Cyril’s, and began to talk stammeringly and incoherently, not because he had anything to say, but obviously in order to set his protégé at his ease. In spite of his unavoidable amusement, Cyril could not help being touched, but at the door he freed himself resolutely from the Prince’s hold.

“I am unutterably grateful for your Imperial Highness’s condescension, but I must refuse to bring you into trouble with your father.”

For one moment the Prince looked startled, then he took Cyril’s arm again. “You have been doing our work,” he said, “and you shall not be thrown aside because the task has proved too much for you.”

In the corridor they came face to face with Baron de la Mothe von Elterthal, who was hurrying towards them, drawn by the flying report which had reached him of the extraordinary conduct of the Crown Prince. A glance at the young man’s face showed him that no remonstrance would serve his turn, and he begged therefore that he might be allowed a few moments’ conversation with Count Mortimer on political matters of the utmost importance. The Prince hesitated, half-suspecting the ruse, then saw a way out of the difficulty.

“We must not detain his Excellency here, Baron. Do you walk home with him—to his house, you understand?—as I was intending to do, and talk on the way.”

It is to be feared that the Baron’s murmured acquiescence did not adequately represent his feelings at the moment, but he obeyed, and walked on with Cyril, the Crown Prince looking after them.

“Good fellow that Prince of yours,” remarked Cyril, when they were crossing the courtyard, “but a terrible fool. Accept my condolences, Baron. If you feel as sick as you look, I’m afraid Hercynia will soon be without a Chancellor.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said the Baron, pulling himself together. “No one can fight against folly. Can I do anything for you, by the way?”

“Yes, you can. Wire to my brother—you have stayed with him, so you know his address—and tell him to take no steps whatever about me. When I am ready, I’ll come home. I don’t want the might of the British Empire invoked to protect me against the spite of an angry woman.”

“What?” said the Baron, looking at him narrowly; “it is more than mere dismissal, is it?”

“Impeachment, if they can manage it. By the bye, Baron, in a trial it is possible that certain facts might come out which would throw a light upon recent Hercynian policy——”

“Oh, you resort to threats, Count?”

“By no means, my dear Baron. Threats between old friends and old political hands like you and me? Why, you should be grateful to me for simply directing your attention to possible dangerous contingencies. You know enough of me and of my methods to be sure that if the Princess of Dardania wishes to base her action against me upon documentary evidence she must forge it—and in that case she will not stop at implicating me. In self-defence, I might find it necessary to declare the truth, which might prove only less damaging to other people than the forgeries. You understand me?”

“I do. You wish us to make representations to the King, based upon the impolicy and ingratitude of his conduct towards the friend and servant of his parents?”

“That’s it. The Prince of Dardania is a sensible man at bottom, and I think he will interfere and restrain his wife and young Michael when he sees how their proceedings are regarded; but to make matters sure you might let your Government journals insert a vague note touching the means by which a recent successful conspiracy in the Balkans was promoted—extensive use of forged documents, and so on. I can put you on the track of one or two little things connected with the Rhodope business if you find it necessary to go further, but I think you will scarcely need them.”

“I see. We will act with all discretion.”

“Just so; and now here we are at my hospitable door. You won’t come in, I fear? Well, thanks for your company, and the trouble you are going to take. I’ll do the same for you when young Hopeful kicks you out because you are too much identified with the bold bad diplomacy of his father’s days.”

“Many thanks. If I were in your place at the present moment, I am not sure that I would remain to run the risk of a trial. Public opinion does not seem particularly well affected towards you, and you have escaped assassination once already.”

“Really, Baron, I fear you under-estimate either my age or my intelligence,” was Cyril’s reply to this little stab, which the Baron emphasised by a nod towards the crowd gathered in the street,—a hostile, murmuring, uncertain crowd, that had heard rumours of the great Minister’s downfall, but felt it hardly safe to believe them on seeing him walking quietly home in the company of the Hercynian Chancellor. There was one, however, who felt no misgivings. The crowd parted to allow of the passage of a bath-chair, and its occupant, an old white-haired man, threw a glance of triumph and hatred at Cyril as he stood on the steps.

“My turn once, yours now!” he cried, in a shrill voice which in its cracked tones bore only a faint resemblance to that which had formerly been able to sway a multitude. “Bonjour, feu M. le Ministre!”

They were the words with which Ernestine had dismissed M. Drakovics eleven years before, and Cyril laughed bitterly as he bowed with peculiar politeness to his old enemy, and retreated into the house, pursued by the loud hisses and hootings of the mob, which had divined the truth from the old man’s speech. Turning into the secretary’s office, Cyril met the concerned gaze of Paschics.

“Do you want to earn a good round sum of money, Paschics?”

“That depends upon the way in which it is to be earned, Excellency.”

“Oh, you need only swear that I have intrigued with the Scythian Court, and bring forward a forged document or two to support your statement, and the Emperor Sigismund will pay you almost any sum you like to name.”

“Your Excellency is over-tired, or you would not insult by such a suggestion a man who has always tried to serve you faithfully.”

“You are right, Paschics. Well, come into my office, and let us go through this solemn farce with becoming dignity.”

They had scarcely taken their seats when the King’s private secretary arrived to demand the delivery of the seals of office. Following him came the Chief of Police, with several subordinates.

“I am instructed to seal up your Excellency’s papers in your presence, and take them to my Bureau for examination,” he said. “Your Excellency is to be placed under arrest in your own house. You can obtain what you wish from without through the police, but you will not be allowed to communicate with any one outside.”

“Very good,” said Cyril. “What a blessing I have sent my message to Caerleon before this!” he added to himself. “What is the matter, Paschics?”

“Your Excellency,” in a quick whisper, as the attention of the police was distracted by their task, “if there is anything among the papers—any letters—which you would not desire to have seen, tell me at once, and I will destroy it before they take possession of them, whatever the risks.”

“No, Paschics, I never keep letters. You may be quite easy about that.”

“Your Excellency,” the secretary’s fingers were twitching as he stood beside Cyril, “will you endure this? They are treating you like a common criminal. Only give me the word, and I will strangle the Prefect there.”

“My good Paschics, keep quiet, and don’t make things worse. Why should not the police tumble my papers about, if they like? It doesn’t hurt us. I am really grateful to them for giving me something to think about.”

Understanding now the full extent of the disaster, Paschics was silent, but when the police had gone into another room, he crept out after them. In a moment he returned, his face beaming with delight.

“Your Excellency, the door is unguarded, and there are none of them in the hall. I can disguise you in a moment, and you will be able to escape.”

“No, thank you, Paschics. Don’t you see their little dodge? They would like it better than anything else if I went slinking away in disguise, but I don’t mean to gratify them. We will stay here.”

After all, the imprisonment lasted only two days. At the end of that time the papers were returned and the police guard removed from the house, and Cyril was informed that he might go whither he would. Of this permission, however, he refused to avail himself, declining to skulk out of the country like a man desiring to escape notice. In consequence of his maintenance of this unbending attitude, one of the Court carriages was sent on the following day to convey him to the Palace, with the message that the King wished to see him. With the young monarch he found the Prince of Dardania, who took the leading part in the conversation which followed. A little to one side sat the Princess, with a piece of embroidery in her hand.

“Her Royal Highness is present, Count,” said King Michael sharply, when Cyril had saluted him and the Prince.

“I crave her Royal Highness’s pardon, sir. I had imagined that this was a business interview, and that the Princess’s presence would be more properly ignored, but since your Majesty informs me that it is a social occasion, I can only express my gratification at being admitted to such a pleasant family gathering.”

“Count,” said the Prince of Dardania hastily, “his Majesty has asked me to express his regret at the treatment you have received. In consequence of the receipt of mistaken information, you were placed under arrest, and your papers seized. I need scarcely say that nothing to justify the seizure was discovered, and strong representations as to the harshness of the course pursued have been made by several personages whose advice the King is bound to respect. Under these circumstances, his Majesty’s only desire is to make you a suitable recompense for the inconvenience to which you have been put. There are personal and family reasons, which it is unnecessary to particularise, which would render it undesirable for you to continue to hold the office of Premier, but you are of course entitled to the usual pension, and if with this you care to accept the position of Thracian Minister to the Pannonian Court, I think you would find it a post well suited to your tastes and abilities.”

“I am deeply indebted to your Highness for the handsome things you have said. With respect to the offers you have been instructed to make to me in the name of his Majesty, perhaps you will convey to him the pleasing intelligence that I decline them utterly, for personal reasons, which it is unnecessary to particularise. I will not accept a pension, nor will I take the post of Minister to Pannonia, and there is certainly one person in this room who has reason to be grateful that I will not. But I demand an authorised statement in the ‘Gazette’ that I resigned office on account of failing health, induced by long and unremitting devotion to the duties of my position, and also a full apology for the inexcusable blunder committed by the police. I shall expect also to receive the marks of distinction usual on quitting an office such as I have held, and to be treated with due honour on quitting Thracia. Otherwise I stay.”

“I know why you refuse his Majesty’s offers,” said the Princess, leaning forward confidentially, while her husband and the King discussed Cyril’s demands in an undertone. “You wish to injure Thracia, and therefore do not like to take her money. I did not know you were so scrupulous.”

“It is quite unnecessary for me to injure Thracia. I leave that to your Royal Highness, in the full conviction that the task will be efficiently performed.”

“Are you trying to cast a doubt upon my motives, Count?”

“By no means, madame—only on your powers. If you had married my brother, you and I would have ruled Europe. As it is, I fear you will find it difficult to rule the Balkans.”

“You are disappointed, Count, and therefore I can pardon your rudeness.”

“Disappointed, madame? Oh no; remember that I have seen a good deal. You do not imagine that I cannot make allowances for a child who has just grasped power, and for a lady who is anxious to get her daughter off her hands?”

“You had better give him what he wants, and let him go,” said the Princess, in a stage whisper to the King. “Otherwise you will have no peace in Thracia.”

“Count,” said the Prince of Dardania, “his Majesty is graciously pleased to grant your requests. Naturally the simplest plan would be to give orders to the police to convey you to the frontier immediately;” here Cyril raised his eyebrows, and the Prince, remembering the warnings of the Three Powers, hesitated and became somewhat confused, “but your long services—your friendship with the late King—in fact, your demands are granted. The ‘Gazette’ you suggest will appear to-morrow, and you will be free to leave Thracia on the following day.”

“And if you have any message of farewell to the Queen I shall be delighted to deliver it,” added the Princess, who was burning to revenge herself on Cyril for his words to her.

“Ottilie!” said her husband warningly, but Cyril smiled.

“You are too good, madame, but I cannot consent to place myself under a further obligation to you. You must remember that there is already a heavy account between us. I will do my best to repay your Royal Highness promptly; rely upon that.”

He bowed and went out, with a shrill laugh from the Princess, perhaps a little forced, ringing in his ears, and returned to his own house as he had come, to find Paschics watching for him, eager to announce, with much mystery, that there was a lady waiting to see him in his study. For a moment Cyril was startled, but only for a moment. The weakness passed, and he entered the room, to find the lady, who was dressed in black and wore a thick veil, standing by the window.

“Have you not done me harm enough yet?” he asked, never doubting who it was; but the lady raised her veil, and displayed, not the features of Ernestine, but the pale plain face of Anna Mirkovics.

“I am the bearer of a message from her Majesty to you, Count,” she said coldly, giving him a note. “You were right in supposing that she would wish to come here in person, but by representing the difficulty she would experience in leaving the Palace unobserved, I induced her to allow me to be her messenger.”

She turned away again to the window, and Cyril tore open the envelope, and drew out the blotted and tear-stained missive which it contained.

“Cyril, my Beloved” (Ernestine had written),—“You cannot intend to leave me like this. They tell me that you are quitting Thracia in disgrace—but I know that is only my cousin’s malevolence—take me with you. Let me share your trouble—I will not say disgrace, for that cannot attach to your name. Send me one word by Anna, and I will come. Do not think that I shall repent taking the step. You know me well enough to be sure that neither poverty nor scorn would trouble me if I was with you. But I know you are saying, as you did the other day, ‘The choice was in your own hands, and you preferred your son to me.’ Dearest, how could I build our happiness on the ruins of my child’s? You would not wish me to do so; you were trying me, were you not? I have never opposed you in anything but this, but how could I deprive Michael of the joy I desired for myself? And if you think I deserve punishment for following my conscience in this respect, I have received it. Three days and nights of misery, Cyril! Even you would pity me if you saw me now—they tell me I am mad, merely because I love you—or will you not forgive me yet? But if I must go on suffering in this way, at least do not leave me without a word. Let me see you once more, just to say good-bye. I will not trouble you with entreaties, I will only look at you for the last time. Let me have a kind look to remember, and not the dreadful cold eyes that met mine the other day. Remember that day in the burning house, that mountain-path in the snow. You loved me then. Have you the heart to forsake me without one kind word? But no, you are welcome to overwhelm me with reproaches, if only you will let me see you. You know how I love you.—Your broken-hearted

Ernestine.”

“I fear, mademoiselle,” said Cyril to the messenger, crumpling the note in his hand, “that her Majesty forgets the circumstances of the case. It would scarcely improve my position in Thracia at the present moment if I invited the Queen to run away with me. Not,” he dropped for a moment the hard tone in which he had spoken, and Anna Mirkovics looked up with sudden hope, “that I do not consider the scandal involved would inflict a very salutary punishment on King Michael and his future relatives, but one really must consider one’s own personal feelings a little in such a matter.”

“Then what answer”—the maid of honour’s voice was almost choked with indignation—“am I to take to her Majesty?”

“I think it would be best to tell her that there is no answer. To say that I decline the honour might sound discourteous.”

“But you will see her to say good-bye? You must.”

“Pardon me; such a step would indicate a willingness to do more, and I have no intention of doing anything.”

“Yes, if you saw her, you must yield. Oh, Count, have pity upon her! We can do nothing to comfort her, although our hearts are broken by the sight of her sufferings. She sits in the same place from morning till night, and neither weeps nor speaks. The Princess and the King have rallied her, upbraided her, threatened to give out that she has become insane, but nothing could rouse her until Baroness von Hilfenstein happened to hear that you had been released and were about to leave Thracia, and then she determined to make a last effort to communicate with you. You cannot refuse this one small favour. I will smuggle you into the Palace as a friend of my own—what does it signify what they say of me, if I can help to comfort her?—and when you see her, you must give way.”

“I think not, mademoiselle. I am not a sentimentalist, as you know, and I cannot flatter myself that the meeting would afford any comfort to her Majesty. It is not as though things were as they used to be.”

“You mean that you do not now love her? But if that is the case, you have never loved her. Oh, assure me of that, let me tell her from yourself that you sought her only for the help she could give to your political designs, that you awoke her love for you merely that you might climb to power by its means, and that it was only natural you should throw off the mask when she refused to serve your purpose any longer. It will wound her terribly, but her pride will help her to tear you from her heart. You need not try to keep up the mockery any longer, surely?”

“I should be delighted to meet your wishes, mademoiselle, but unfortunately I am not quite quixotic enough to blacken my own character so gratuitously as you propose. I did love her Majesty at one time—in fact, until three days ago. I will not say that at any time I should have been willing to make a fool of myself to please her, as some men would, but once, at any rate, I was prepared to die for her. Is it beyond your power to imagine an experience by which love should be altogether burnt out and destroyed? That was my case when, thanks to the Queen, I saw my policy overthrown, the labours of twenty years undone, and myself held up to the ridicule of Europe.”

“But if you love her, you can forgive even that. She was wrong, no doubt, but has she not suffered for it? Is she not willing to share with you the consequences of her fault, as the only reparation she can make? You say you loved her——”

“Pardon me; I fear I have not made my meaning clear. I did once love her Majesty, but—I do so no longer.”

“You really loved her? I hope you did; I am glad if you did. You think your love is dead; but it will come to life again to torment you, and then, perhaps—oh, I trust it will be so!—you will know something of the pain you are making her suffer, when you feel that you would give anything to see her and to touch her hand again, and you cannot approach her. If the time ever came for her to treat you as you are treating her now, I could die happy.”

“May I suggest, mademoiselle, that I feel a slight delicacy in listening to these accounts of her Majesty’s feelings—under the circumstances?”

“You are a cruel, heartless man,” said Anna Mirkovics despairingly, “and I hope God will punish you as you deserve!”

“I fear that you must rate my deserts very low, mademoiselle, if you mean to imply that the punishment I merit is even worse than all that has already happened to me.”

He looked round with a faint smile at the dismantled room and the untidy packet of papers, and Anna Mirkovics realised dimly that whatever his punishment was to be in the future, it had begun in the present.

About a week later, the party gathered for afternoon tea in the great hall at Llandiarmid Castle were startled by the entrance of a visitor, who opened the front door and walked in unannounced.

“Uncle Cyril!” cried Usk.

“Cyril, old man!” exclaimed his father. “My dear fellow, why didn’t you telegraph, and let us send the carriage for you?”

“I didn’t care to make a fuss. No, Caerleon, I am not quite a fool. I came here in a fly, not plodding through the mud. Nadia, you look younger than your daughter. Phil, do you still consider it a compliment to be told you are more like your father than ever? Mr Mansfield, how are you? I have seen you and Usk so recently that I really can’t perceive any changes at the moment that ought to be remarked upon. Caerleon, do sit down, old man, and don’t grip my shoulder like that. I assure you that I am flesh and blood, and not my own ghost.”

“You have cut Thracia for good and all?” asked Caerleon, sitting down opposite his brother, but avoiding looking at him.

“I suppose so—or rather, it has cut me. I have refused their pension, at any rate.”

“Right! I’m delighted to hear it.”

“No more questions any one wants to ask, are there? You know that old Drakovics has returned to nominal power, with Vassili as an under-study of all work?”

“Did all your men go over to him?”

“Most did; but Georgeivics and old Mirkovics resigned. I pointed out to them that it was foolish; but they would do it.”

“And they were the only ones that remained faithful?”

“My dear Caerleon, pray don’t be so tragic. A man doesn’t want further depressing when he has come to such glorious smash already as I have. No, Paschics is persistently and stupidly determined to follow my fallen fortunes. I left him in London, to delude the interviewers. And Dietrich is also in my train, more taciturn than ever now that his belief in my star has been so rudely shattered. Oh, and by the bye, there is an old Jew named Goldberg, whom you may remember hearing of. When I was passing through Vienna, he came and played the Good Samaritan. There is a sum of two million florins about which he and I had dealings together once, and he informs me that when it was returned to him he invested it at once in my name, and that it is at my service now. I daresay I shall go and stay with him a little later on. Those are all that I have found faithful among the faithless, I believe.”

“But the Queen, Uncle Cyril?” asked Usk. “You said that she always supported you. Did she change sides, or has she really gone mad? The papers hint at all kinds of things.”

Cyril looked round upon the group with a rather strained smile. “I don’t want to sound melodramatic,” he said, “but I should feel deeply obliged if you would mention the Queen’s name to me as little as possible. Her Majesty chose suddenly to forsake my advice, and adopt that of my bitterest enemy, and that sort of thing puts a man a little out of conceit with her.”

“I can’t stand this any longer,” said Caerleon hoarsely. “This place is too hot, or draughty, or something. For goodness’ sake, Cyril, come out on the terrace and have a smoke.”

“Anything for a quiet life!” said Cyril, acquiescing readily.

“Oh, mother!” cried Philippa, as the door closed behind her father and uncle, “it was worse than that, I’m sure. He loved her, and she has played him false. Didn’t you see his face?”

“He is awfully changed since we saw him less than a month ago,” said Usk.

“I should scarcely have known him to be the same man,” Mansfield agreed.

“Oh, how could she? how could she?” cried Philippa. “To draw him on, and win his love, and then throw him over—a splendid man like Uncle Cyril! The wicked woman, I hate her! It is not a thing to be cried over”—and she dashed away an indignant tear as she spoke—“I should like to kill her! She has taken all the best years of his life, and left him

‘Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,

For a dream’s sake.’”

“Don’t get into the habit of quoting poetry when you are excited, Phil,” said her uncle’s voice at the open window. He had been passing, and had overheard the last words. “It is very hard to break oneself off it, and it has got me into trouble more than once. People think it sounds stagey, you know.”

“I suppose,” pursued Philippa, in a lower tone, but still with boundless indignation, “that she thought he was not grand enough for her to marry! And so she used him as long as she wanted his help, and then cast him aside. As if she ought not to have been glad of the chance of giving up everything for him because she loved him—if she did!”

“There may be excuses for her of which we know nothing,” said Lady Caerleon, observing that Mansfield was hanging on Philippa’s words in rapt admiration, as much for the speaker as for the sentiments she expressed. “She may even think she is acting rightly. It is quite possible,” with a sigh, “to do wrong from the best motives.”

“No, mother, I am sure it was just wicked, horrible pride. She thought only of herself, and not a bit of him, and calmly broke his heart because he did not happen to be born a King.”

And there was no one to tell her that it was Cyril, and not Ernestine, who had found place and power too much to give up for love.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Balkan Series.” The full series, in order, being:

An Uncrowned King
A Crowned Queen
The Kings of the East
The Prince of the Captivity

Alterations to the text:

[Title Page]

Add brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See above.

[Chapter I]

Change “in that georgeous company” to gorgeous.

“With the certainity that neither principal” to certainty.

[Chapter II]

“understand that his pore pa is struck” to poor.

[Chapter IV]

“her unaccustomed graciousnesness was merely” to graciousness.

“representing St Gabriel of Tartarjé” to Tatarjé.

[Chapter V]

“Come, count, I wish to go to the” to Count.

[Chapter IX]

“striking his mother ... with his little first” to fist.

“because she is—well, angry himself” to herself.

[Chapter XVI]

“The loyalty of my familty is not dependent” to family.

[Chapter XX]

“I’m afraid I had forgotton” to forgotten.

[Chapter XXI]

“Ernestine placed himself between them” to herself.

“she owed it to himself that it was” to herself.

[Chapter XXII]

“like his Majesty’s contrairy ways” to contrary.

[Chapter XXV]

“saw a way out of the diffculty” to difficulty.

[End of Text]

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Table of Contents

- A CROWNED QUEEN

- CONTENTS.

- A CROWNED QUEEN.

- CHAPTER I. AN INTERRUPTED HOLIDAY.

- CHAPTER II. IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH.

- CHAPTER III. THE BATTLE OF THE CREEDS.

- CHAPTER IV. AN AMATEUR DIPLOMATIST.

- CHAPTER V. HEAVILY HANDICAPPED.

- CHAPTER VI. A DAUGHTER’S DUTY.

- CHAPTER VII. TWO KINGS OF BRENTFORD.

- CHAPTER VIII. A FAMILY COMPACT.

- CHAPTER IX. “WAYS THAT ARE DARK, AND TRICKS THAT ARE VAIN.”

- CHAPTER X. A NEW RELATIONSHIP.

- CHAPTER XI. WAYFARING.

- CHAPTER XII. METAMORPHOSES.

- CHAPTER XIII. IN THE GREENWOOD.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE JUDENHETZE.

- CHAPTER XV. “WE TWO STOOD THERE WITH NEVER A THIRD.”

- CHAPTER XVI. THIS WORKING-DAY WORLD.

- CHAPTER XVII. “THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR.”

- CHAPTER XVIII. FRIENDLY INTERVENTION.

- CHAPTER XIX. A LITTLE TOO FAR.

- CHAPTER XX. IN QUEST OF THE WHEREWITHAL.

- CHAPTER XXI. PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE.

- CHAPTER XXII. THE EDUCATION QUESTION.

- CHAPTER XXIII. IN SIGHT OF THE GOAL.

- CHAPTER XXIV. A COMBAT À OUTRANCE.

- CHAPTER XXV. TO THE VICTOR THE SPOILS.

- TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE