“It is splendid!” said Nadia. “I should never have thought of such a way of putting it. It could not be better—except that I shall say ‘this shameful murder,’ instead of ‘this fearful sorrow.’ They say the King loves justice, and that will show him that a crime will be committed if he refuses to interfere.”

“You are bold,” said her friend. “But after all, no doubt the King will stand more from a girl than he would from an old woman, and he is an Englishman, and boldness may please him.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
SO NEAR, AND YET——

The long hours of evening and night wore away, so monotonously that Nadia began to feel as if a slow and uneven progress on a badly laid track, conducted to the accompaniment of the clanking of couplings and the dull thud of the engine, and diversified by halts of varying duration at unfinished and ill-lighted stations, was a normal condition of her life, and might be expected to last for ever. The men at the other end of the carriage made themselves comfortable upon the benches, and the two women slumbered intermittently among the bundles. Whenever she awoke Nadia busied herself in laying her plans for the morrow, as she sat gazing into the flying darkness, with an occasional glimpse of a distant star or a cloud of rushing steam. Her friend’s insistence upon the necessity of a written petition had given her a new idea, but she did not intend to make use of it unless she was forced to do so by circumstances. It was still her intention to throw herself suddenly at Caerleon’s feet and entreat him to listen to her for a moment. If, not perceiving who she was, he should depute Cyril to inquire into her case, all would be well; but if he should recognise her, and she were compelled to deliver her warning to himself, she still cherished the wild hope that she would be able to retreat and lose herself in the crowd before he could recover from his astonishment. The petition was only to be used in case she found it difficult to obtain access to him. There was little likelihood of his recognising her handwriting, which he had only seen once or twice, but she hoped that the idea of a miscarriage of justice would rouse him at once to make inquiries, when Cyril would naturally be the messenger chosen.

In thus providing against various contingencies she passed the waking hours of the night, and in the morning, when the train stopped at the station where her friend’s cousin lived, she felt that she was prepared for any event. The station-master’s residence was not imposing in appearance, consisting as it did of four whitewashed walls and a thatched roof, but the owner’s wife received her visitors with much hospitality, insisted on their sharing her breakfast, and supplied them with the means of making a hasty and somewhat primitive toilet. During the meal Nadia’s first friend unfolded the girl’s story, in so far as she had heard it, to her cousin, and engaged her help in the matter of drawing up the petition. The hostess wasted no time in assuring them of her sympathy, but produced at once a pen and ink and some sheets of official paper from a hole under the thatch, which served apparently as her husband’s bureau, and Nadia sat down to write at the small low table, from which the breakfast things had been hastily removed. It was no easy matter to translate into passable French the sonorous Thracian which her travelling companion poured forth, to the loudly expressed admiration of the station-master’s wife, and the latter complicated the matter almost at the beginning by exclaiming—

“Oh no, Maria! You must not mention the marriage, it would be most unsuitable. Haven’t you heard the news?”

“News? What news?” cried Nadia and her friend together.

“Why, about the poor King. The engine-driver on the train from Bellaviste which passed through the station this morning told my husband what he had heard them saying last night. The wicked girl—for wicked she is, princess or no princess—whom he was going to marry went and ran off with some one else on the very day before the betrothal!”

“I wish her husband joy of her!” said Nadia’s friend, grimly. “A jilt like that will come to no good. After all, the poor young King is well rid of such a minx. But I was afraid you were going to say that something had happened to the King—and I see you were too,” she went on, looking at Nadia, from whose hand the pen had fallen. “That would have been bad for you; for Milos Drakovics, good patriot though he is, is a man of iron, and would never listen to a girl’s entreaties, especially on a matter that touched the discipline of the army. Well, we must alter the words of the petition. Perhaps the poor King’s heart will be softened by his trouble.”

Awkward as the transposition of sentiment might appear, the Thracian poetess was equal to the occasion, and the petition was successfully drawn out, with its wording altered to correspond with the change of circumstances. After the first shock of surprise and ineffable relief, Nadia wrote steadily on, without allowing herself time to think. Not until she was again in the train, with the farewells and good wishes of her kindly hostess ringing in her ears, did she permit herself to remember that Caerleon was once more free, that now there was no one who had the right to stand between him and herself. She knew that she ought to feel sorry that a scheme of so much excellence had failed, that such a cruel indignity had been put upon Caerleon in the face of all Europe, but she was not. She was silently, unspeakably glad, and all the morning as she sat listening patiently to her companion’s legends, and putting in appropriate remarks at intervals, her thoughts were of the spring of happiness which was rising again in her heart.

“You look better this morning,” the good woman observed complacently, as they neared Bellaviste. “No doubt it makes you feel more comfortable to have the written paper to depend upon in case you get flustered when you see his Majesty and can’t say a word. That was how my Elisaveta felt when the War Minister’s lady spoke to her one day at a military fête. Now be sure and let me hear how you get on. I wish you would come and eat some dinner with us, and let me take you afterwards to some place where you will be able to get a sight of his Majesty; but if you won’t, you won’t. Only, if you get into any trouble, ask for the quarters of Serge Georgevics, and even if I am gone home, you will find Elisaveta there, and she will help you in any way she can, for I am going to tell her all about you.”

It was with difficulty that even on the platform at Bellaviste Nadia released herself from her kind friend, but when she had delivered the bundles she had been helping to carry into the charge of Sergeant Georgevics, who was waiting to meet his mother-in-law, and had refused a second invitation to dinner, she found herself free. The sergeant told her that the King had already returned to the city, and was now receiving the Ministers at the palace, but that he would drive through the streets in the afternoon, that the townspeople might be gratified by a sight of him before he left the capital again for Tatarjé. There were, therefore, still two hours to spare before she could hope to see him, and she walked restlessly about the less frequented streets until she was tired, and then, fearing that she might be too exhausted to perform her task, went into a quiet restaurant for a cup of coffee and a roll. This frugal meal over, she made her way into the principal street, where she waited with all the patience she could command until the appearance of bodies of troops and police showed that the King might be expected to pass by before long. In spite of the failure of M. Drakovics to discover the nature of the plots hatched at Witska, he had learnt enough to make him anxious for the King’s safety, and the road was to be lined on either side with mounted soldiers and gendarmes by way of precaution. Crowds of people gathered on the pavement as time went on, and the windows and house-tops were as closely packed with spectators as on the day when the King had first entered his capital. The Thracians were resolved not only to demonstrate their sympathy with their monarch under the somewhat trying circumstances of his return from the Mœsian frontier, but also to testify their appreciation of the diplomacy of his advisers. This might well be said to have succeeded, in spite of the untoward event which had occurred, in obtaining for Thracia peace with honour, and hence no patriot stayed at home who could possibly get out into the streets. Nadia succeeded in maintaining a position in the front rank by dint of clinging to a lamp-post, and she peered anxiously between the soldiers in front of her to catch the first glimpse of the procession. At last the distant sound of mighty cheering arose, and as it came closer she caught sight of the glittering helmets and breastplates of the escort. Now she must act. Loosing her hold of the lamp-post, she slipped in between the horses of the two mounted men nearest her and tried to press to the front. But strict orders had been given to allow no one to pass the guards, and the man on her right caught her shoulder and turned her back.

“You can’t go any further, my girl. If you want to see the King, stand still where you are, and you will get a splendid sight of him as he passes. You don’t want to be introduced to him, do you?”

“I have a petition to present,” she said eagerly, disregarding the man’s rough humour. “I must give it into his hand.”

“A petition? Let me see it.”

Nadia gave it to him, and he scrutinised it carefully, upside-down, from the seal which the station-master’s wife had insisted on adding at the foot, in the idea that it gave the document an official appearance, to the loyal address at the head, turned it over, smelt it, and handed it back to her. He could not even read sufficiently to know that it was not in Thracian, but he was satisfied that it was not calculated to convey any harm to the King.

“Yes, it’s all right,” he said. “You can throw it into the King’s carriage as you stand there. Or, if you are afraid of missing, I will throw it for you, if you will thrust it into my hand just at the moment, so that the sergeant may not see.”

“Oh no, I must give it to him,” cried Nadia in a frenzy. The first carriage was close at hand now, and she saw that Caerleon was in it, sitting with his face to the horses, with Cyril and General Sertchaieff opposite him.

“But you can’t,” said the trooper, with a grim smile. What possessed her to do it Nadia could never afterwards determine, but she snatched out her dagger and struck at him wildly. He parried the blow with the greatest ease, knocked the dagger out of her hand, and seized both her wrists in an iron grasp, crying—

“Help! Here’s a woman trying to murder the King!”

“Holy Peter!” cried another, as Nadia struggled in vain to free herself. “Look at her white hands. She is a Scythian spy!”

“A Scythian spy!” said another voice. “Kill her, then!” An officer of the escort had forced his horse into the group, about which the crowd was surging and shouting. Nadia became vaguely aware that the new-comer’s face was familiar to her, that his eyes were like her mother’s,—that he was her brother Louis. Madame O’Malachy’s words recurred to her mind, “Louis will not allow you to spoil his plans,” and as they did so, she saw that he had something in his hand. He raised it, and for one awful instant, which seemed an hour, she was looking down the barrel of a revolver. Her eyes were fixed on the little steel circle so close in front of them, but she saw Louis’s finger moving to the trigger, and a shrill scream of terror broke from her as she cowered back and raised her elbow to shield herself. The crack she was expecting came, sounding to her like a thunder-clap, and the crowd yelled excitedly, but the bullet sped harmlessly over her head, as the weapon was knocked up by the senior officer of the escort, who had caught her captor’s agonised cry of “Accomplices, lieutenant! she may have accomplices!”

“You will return to the palace, Lieutenant O’Malachy, and consider yourself under arrest,” said the captain, and Louis saluted, and backing his horse out of the crowd, rode away, followed by the cheers of the mob, which appeared to approve of his endeavour to execute lynch law. But Nadia did not even look after him. She had seen, over the heads of the pushing and struggling people, who had forced their way past the guards and into the road, Caerleon spring up in the carriage and call to the coachman to stop, had seen Cyril throw himself out before his brother could get his foot on the step.

“Your Majesty wishes me to settle this matter for you?” he said imperatively, refusing to allow Caerleon to descend.

“Good heavens, Cyril! don’t you see that it’s Nadia? I tell you I heard her voice. Let me pass!” But Cyril held his ground.

“Go on and leave me to settle things, unless you want to involve her and yourself in the biggest scandal that ever spread through Europe. It’s for her sake, I tell you!”

“May I entreat his Majesty to continue his drive?” said an agitated commissary of police, thrusting his way to the front through the raging, roaring mass of people that had closed around the troopers and their prisoner. “The crowd are beginning to believe that the assassin has accomplished her purpose, and the woman will be torn in pieces before we can get her to the prison, unless the King will drive on and show himself, and so distract their attention from her.”

“Do you want her blood on your head?” cried Cyril, pushing his brother back into his place. “Go on, and let me see after her. I promise you I will take no steps without your leave. Drive on,” he called to the coachman.

Angry and bewildered, Caerleon found himself carried on, past the seething crowd into which Cyril was now forcing his way, and between fresh rows of anxious spectators who had not been able to leave their places, so closely were they packed together, and who were necessarily a prey to the wildest rumours. They greeted the King with tumultuous cheers; and as the news spread, those who were on the outskirts of the crowd, and found it impossible to obtain a view of him, rushed to the churches and began to ring the bells, so that the drive continued in a perfect pandemonium of sound. Caerleon, bowing mechanically to right and left, and wondering what could have brought Nadia to Bellaviste, and where Cyril would take her, could scarcely hear himself speak when he remembered that it would be suitable to make some remark to his companion on what had happened. He looked across at General Sertchaieff, but started when his eyes fell upon his face, for it was pale and set, and as expressionless as a mask.

“I am afraid this alarm has given you a shock, General?” he said, wondering whether it would be advisable to summon a doctor to prescribe for the Minister of War.

“Who would not be painfully affected by the attempt to perpetrate such a crime, sir?” returned General Sertchaieff. “Whom can we trust when Scythia turns our peasant-girls into assassins? I know these women: they will dare everything and tell nothing.”

“I hope you will find you are mistaken,” said Caerleon. “I myself am quite convinced that it was not an attempt at assassination at all.”

Etiquette forbade General Sertchaieff to advance an opinion contrary to that of his sovereign, but he shook his head sadly, and it was evident that the people were sharers in his belief. Indeed, before Caerleon returned to the palace, it was commonly known in the city that the would-be assassin—a woman of extraordinary stature, and armed with three dynamite bombs, a dagger, and a couple of revolvers—had mounted the step of the carriage and dealt a stab at the King, which was only not fatal because the troopers had seized her and dragged her back just in time. In view of such a determined attempt at murder, it is not wonderful that the people thronged into the churches to return thanks for the King’s escape, and that every loyal householder in Bellaviste devised and proceeded to execute marvellous impromptu illuminations for the evening with candles and oil-lamps. Cyril smiled grimly over the popular enthusiasm as he returned to the palace, and wondered impatiently how things were ever to be set right. Out of doors, the people were breathing out furious threats against the assassin; inside the palace Caerleon was waiting in restless anxiety for news of her.

“Well, where is she?” he asked eagerly, as Cyril came in.

“In the prison. We had to take her there to save her life,—the people were kicking up such a row,” as Caerleon uttered an exclamation of horror; “but she is in the governor’s house, treated as a guest; and the governor’s wife, rather a jolly old lady, but as deaf as a post,—which is an advantage under the circumstances,—is looking after her like a mother.”

“But what brought her here?”

“She came to warn you of a plot. So far as I can make out—for she won’t mention any names—that good-for-nothing father of hers is intending to murder you to-morrow on the way to Tatarjé. Madame O’Malachy died the other day, and on her deathbed she let out the secret. Miss O’Malachy kept her own counsel, and started off here as soon as she could to give you the tip.”

Caerleon drew a long breath. “Well,” he said triumphantly, “I hope you see now that it is positively incumbent on me to marry her. Think of her coming all that way to warn me! She must care for me, after all.”

“I was always under the impression that she did care for you, but refused you on conscientious grounds for the good of the kingdom,” said Cyril.

“Oh yes, of course; but it’s quite a different thing now. You must think me an utter cad if you imagine that I’m going to let her take this journey just to save me, and get herself into awful trouble with her own people, and then simply send her adrift again after it all. It’s absolutely the only thing to be done.”

“It’s a most unfortunate affair altogether,” said Cyril, meditatively. “If you ask me, Caerleon, I say that the only thing to be done is to get her out of the city to-night, and hush the matter up. Just wait a moment, and listen to me. You may not know—I didn’t want to bother you at the time—that very nasty reports got into the Scythian papers a little while ago about you and her. The O’Malachys left Bellaviste hastily and in dudgeon, you see, and the old man takes it into his head suddenly to express a deadly hatred of you, and begins to talk big about the vengeance he will have for the way in which you have treated his daughter. The girl makes no sign, but all at once, hearing of your engagement to Princess Ottilie (for she must have started before it was known to be at an end), she returns in disguise and attempts to murder you—that is how it will appear,—and all this will be simply nuts for the newspapers.”

“This is awful!” groaned Caerleon, aghast. “You mean to say that I have let her in for vile suspicions of that kind?”

“I should have said that she had let you in for them. But it’s my firm impression that she knows as little about this Scythian canard as you did a minute ago. If she had known, she is not fool enough to have used that dagger as she did.”

“I don’t quite see what you are driving at. That doesn’t make any difference. Get out a special ‘Gazette,’ will you?—you’re always issuing special ‘Gazettes’ for some reason or other—and tell the truth in it for once. Give her reason for coming here, and—no, I’ll draw it up myself.”

“Caerleon, stop!” cried Cyril, peremptorily, “and listen to me. You can’t carry things off in this way. No one would believe your story, and it would be said that you had married her as the price of her silence.”

“Stuff!” said Caerleon, contemptuously. “I shall ask the Queen of Mœsia to invite her to Eusebia on a short visit, and that will put an end to these slanders. As for leaving her unprotected now, I tell you I won’t hear of it.”

“Do you mean to marry her against her will?” asked Cyril.

“No, I shall see her and make her understand the state of the case—not telling her anything of what you have said, of course. But I am sure I could have made her listen to me before, only she begged me not to urge her against her conscience, and I obeyed her, like a fool! At any rate, I won’t do that again. It would be absurd to talk about refusing me now for the sake of the kingdom,—after what has happened she must know that, for if I don’t marry her I shan’t marry at all,—and besides, when once the people hear why she came here to-day, they will be ready to worship her.”

“Then I suppose there is no use in my giving you her message?” said Cyril.

“You may as well let me have it,” said Caerleon, reluctantly.

“She impressed upon me that she would not consent to see you under any circumstances. She said she came here to try to do you a service, and found herself your prisoner. If you chose to force yourself upon her in defiance of her wishes, she must submit, since you were her gaoler, but she believed you were a gentleman, and would respect her desire for privacy.”

“What is one to do with a girl like that?” groaned Caerleon. He would have liked to accuse Cyril of inventing the message, but it bore the impress of Nadia’s somewhat impracticable style of heroism too plainly not to be genuine. “Still, she doesn’t understand the case. I will put it to her that if she will marry me, she will be clearing me from imputations that have been made against me.”

“If she doesn’t understand the case then, she is not so clever as I think her,” retorted Cyril; “and if you don’t put it strong enough she won’t listen to you for a moment. Now look here: she has a home promised her at Pavelsburg with Princess Soudaroff, her godmother, with whom she lived before, and she only needs an escort to the Scythian frontier. The governor’s wife would be quite willing to take the little trip at your expense, and I will accompany them as far as Boloszjen, where they will get the proper train. Then she will be all right, and we can hush the matter up without any scandal at all.”

“And leave this wretched slander unrefuted?”

“Nonsense! the mere fact of the Princess’s receiving her again into her house will refute it. Besides, I contradicted it at the time.”

“I am extremely obliged to you for your solicitude about my affairs. Perhaps on another occasion you will remember that I also have some slight interest in them. Well, I will see her, and then decide.”

“Of course, if you care to force yourself upon her after what she has said——”

“You will drive me wild, Cyril. I will write to her, then.”

“No, you won’t. At least, I am not going to carry any letter. You ought to know by this time that you should never put on paper anything that might prove compromising later on. I’ll take any number of messages from you, if you like, and deliver them without note or comment.”

“What do I care about being compromised? If you will tell me the most compromising form in which a letter can be written, I’ll write it.”

“I see. What I was afraid of was your compromising her.”

“Oh, go and tell her what I want. You badger a man till he doesn’t know whether he’s standing on his head or his heels! But if you will make her understand that I beg and beseech and entreat her to marry me, and that I undertake that the people shall receive her joyfully as queen, I’ll forgive you—that is, if you bring back word that she says yes.”

“Very well. I suppose I may give orders for a carriage and relays of horses to be ready to-morrow morning? Whether Miss O’Malachy decides to take the Trans-Continental express for Pavelsburg, or to go and stay at Eusebia preparatory to being transformed into the Queen of Thracia, we must get her out of the place before people are about. I’ll take Wright to drive, if you can spare him. He couldn’t tell tales here if he would.”

“Oh, all right. But what on earth is the good of all this fuss? Tell her that if she will only have me, we will be married as soon as we can get a British chaplain up here.”

“Do keep cool,” entreated Cyril. “In any case, I thought that the lady always fixed the day?”

He left the room as Caerleon gave a despairing groan, and returned to the gaol for his second interview with Nadia. He found her sitting with the wife of the governor, a pleasant-looking, white-haired old lady whom deafness appeared to condemn to perpetual speech. Cyril could hear her monotonous voice rambling on as he came up the stairs, and it was not until he had written on a piece of paper that it was very important he should speak to Nadia Mikhailovna in private that she withdrew to the chimney-corner and comparative silence. Nadia had laid aside her peasant’s dress, which had been torn almost to rags in the rough handling she had received from the crowd, and the old lady had lent her a black gown of her own, which was so much too large about the waist that it was necessary to keep it in place by a sash. This gave her a somewhat nun-like appearance, and she looked very tall and severe as she accompanied Cyril to the window.

“I suppose you have come to tell me what is to happen to me,” she said, with extreme coldness, and yet before his entrance the irony of the situation had almost made her laugh. To have come all the way from Witska to save Caerleon, and to find herself accused of trying to murder him!

“I am here as the bearer of a message from my brother, which I have promised to deliver to you word for word,” said Cyril. “If it had not been for your appeal to his good feeling, he would be here himself now; or he would have written, but I refused to carry a letter. He implores you to reconsider your former determination, and to consent to marry him. He undertakes that there shall be no opposition to the match among the people, and he will regard it as the proudest day of his life if you will be crowned with him next month as Queen of Thracia.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “I am anxious to keep my word to Caerleon, and therefore I will tell you that no one could be more delighted than he was at the rupture of his engagement to Princess Ottilie of Mœsia.”

“Ah!” said Nadia, her eyes shining for a moment, “and what do you advise me to do?”

“I don’t presume to offer you any advice whatever. If my counsel was not in accordance with your wishes, I dare not hope that you would follow it, and if it agreed with them, it would be unnecessary. I am so anxious to leave you absolutely unfettered, that I will go so far as to say that I see no likelihood of my brother’s taking the course which it seems to me would be most advantageous for the kingdom, and making another attempt to ally himself with a royal house. He appears firm in his determination to allow no one to occupy your place in his heart. I congratulate you on your triumph.”

“I hate you!” cried Nadia, with fierce irrelevance. “If anything could induce me to marry Carlino, it would be the thought that I was spoiling your plans by doing it.”

Cyril shrugged his shoulders. “I hope that I should never forget myself so far as to behave otherwise than politely to the lady who had honoured my brother with her hand,” he said.

“Oh no, there is no fear of that,” said Nadia, wearily. “But do you think I don’t know what would happen if I married him? Don’t be afraid—I am not going to accept his offer. Your conduct would be unexceptionable, no doubt, but the things you would say—the hints you would give—the way you would look at me! Whenever trouble came upon Thracia, you would make me understand that you considered it was due to me. I cannot see how you and Carlino can be brothers. He is so—and you are——”

“We seem to be both easier to imagine than describe, at any rate,” said Cyril. “I said I wouldn’t offer you any advice, and I won’t. If I were an orator like Drakovics, I might discourse to you on the beauty of self-sacrifice, the expediency of renouncing one’s private wishes for the sake of the State, and other similarly appropriate themes. But being merely a man of the world, I can only say, marry Caerleon if you like, and become Queen of Thracia. No doubt you will be very happy until the next revolution comes. Or else leave him free still, and let him and the kingdom have a chance.”

“I believe,” said Nadia, slowly, “that you would prefer that your brother had been killed rather than that he should be saved through me.”

“Now you are becoming excited,” said Cyril, “and when you think over the things you have said you will be sorry for them. Certainly I might wish that you had not chosen to warn him in such a noticeable—one might almost say theatrical—way. But that is a detail, a mere error of judgment, and does not really prejudice the fact, for which both he and I must always remain grateful to you.”

“Thank you,” said Nadia. “After receiving such a handsome acknowledgment of my services, it is only fair for me to give you the satisfaction of hearing that I refuse absolutely to marry the King, and that I will leave Bellaviste as soon as you will allow me.”

“I can’t pretend not to be relieved by your decision,” remarked Cyril, frankly. “Pray be sure that I will do my best to settle the arrangements for your journey as much in accordance with your wishes as possible, although it will unfortunately be necessary to make the start very early in the morning, in order to avoid exciting attention. I propose, if you will allow me, to do myself the honour of accompanying you as far as Boloszjen——”

“Oh, why make all this fuss—this pretence of asking my permission?” asked Nadia, impatiently. “I know quite well that I am a prisoner, and must submit to whatever arrangements my gaolers may choose to make for me.”

“Excuse me,” said Cyril, “but I understood that you were leaving Thracia by your own choice, and going to rejoin your friends? I think you will see that this is both a more correct and a more agreeable way of looking at the matter. To return to our subject. The first part of the journey we must make by road, for it would not be advisable for you to take the train from here. We will get on board at some country station, where no one is likely to recognise us. Our good friend Madame Bruics here will accompany you as far as the Scythian frontier, and give you into the charge of Princess Soudaroff’s lady-in-waiting.”

“I am most grateful to you for your kindness and consideration,” said Nadia, rising to leave the room. “Perhaps you will tell Madame Bruics anything else you may have to say. I am very tired.”

“If your gratitude is to be interpreted by your looks, it is not a kind I should care to get much of,” said Cyril to himself as she retired. It took some time to explain in writing to Madame Bruics what was required of her and to meet her various objections, but at last Cyril was able to leave the prison and return to the palace. Sending for Wright to give him his orders for the morrow, he found the groom bursting with excitement and importance.

“’Ave you ’eard, my lord, as ’ow Mr O’Malachy ’ave sloped?” he asked eagerly, as soon as the footman who had conducted him into Cyril’s presence had departed.

“Sloped? Lieutenant O’Malachy?” cried Cyril, and cursed himself for a fool. Why had it not occurred to him to order Louis’s arrest instantly on hearing Nadia’s story? He might have guessed that her father’s plot needed a confederate in the city to enable him to carry it out successfully. “Is it certain that he is gone?” he asked of Wright.

“Quite certain, my lord. The capting’s in a orful way about it, been rowin’ the sergeants shameful, and one on ’em tell me. The capting, ’e put Mr O’Malachy under arrest for shootin’ at the young lady, and tell ’im to come back ’ere. Contrairywise, ’e rides to the post-office, as bold as brass, and sends off a Government telegram to Mr Francis Xavier O’Reilly, at Tatarjé, orderin’ ’im to leave the country within twenty-four hours. Then ’e rides out at the Feodoratz gate, sayin’ as ’e’s a-actin’ aide-de-camp to ’is Majesty, and no one see ’im since. ’Is ’orse ’ave come back to ’is stable, but they say as Mr O’Malachy must ’ave ’ad a change of clothes ’id away ready somewheres, and ’ave got away like that, though why ’e should want to is beyond me.”

But Louis’s motive was not beyond Cyril’s comprehension, for it was evident to him that, expecting that Nadia would involve him in her disclosures, he had seized the earliest opportunity for flight—a contingency against which he had carefully provided beforehand—and that he had, moreover, succeeded in warning his father to escape from Tatarjé at least an hour before Cyril had telegraphed thither to arrest him. The loquacious Wright found himself dismissed somewhat hastily, with instructions to have the carriage ready at six in the morning; and Cyril turned from the unpleasant contemplation of the oversight of which he had been guilty to drafting the announcement which was to appear on the morrow in a special ‘Gazette,’ in order to tranquillise the minds of the people. It was evident, he wrote, that a certain amount of misconception existed as to the incident of the day. The supposed attempt to murder the King was not, as had been imagined, the outcome of a plot, but it was hoped that in consequence of it the ramifications of a very extensive conspiracy would be laid bare. As for the young woman who had been arrested, she could not be held responsible for the intended crime, and having been found harmless, she had been restored to her friends. The last sentence pleased Cyril extremely, both on account of its plausibility and its adherence to the truth, although he reminded himself as he read it over that he must keep the ‘Gazette’ out of Caerleon’s way. His next duty was to write a full account of what had happened to M. Drakovics, who had remained on the frontier in order that he might meet the Premier of Mœsia, and to tell him all that he had succeeded in extracting from Nadia on the subject of the plot. This was not much, for she knew very little, and declined to tell even the whole of that, but there was one point which seemed to Cyril to be of considerable importance. Who was the X. of whom Nadia had heard Madame O’Malachy speaking to her husband, saying that he had been induced by bribes to join in the conspiracy, and to bring with him all the men in his employment? After much cogitation, Cyril could only decide that he must be one of the large distillers whose trade had been spoiled by the temperance legislation of the present Government, and who would therefore be inclined to prefer a change in the state of affairs. He resolved to keep an eye on persons of this class in future, and he mentioned his conjecture to the Premier in order to see whether he agreed with him or not.

At the appointed hour the next morning, one of the royal carriages stopped before the door of the gaol, and Madame Bruics and Nadia came out and took their places inside. Cyril occupied the seat opposite them, acting, as Nadia felt, more as guard than as escort. Madame Bruics was fortunately sleepy and disinclined to talk, and they drove on in silence until they were about to pass the palace. With a sudden impulse Nadia bent forward and looked out of the window—to take a last look at the place which held Caerleon. But when they came abreast of the small private gate, she started, for beside it there stood in the winter twilight a tall figure wrapped in a cloak. With a gasp Nadia realised that Caerleon was there,—that a word, a sign, would bring him to her, would end the long struggle in the way in which her heart ached for it to end.

“How did the beggar manage to find out when we were starting?” asked Cyril of himself with lively disgust, for the moment was a crucial one. He was equal to it, however. “You see him?” he whispered to Nadia. “You will give in now, I know.”

She turned away from him impatiently, feeling even then a mingled shame and surprise that she could choose to wring Caerleon’s heart rather than allow his brother to triumph over her. Her eyes met Caerleon’s, and he stepped forward eagerly. For one moment she looked into his face, saw its expression of earnest entreaty change to one of disappointment, and read in it that her decision was accepted, as it was given, in silence. She waved her hand to him as he drew back, the carriage passed on, and he was left standing by the roadside, without a word said.

CHAPTER XIX.
PILGRIMS PERFORCE.

The long journey on which Nadia’s unflinching determination had embarked her was performed alternately by road and rail until Boloszjen was reached, but from that point it was possible to find a train running directly to Pavelsburg. At Boloszjen Cyril parted from the travellers, after seeing them safely into their carriage. Since leaving Bellaviste, Nadia had not exchanged a single word with him that was not absolutely necessary, for the hatred she had frankly avowed to him during their interview at the gaol had not been diminished by the taunt which had finally sealed Caerleon’s fate, but now she put aside her dislike sufficiently to make an appeal to him on behalf of poor old Madame Bruics, who was to return alone from the Scythian frontier. Precluded by her deafness from receiving either advice or warning, unless these were tendered in writing, the old lady would be quite helpless if left to herself, and Nadia told Cyril that it was his duty to send Wright to escort her and bring her home. Such plain speaking was rather a bitter pill for Cyril, who was wont to pride himself on his foresight and tactful consideration, and felt that in this case especially he had done more than any one could have expected of him; but he recognised the cruelty involved in sending poor Madame Bruics upon a wild-goose chase over the railways of Central Europe, and put the crowning touch to his self-abnegation by depriving Caerleon of Wright’s services for some days longer. He parted from Nadia in a polite and hostile manner—that is to say, she did not offer to shake hands with him, and he went away marvelling at the uncharitableness of some people.

Wright as an escort was much more to Nadia’s taste than his master had been, although he considered it his duty to come to the window of the carriage at every station and inquire whether the ladies would like some tea—for tea, in his opinion, was the only refreshment acceptable to the feminine mind, and as such, was capable of being imbibed at all hours and at very short intervals. When they reached the Scythian frontier, and Nadia, to her great joy, had discovered Marie Karlovna, a German lady belonging to her godmother’s household, waiting to meet her, she commended Madame Bruics to Wright’s care with great earnestness, although he viewed her solicitude as impassively as he did the coin which she ventured to slip into his hand, and at which he glanced immediately in order to ascertain its value. But when she had seen Madame Bruics established in the return train, and was turning away with Marie Karlovna, she heard footsteps behind her, and looking round, found Wright close at hand.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, in a low voice and with great embarrassment, “but don’t you go for to take on about the King. ’E always rides straight, ’e do—not like some people as ought to know better and doesn’t; and ’e knows ’is own mind, and as some poetry chap says, ‘’Is ’eart is always true.’”

For a moment after the utterance of this sentiment, the presumptuous groom felt ready to sink into the earth under the combined weight of his own daring and the glance which Nadia turned on him, but while he was wondering apprehensively whether she would give him in charge on the spot or write to Lord Cyril to complain of his conduct, the fire died out of her eyes, and she said gently—

“Thank you, Wright. I know quite well that what you say of the King is true. He is the best of men, and nothing of all that has happened is his fault.”

Wright touched his hat and retired, red in the face but with a clear conscience, deciding in his honest mind that Miss O’Malachy would make a sight better wife for ’is Majesty than that there princess would ’ave done, and that he ’oped he might one day ’ave the honour of trainin’ a ’orse for ’er to ride. And Nadia looked after his short sturdy figure with something like affection, not unmingled with envy, for he loved Caerleon, and he was going back to him now. She was leaving him farther and farther behind as she travelled on to Pavelsburg with Marie Karlovna, who had evidently received strict orders not to tease her with questions, for she talked exclusively of the great conference of members of different evangelical denominations which had recently been held in the city, and of other matters interesting to the supporters of the Cercle Evangélique. At last the capital was reached, and Nadia saw awaiting her on the platform a tall stout elderly lady, carelessly dressed, with her abundant grey hair surmounted by a ludicrously unfashionable bonnet. If these personal characteristics had not been sufficient of themselves to identify Princess Soudaroff, other evidence would have been furnished by the almost adoring reverence with which she was surrounded by the minor officials of the railway, among whom she had worked for years. But Nadia needed no such additional help. She could scarcely wait for the door of the carriage to be opened, but precipitated herself down the steps and into her godmother’s arms.

“Oh, Marraine, I have so longed to see you!” she cried.

“Not more than I to see you, dear child,” returned the Princess, patting Nadia’s shoulder affectionately. “You have been out into the world since we parted. How has it used you?”

“Oh, I have so much to tell you, to ask you,” said Nadia, with a sigh that was almost a sob, but her godmother stilled her eagerness with a gesture.

“When we reach home, my child—not now. Come, we attract attention. My good Marie, I am rejoiced to see you. You are ready? The carriage is waiting.”

“They have not been taking care of you while I have been away, Marraine,” said Nadia, when she was seated in the carriage by the Princess’s side. “You want me to choose your dresses and bonnets for you again.”

“Very well, my child,” smiled her godmother. “Marie Karlovna has looked after my clothes since you went to join your parents, and she said that it was no use getting expensive things for me, because I always gave them away.” Marie Karlovna made a deprecating gesture of assent, and Nadia smiled, remembering that she had seen the Princess take a sable-lined cloak from her own shoulders and give it to a beggar-woman. “But this bonnet,” Princess Soudaroff went on, “I chose for myself, and I think you must like it, dear child. I saw Olga Ivanovna, the Bible-woman, wearing one, and it pleased me so much that I asked her to have one made for me exactly like it. And she did, and this is the bonnet.”

“Oh, Marraine, I shan’t rest until I have taken you out shopping, and made you get some fresh clothes,” said Nadia, laughing; and then it suddenly struck her what a mockery it was to come back and take up her old duties as if she had scarcely been away a week, after the scenes through which she had passed in the interval. The tears rose into her eyes again, and her godmother laid a sympathising hand upon her arm.

“Have patience, my child; you shall tell me everything as soon as we reach home,” and Nadia dried her eyes resolutely, and tried to assume an interest in the changes that had taken place during her absence in the streets through which they were passing. When they arrived at the large house of which the Princess occupied a part, she had regained her calmness sufficiently to be able to reply with a smile and a kind word to the greetings of the servants who crowded to welcome her, and who formed a motley group, owing to the Princess’s fondness for taking her friends’ failures into her household and giving them another trial.

“I see that the house is as full as ever,” said Nadia, as her godmother led her up the stairs, after bestowing upon her a kiss of welcome at the door.

“Yes, you will find many old friends, although some have succeeded in obtaining other situations. Ah, do you remember my maid Katinka, the pretty girl who married the handsome young carpenter on my country estate? He has deserted her most cruelly, poor thing! and she came to me almost in despair. I could not take her back as maid, for I am trying to train little Vera, a protégée, as you may remember my telling you, of Countess Wratisloff’s. She was serving in a little shop, amid very undesirable surroundings, and she was not a success as Countess Wratisloff’s kitchen-maid, so I offered to take her. It was a little trying at first, but she has done better lately. Of course I cannot turn her out and give Katinka her place, so Katinka is sempstress now, and I can scarcely find her work enough to do.”

While she was speaking, the Princess was leading Nadia through the rooms which had always been hers, and she now pointed out the little changes and improvements she had made in view of the girl’s return.

“How good you are to me, Marraine!” said Nadia, gratefully.

“Would you have me cruel to you, my poor child? Now, come,” and she sat down in the arm-chair—“come and tell me all about your troubles.”

“Oh, Marraine!” cried Nadia, throwing herself on the ground and burying her face in her godmother’s dress, “I have given up everything because it was right to do it, and I cannot even learn to forgive!”

“Not even forgive? But that is often the hardest thing of all to do. Tell me about it, my child,” repeated the Princess, and Nadia poured forth the story of her first meeting with Caerleon, of his kindness to her, and of the way in which each had learnt to love the other; then his sudden acceptance of the kingdom, with all the changes it had brought in its train; his repeated appeal to her to share his throne, the intrigues by means of which Scythia had sought to gain ascendancy over him through her, her journey to Bellaviste to warn him of the plot against his life, and her resolute but ignominious departure.

“I gave him up because it was right to do it, Marraine,” she said; “and not only am I miserable myself, but I have made him miserable.”

“Was it right?” asked the Princess, quietly.

“Oh yes, Marraine, of course,—at least I knew it must be right because it was so hard to do.”

“Is that the way in which you test your duties, my child? It is a wise plan in many cases, but sometimes dangerous—for instance, if you begin to regard ‘difficult’ as synonymous with ‘right.’ You are told to ‘endure hardness as a good soldier,’ but never to follow hardness as an aim in itself. It is Christ you are to follow. What would you think of a soldier who chose to live out in the snow rather than in the barracks provided for him? Would he make himself a better soldier by ruining his health and risking his life in such a way?”

“No, but——” the idea was too novel for Nadia to grasp it at once in its entirety.

“And think what it is that you have been accepting as right,” the Princess went on, with sudden passion. “You tell the man who has assured you that he loves you alone in the world that if he desires to please you he must marry another woman. This may be self-sacrifice, my child, but it is certainly sin.”

“But the kingdom—the people——” gasped Nadia, confounded.

“Was the King to sin for the sake of his kingdom? Could you not have parted from him for a time, if it was necessary, each assured of the other’s love, and content to wait—all your lives, perhaps—in case a way might possibly be opened for you? It may be that in taking your own path you have missed the training God meant for you.”

“But the uncertainty would have been so dreadful. Surely it was better to end it at once,” urged Nadia.

“Better? to you, perhaps. But what of this poor Carlino? Had you no misgivings, my child?”

“None at all, at first. When Carlino told me at Witska that he had accepted the crown, I had been wondering just before whether I had done right in urging him to take it, and while he was speaking I saw quite suddenly what I must do. Since I had goaded him into becoming king—I really did, Marraine; I said dreadful things to him—this was my punishment, that the kingdom should come between him and me. There was no question about my duty.”

“But why punish the poor Carlino?” asked the Princess.

“I don’t know, Marraine—because I could not do my duty without punishing him, I suppose. I am afraid I didn’t think of that—I was so unhappy, and yet I never doubted that I was right. And then, when Lord Cyril came to speak to me about it, it was just the same. He seemed not to have a doubt as to my refusing Carlino, but took it for granted both that I ought to do it and that I should.”

“And you felt unwilling to disappoint Lord Cyril?” said the Princess, with a sarcasm that came oddly from her gentle lips. “Your parents, also, would have been disappointed, no doubt, if you had become Queen of Thracia?”

“Oh no,” returned Nadia in surprise. “They wished it above all things.”

“And you felt that anything that they desired was on that account alone to be regarded with suspicion? I know that you are inclined to be always in opposition, my child. To us of the older generation, dissent is a sorrowful necessity; to you young reformers it is the breath of life. You feel happier when you have found something with which you can disagree.”

Nadia digested this unpalatable remark with what patience she might. “Carlino has hinted something of the same kind to me,” she said, “but I did not know that I was quite so bad as that.”

“You have never doubted the wisdom of your action, then?”

“Oh yes, often, when we were at Witska the second time. The doubts used to torment me. And then came the offer which was brought by Vladimir Alexandrovitch. You would not have had me accept that, Marraine?”

“And enslave your husband’s kingdom? God forbid, my child. But you have received a message from Carlino himself, since that time, have you not?”

“Yes, but—— It was Lord Cyril again, Marraine. I forgot all my doubts when he put things before me.”

“Then it was only necessary for him to take it for granted again that you would refuse his brother, and you did?”

“Oh no, Marraine; you do not know Lord Cyril at all. This time he took it for granted that I should give way and marry Carlino, and I could not resist proving him a false prophet.”

“You care much less, then, for the happiness of Carlino than for the opinion of his brother, since you prefer to disappoint your lover rather than hear Lord Cyril say, ‘I have prophesied it’?”

“No, indeed, I have no respect for Lord Cyril’s opinion; but it is the things he says—he has a power over me.”

“You do not love Carlino sufficiently to disregard Lord Cyril’s sneers?”

“Marraine! I love him well enough to give him up.”

“Yes; but you are afraid to marry him lest his brother should taunt you if anything went wrong. If you loved him better, my child, you would have no cause to fear Lord Cyril, for his words would have no effect upon you.”

“Then it is my own fault, after all?” said Nadia, hopelessly. “Marraine, it seems to me that I am continually discovering things too late. Now that my mother is dead, I see that we might have been much more to one another, and now that Carlino will never approach me again, I find that it was I myself, and not Lord Cyril, whom I have been blaming in my mind, that kept us apart. I am always wrong. But you will help me; you will show me what I ought to do.”

“But I am not sure that I should be right in keeping you with me here,” said the Princess. “You have come home at a sad time, dear child. We Evangelicals are suspected by all the world just now, and the spies of the Holy Synod are watching us.”

“But suspected, Marraine? How should we be suspected, when we pray always for the Emperor and for Scythia, and counsel patient submission even to unjust laws?”

“Alas, my child! why did the wolf suspect the lamb? Marie Karlovna will have told you of our late conference, and of the blessing and support which resulted from it to many among the brethren. But such a gathering from all parts of the empire attracted the notice of the police, and they made a raid on the hotel in which some of the brethren, who could not all be accommodated in the houses of the faithful here, were staying. Strange to say, there was a band of Oudenist conspirators lodging in the same house, and on being apprised of the approach of the police they fled, leaving a secret printing-press and a quantity of seditious literature concealed in one of our friends’ rooms. Happily, our brothers were able, after some weeks’ imprisonment, to convince the tribunal of their innocence, but M. Tourquemadischeff and the Holy Synod considered that the object for which they had come together was scarcely to be preferred to Oudenism. All the churches which had taken part in the conference were censured, and ordered to keep their members at home for the future, and all our free evangelistic services are forbidden. We are daily expecting to hear that Anton Gregorievitch is exiled.”

“Oh, Marraine, Count Wratisloff! But what has he done, and what shall we do without him?”

“‘God removes His labourers, and continues His work,’” quoted the Princess. “The pillar of our faith and our work is the living God, not Anton Gregorievitch. You ask what he has done. He has denounced wars of aggression and religious persecutions, he has prayed in public that the Emperor might be granted judicious advisers, and he has devoted his fortune to helping the poor and needy.”

“But what is he doing now?” asked Nadia. “How does he endure the suspense?”

“He goes on with his work, one day at a time. The great evangelistic services held at his house have come to an end, but his Bible-readings, his visiting of the sick, both at their homes and in the hospitals, his efforts to raise the condition of the peasantry, he will not cease.”

“Nor have you ceased yours, Marraine, I am sure.”

“Ah, we women are not in such imminent danger, my child. But still, I do not like to involve you in any risk. Would you care to go and stay in the South with my sister? or I have friends in England who would be delighted to receive you?”

“Are you suggesting that I should leave you? Never, Marraine! Let me stay and help you as much as I can. I am not good enough for the Bible-readings and the visiting of the hospitals, but I can be some use to you with your accounts, and the soup-kitchen, and the sewing-class.”

“You shall, my child; and God grant that you may be blessed and be a blessing in your life here.”

The very next day Nadia slipped into her old place in the household, and began her chosen work, much to the relief of the Princess, who had, as she was wont to lament, no head for accounts, and found it very pleasant to be released from the consideration of the innumerable business details connected with all her charitable institutions. To the girl herself, also, it was a delight to be able to plunge into work once more, and she was glad to be kept busy almost all day long, getting in supplies for the girls’ boarding-house, checking the sales at the Bible-depot, and arranging for the despatch of necessary stores to the hospital on her godmother’s country estate. But wherever she went, she was always conscious of the presence and scrutiny of various watchful, ostentatiously quiet-looking men, who were invariably to be seen lounging in the neighbourhood of the different institutions. The Princess’s warning had given her the clue to their appearance there. They were the spies of M. Tourquemadischeff, the Procurator of the Holy Synod.

Things went on quietly, however, until the evening of the second Sunday after her arrival in Pavelsburg, when Nadia accompanied her godmother and several other members of the household to Count Wratisloff’s house for a Bible-reading. There were only about twenty persons present, for although many more would have been glad to attend, the number of the invitations had been restricted, in order to give the police no pretext for interference. The Count had been one of Nadia’s heroes for years, and she embraced eagerly the opportunity of hearing him once again, for what might, as she now learned, be the last time. The address partook of the character of a farewell, and the speaker prefaced it by remarking that it had been intimated to him by a high authority that he might remain in Scythia unmolested if he would consent to discontinue his evangelistic work, but that if he persisted in carrying it on, however quietly, his exile would follow. The holding of this meeting was his answer to the offer, and he seized the occasion to make a last solemn appeal to those who heard him. Their leaders might be exiled, he said, their assemblies prohibited, but their faith did not depend on either the one or the other. Lands and wealth might be taken from them, but they could live, as some of their brethren already did from choice, like the poor, and share with them what they gained by the labour of their hands. They might be deported to distant parts of the empire, might be sent even to Hyperborea, the dismal region of almost perpetual night; but, if so, it was because there was work for them to do there, even though it were only the exhibition of a contented spirit under hardships, and God could make even Hyperborean darkness to be light. Let them feel assured that for every earthly good of which they were deprived, there was a greater blessing waiting to reach them, which could not do so unless the way were prepared for it by the removal of the worldly delight. Was there, then, any reason for condemning the rulers of the empire, or even the authorities of the Church which they had quitted with so much sorrow and reluctance, but which branded them as heretics? None; they were only instruments in the hand of God, and could do nothing without Him. And, therefore, no resentment must be felt towards them, for all that happened would prove to be for the best. And even when the cloud was darkest, and no silver lining was visible, were the sufferers never themselves to blame? Had they never injured any one without offering redress, never refused haughtily a proffered reconciliation, never alienated by their unsympathetic demeanour those who would fain have been friendly? If they had, and there were few who could say they had not, let them bear their punishment meekly, accepting it as less than they deserved, and asking that even out of the sad consequences of their own faults and failings good might arise to the people of God.

The coincidence between the burden of Count Wratisloff’s address and the words which had fallen from the Princess on the night of her arrival struck Nadia forcibly, in spite of the difference in the circumstances to which they applied, but the similarity did not altogether please her. It was hard to acknowledge to herself that her heroic conduct in refusing Caerleon had been wrong from the outset and based upon a mistake, harder still to confess that Cyril would have been powerless for harm if she had not given him a hold upon her by being willing to accept his arguments as true ones. She was silent enough during the farewells and the drive home, but when they had arrived at the Princess’s house she hesitated to face the solitude of her own room, and lingered with Marie Karlovna, echoing her voluble lamentations over the approaching loss of Count Wratisloff. Leaving her at last, and passing along the passage, she heard sobs proceeding from a room on her left, and looking in, found the sempstress Katinka crying as though her heart would break.

“What is the matter, Katinka? Can I do anything for you?” she asked, gently.

“No, thank you, Nadia Mikhailovna,” sobbed the girl. “No one can help me, for the trouble is in myself. I have an enemy whom I cannot forgive.”

Nadia started, surprised to find a story so like her own. “Tell me about it,” she said, sitting down beside Katinka.

“It is Anna, my husband’s sister,” responded the maid, brokenly. “I was so happy with my Yegor, he was so kind to me; and Pauline Vassilievna had promised to have a cottage built for us close to her own country-house, so that I might be near her still. But Anna always hated me, because I came from the town, and she was jealous because Yegor was so fond of me, and because of the new house. She never showed her enmity to me—if she had I could have guarded against it—but she made up lies about me, and told them to Yegor. He was passionate, and I was proud. I told him that if he could listen to such things about me it was enough to show that he did not love me in the least. He told me to deny them, and I would not. He went to her for advice, and she told him even worse tales, and then he left me without another word, and I have never seen him since. And now Anton Gregorievitch says that I must forgive Anna, though she has ruined my home and taken away my husband and spoilt my whole life. And I cannot do it.”

“I am like you, Katinka,” said Nadia. “I also have an enemy whom I cannot forgive. He spoils even my prayers.”

“But you are a great lady, Nadia Mikhailovna,” said Katinka, in surprise. “Who can have injured you?”

“He could not have injured me if I had not allowed him—helped him to do it,” said Nadia. “That is why I can’t forgive him, Katinka.”

“But that is like me,” said Katinka. “If I had not been too proud to explain, Yegor would have believed me at once, I am sure. Have we both helped our enemies by doing wrong ourselves?”

“I believe we have,” said Nadia, and both girls sat silent for a while, Nadia in her velvet and furs beside the sempstress in her peasant dress. At last Katinka looked up.

“I have been thinking,” she said. “After all, Anna was fond of Yegor; she had brought him up, and kept house for him until we were married. Perhaps I was not as kind to her as I might have been, and a great deal of the trouble was my own fault—and I want to be forgiven myself, Nadia Mikhailovna——”

“And so do I,” said Nadia, softly.

“Somehow,” said Katinka, “looking at it in this way, I seem to have been worse than I thought, and Anna not so bad. It is not so hard to forgive—I will, I can forgive her.”

“I will forgive him; I do,” said Nadia.

“Marraine,” said Nadia the next morning, “I know why you took me to Count Wratisloff’s last night.”

“I hoped you might hear something to help you, my child,” the Princess answered. “Is your difficulty gone?”

“If I saw Lord Cyril now,” said Nadia, slowly, little thinking that it would not be long before she had an opportunity of proving the truth of her words, “ill or in any trouble, I should feel so sorry for him that I would nurse him, or do anything I could to help him. And yesterday I am afraid I should have been glad.”

“And you are happier now, my child?”

“So happy, Marraine, that I want you to find me some other work to do,—a class of little girls, perhaps, to teach. I don’t want to keep my happiness to myself. I can never feel really hopeless or miserable again.”

“Take care, dear child,” said the Princess; then, her thoughts reverting to the Scythian translation of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ which she was reading, she went on, “Christian’s path to the Celestial City was not all smooth, even after he had lost his burden. There was the Hill Difficulty, and the fight with Apollyon, and Vanity Fair, and Doubting Castle. And there is always oneself to fight against.”

Although Nadia, in her eagerness, was scarcely willing to listen to a forecast that seemed to her so gloomy, there came very soon to the Cercle Evangélique a loss such as that which parted Christian from Faithful. The first intimation of it reached Princess Soudaroff’s household on the Thursday morning, when, as the ladies were at breakfast, they heard a voice inquiring for Pauline Vassilievna, and shortly afterwards the servant announced Vladimir Alexandrovitch, and ushered in Prince Soudaroff.

“Pray don’t let me disturb you, ladies,” he said to Nadia and Marie Karlovna, who had risen at his entrance, after a general greeting. “My business is not private. I come merely to bring my sister-in-law a piece of news. Anton Gregorievitch is exiled.”

“Hyperborea?” gasped the three ladies at once.

“No, merely exiled from the empire. I suppose this will make a good deal of difference to you?”

“If God means His work to go on, He will supply the labourers,” said the Princess.

“But will it make no change in your plans?”

“I think not. Why should it?” The Princess was on good terms with her brother-in-law, although they differed in their religious views. Some years before, when her own family, fearing that she would bestow the whole of her property in charity, had applied that it should be placed under legal guardianship, he had been appointed her trustee, and had dealt out her money to her ever since faithfully, if with a good deal of mockery. Hence she was grateful to him for continuing to supply her with an unfailing store of cash for distribution to those in need, whereas if left to her own guardianship she would have deprived herself in a single year of all power to give.

“Oh, there is no reason whatever,” he answered lightly. “I am afraid that this will not be the last of the banishments, that is all. But we all know that ladies will have their way, though empires fall. I only wish you good people could manage to keep out of the clutches of the Holy Synod. You ought to know by this time that we are determined to drive out all our most industrious subjects because they are Jews, and exile all our best because they are heretics. We mean to be orthodox if we can’t be either prosperous or pious. Adieu, my sister.”

He was gone, and the three ladies gathered round the table again to discuss the situation.

“We shall be obliged to make new arrangements for some of the work to-morrow,” said the Princess. “I fear that we cannot carry on all Count and Countess Wratisloff’s classes to-day, but we will not let them drop if we can help it. I will do my best to prepare an address for the Count’s navvy Bible-class this evening. The police will have prevented him from finding any one to take his place. Then there is the Countess’s Bible-reading at the house of blind Dmitri Nicolaievitch. We must think of some one for that.”

“I will try, if you like, Marraine,” said Nadia, timidly. “If I find that I am too nervous, blind Dmitri will read, I know, and at any rate I can tell the people what has happened to Anton Gregorievitch.”

“Very well, my child. The carriage shall take you on after leaving me at the Mission-room, and I will call for you afterwards.”

In pursuance of this arrangement, Nadia found herself that evening a member of the little gathering of poor people who met in the blind man’s room to hear the Bible read and explained by Countess Wratisloff, and of whom the host was the only one that could read. None of them had heard of the fate which had befallen the Count and Countess, and several burst into loud lamentations when Nadia told her story. But above the tumult the voice of blind Dmitri was heard.

“Let us lay before God the case of our father, who has been taken from us, brothers, and of the work which he must leave undone.”

They knelt down, and Dmitri prayed long and earnestly. Before he had come to the end of his prayer, the cottage door opened. The blind man heard the sound, but took no notice, thinking that one of the members of the class had come in late; but Nadia, glancing up involuntarily, saw the glint of uniform-buttons in the lamplight. She recognised the state of affairs at once. M. Tourquemadischeff had sent a body of police to break up the meeting. That they remained silent so long was due to the unconsciousness of the blind man, who continued his prayer without perceiving their presence. The moment that he had finished, an officer stepped forward and arrested Nadia in the Emperor’s name. Another was taking down the names and addresses of those who were present, and their men were searching the cottage for forbidden books, one carrying off the huge volumes of the Bible in Moon’s type which Princess Soudaroff had provided for Dmitri. This done, her captors ordered Nadia to accompany them; and she obeyed as though in a dream, while the poor people pressed round her weeping, and trying to kiss her hands or the hem of her dress. Outside the cottage was waiting a covered sledge which she was desired to enter, the two officials following. After a drive which lasted for some time the sledge stopped, and she was conducted into a small stuffy room, in which two officers were sitting writing. They looked up with some surprise on seeing her, but proceeded to ask her name, age, abode, religious views, and also what she was doing in Dmitri’s house. They made no attempt to entrap her into any admissions, for it was evident that this was a strictly preliminary inquiry; but when it was over she found herself relegated to a bare stone cell for the night. This hard reality brought home to her the nature of her position. The way she was treading led to Caucasia or Hyperborea, to separation from friends, to association with the vilest criminals, the stigma of a felon. But in her exalted state of mind the thought did not trouble her, and she preferred to dwell on the remembrance of Dmitri’s prayer. “I will trust and not be afraid,” were the words with which he had concluded; and with these on her lips she lay down upon the rough bench without undressing and fell asleep.

“Nadia, my dear child!” were the words that awakened her in the morning. “Forgive me. I was warned yesterday afternoon that a raid was intended, but I thought it would be the navvies’ class which they would attack, and I never dreamt of their arresting you. My child, I have been driving about all night from police-station to police-station, and from Minister to Minister, first to find you and then to release you. I went first of all to Vladimir Alexandrovitch, and he accompanied me everywhere. He said that it would never do to allow you to be sent to Hyperborea, for we should have King Carlino invading Scythia with an Anglo-Thracian army to release you. Of course that was only his jest; but we left no stone unturned to set you free. I threatened to force my way into the Emperor’s presence, and lay the matter before him; I threatened to put it into the hands of the British Embassy—although I really don’t know whether you are a British subject or not—Vladimir Alexandrovitch says that you certainly are not; I threatened to stir up English public opinion through the Evangelical Alliance. At last I succeeded in obtaining an order for your release, and for myself—this.”