And, now alone, Reginald stepped cautiously
to the end of the terrace, washed his sword
in the fountain-water, and sheathed it.

If poor pretty Helen, with nothing but her
bright and honest purity and her trust in her husband's
love, were almost as brave as an Oranienberg
woman, he was braver than any Oranienberg
man had been, let the time have been ever
so far away, or the danger ever so pressing.
How he loved her! And yet, he had left her,
under a misgiving, out of duty to his Grand-
Duke, out of resolution to trust in her—to
trust, also, in his power of fulfilling her wishes.
—Could she have wished that he should leave
her?

He had been ill of an overwrought brain for
many weeks; he became worse, as he travelled
day and night towards the frontier. The official
mission on which he was bent, was no child's
play. There were angry folk whom the Grand-
Duke's message (prompted by himself) must put
into flame. There was no security as to its
issue; and with all this doubt, and this wear
and tear of spirits, and this purpose to carry
through a purpose, there came like some terrible
tune which will not leave hold of its victim,
the besetting thought.

"I went, because she wished me to go. Why
did she wish me to go? Where is she now?"
So the Baron drove on, sleeping little, towards
the frontier.

The Baron alighted, for a moment, at a
small frontier town, fevered, vexed, ill at ease,
ever harping on his young beautiful English
wife and her young beautiful English cousin.
Ere the fresh post-horses could be put to the
carriage, the Baron was out of it, in the dark, to
stroll through the western gate. There may have
been some of the folk who were waiting on the
crisis, who waited also for him. He was thinking
of Helen, and of no political quarrel, as he
passed through the gate. The ball from a pistol
did not spare him, nevertheless; it touched him
severely, and he fell. As he fell, a terrible
thought had time to flash through the pain and
confusion of the moment, " This cannot have
been her wish?"

He had time to remember her face, how she
had controlled herself when she had heard of
his going, and to remember, like a cankering
pain, the difference of their ages. How he
loved her! His last clear thought was that she
could not know what had happened. She was
safe at court enjoying herself, and, should he
die, there was that cousin of hers.

Who can tell the terror, the misgiving that
he might be long a prisoner, the confused dance
of miseries and suspicions that banished rest
from his pillow even when he did sleep!

"LIVE to fulfil her wishes before she utters
them!" He was, perhaps, dying in fulfilment of
her wish. Then, what business had that English
cousin of hers to be always sitting by his
bed, and to be always dressing his wound—
always pouring fire into it? Was this Helen's
wish?—He woke, and struck about him.
Everything was profoundly still; there was no one
save his secretary, dozing in an arm-chair by the
light of a shaded lamp.

"How long have I been asleep, Conrad? Are
there no despatches from court? . . . from . . . ."
"Truly, yes, my lord," said the other, shaking
himself awake; " but I judged it best not to
disturb you, though the courier has ridden night
and day with them, and though he pressed that
you should see them at once. They are of the
uttermost importance, he is sure. My lord,
you are not fit to read them, and yet I dare
not withhold them."

The Baron raised himself in bed and broke
the seals of the despatch. The writing was a
woman's—a writing strange to him, hurried
and broken; no wonder, considering the tale it
conveyed:

"Whatever be the importance of your mission,
"wrote the Grand-Duchess, "you must
come back—you must come to me. We are in
terrible straits here. My husband is dying of
a wound received in a duel with your wife's
cousin, on the evening of the 30th. During
some days previous, your wife had absented
herself from court, under the pretext of being ill of
fever. When it became known to me that the
duel had been fought in the gardens of your
palace, I insisted on having speech with her, in
order to ascertain what light she could throw on
so terrible an affair. I will not dwell on my
feelings at finding that she was not in the palace
—that she was gone—fever or no fever—no one
could tell me where. Her cousin, too, is missing.
They are, probably, together.

"The wound of my husband, the physicians
assure me, is poisoned; and, further, that his
life can by no art be protracted for many days.
On every ground you should—you must—be
here; if not to support the wife of your Prince
under such an awful calamity, to see on the
spot what can be done to rescue your wife.
Bitter though my grief is, and fearful the
mischief she has caused, I do not accuse her of
more than natural weakness. She struggled, I
know—for I had her full confidence—to be true
to you. Remember, I am writing by a death-bed,
and I speak of nothing to which I will not
swear.
   "Come. Your heart-broken friend,
                                      "AMALIA."

The Baron had never been so strong in his life
as at that instant; strong in the horror that
overrules pain; strong in the vigorous will that
can even retard the coming of Death.

His secretary saw him read the letter twice,
and even make a note on its margin.
"Have the carriage ready in a quarter of an
hour," said a voice from within him, the tone of
which told nothing, save that it was quite
unlike his own. " When did the courier get
here?"

"Yesterday morning, my lord."
"Send Clemens to dress me. You must follow
me, as soon as possible. I shall be ready
in a quarter of an hour. We are going back to
court!"