“Oh, father!” burst from Philippa, as her father finished reading the letter aloud. “Oh, mother!”

“You feel that we ought to go, Carlino?” said Lady Caerleon.

“Now, how did you know that? Well, yes, I do.”

“Of course,” said Philippa; “and Usk’s vacation begins to-morrow. He can meet us in London as we pass through. It all fits in beautifully. To see Uncle Cyril married, and to a Queen! It’s like a book—like an old romance. Don’t you feel as if you were a Crusader, father? To go to Palestine, and all this as well!”

CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW FACTOR.

“The gracious gentleman will pardon me, but—he has the appearance of a divine of the English Church?”

The young clergyman who was standing watching the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco turned and looked curiously at the deferential Jew who had addressed him in English. “Certainly, I am a clergyman of the Church of England,” he said.

“Will the gracious divine do me the favour to accompany me on board the yacht White Lady, which is lying in the lagoon? There is one of his compatriots who stands in urgent need of his ghostly services.”

“The White Lady? That’s Lord Ormsea’s yacht, isn’t it? I’m afraid Lord Ormsea would not consider me very sound, from his point of view, but if he told you to fetch any clergyman you met, no doubt the case is urgent. Yes, of course I’ll come. What is the matter with the sick person?”

“I was not told, gracious sir. If the venerable divine will give himself the trouble to step this way, I have a gondola waiting.”

There was the usual mass of tourists and idlers thronging the Piazzetta as the clergyman followed his guide through it, and he did not observe that the Jew exchanged signals with a co-religionist in the crowd, who disappeared immediately. Ill informed as the messenger seemed to be as to the cause of his embassy, he was an eminently conversational person. The sight of the Giudecca, as they passed it, set flowing such a stream of historical reminiscence that the clergyman listened in fascinated silence, and scarcely noticed the length of the journey, or the fact that the yacht was lying close to the Porto di Lido, in readiness to proceed to sea. It struck him, however, as strange that the sailors who were at hand to help him up the side made no reference to the invalid for whose benefit he had been summoned on board, and that the Jew hurried him across the deck before he could reply to the captain’s civil words of welcome. Understanding that the owner was in the saloon, he followed his guide below, and found himself in the presence, not of that militant Neo-Anglican, Lord Ormsea, but of a stout, bearded gentleman of unmistakably Hebraic appearance.

“De Referend Alexander Chudson, I think?” said the stranger, coming forward with outstretched hand. “My dear sir, I am unspeakably grateful to you for hurryink so promptly to de assistance off my poor frient.”

“I beg your pardon, I understood I was coming on board Lord Ormsea’s yacht?” said Mr Judson diffidently. His host laughed.

“Oh, den you hef not heard det I hef hired de White Lady for three years? I shell take her to Cowes next summer. Permit me to introdooce myself—de Chefalier Goldberg, off de house off Goldberg Frères, Findobona and Lutetia.”

Mr Judson bowed and murmured politely. “Will you kindly let me see the sick person at once?” he added. “I never like losing a moment in these cases.”

The Chevalier waved his hands. “Pressently, pressently, my dear sir. But what did you say—de sick person? Dere iss no one sick.”

“Surely I haven’t come to the wrong ship, have I? I understood from the messenger that there was an Englishman on board dangerously ill—and he brought me here.”

“Oh, dere iss some mistake! Did det fool employ dose words?”

“Well, now that I remember, he did not exactly. He said that the man needed my ghostly services, I believe.”

“Ah, det explains de metter!” cried the Chevalier, laughing joyously. “It iss to merry de Englishman, not to bury him, det you are wanted, my dear sir.”

“But that’s impossible!” cried the clergyman, starting back. “The marriage would not be legal.”

The Chevalier’s countenance exhibited every sign of the deepest dejection. “But dis iss a blow!” he cried. “What iss de law, referend sir?”

Mr Judson’s own mind was not quite clear about the matter, but he did his best to give reasons for his very definite impression that the celebration of the marriage of a British subject in foreign parts, without the presence of one of Her Majesty’s representatives, would render all concerned in it liable to divers pains and penalties. The Chevalier heard him to the end with great politeness, putting questions now and then which led the conversation into pleasant little legal byways, and finally observed complacently—

“But dis will be all right, you see, for de merrich iss to take place at Damascus, and de British Consul will be dere.”

“Damascus! But you said it was to be on board. What!—why—we are moving!”

“We hef been mofink some time, my dear sir. You are on your way to Syria, where de bride and bridegroom are waitink.”

“But this is intolerable, sir! This is kidnapping!”

“It shell be my endeafour to make it fery tolerable to you, my dear sir—an agreeable extension off your holiday, det iss all.”

“But I must go back to my work. I am expected.”

“Now, come,” the Chevalier laid a paternal hand on Mr Judson’s coat-sleeve, “be reassonable, my dear sir. Your luggich iss all brought on board. My achent hess telegrephed to your rector det you are summoned suddenly to Pelestine. Your bill at de hotel iss paid, de proprietor iss told det you are unexpectedly called away. Eferythink iss complete, no mystery, no trouble.”

“Really, I think you are the coolest hand I ever met.”

“You compliment me too much. See, you receife your pessich out and home again, and fife hundret pounts for your douceur—your fee. You gif your rector ten pounts for his fafourite Society—it iss for de confersion off de Chews, iss it not?—and you go beck and tell him more about de Chews den he efer knew before.”

There was a malicious twinkle in the curate’s eye. “Now, how in the world did you guess that we were interested in the Jews at our place?”

“You hef been seen wanderink about de Giudecca, you hef spoken to many Chews in oder parts off Fenice, and asked dem questions about deir faith.”

“That’s true. I have made many inquiries of them, and for a very good reason. You will be interested to know that I am the son of Salathiel Yehudi, the converted Jew, who has spent the greater part of his life at Baghdad, as a missionary to his own people.”

An instantaneous change swept over the Chevalier’s smiling face. “Det apostate!” he cried, then took refuge in Hebrew, “that vile serpent! that betrayer of Israel! and I have welcomed his son on board my ship!”

“You will allow me to remind you that I had no desire to come on board your ship, and that I am quite ready to leave it.”

“Pardon me. You understend Hebrew? I should not hef thought——”

“My father has brought us all up to claim our share in the privileges of our race. We are proud of being Israelites, I assure you. But,” as the Chevalier shuddered involuntarily, “perhaps you will now be kind enough to put me on shore?”

“My dear sir, what iss det you say? put you on shore? No, no, you are needed. You hef studied de phenomena off de pressent Return? You hef heard off Count Mortimer? He it iss det dessires your serfices. He iss to merry de moder off de King of Thracia, and dere are reassons off state why it should be done quietly.”

“But, my good sir, why go about it in this theatrical fashion? If I chose to make a fuss, I could set Europe ringing with your extraordinary proceedings.”

“Ah, you do not know: I hef tried. I meet an English clerchyman, an old acquaintance, at Fenice: I engache him to sail wid me and perform dis merrich, gifink him no names. He agrees. What should suddenly possess him to write to his wife and tell her about de mysterious business, so det de lady telegrephs beck ‘Must be somethink wronk. Inform de police and return home.’ My dear sir, det referend men left Fenice at once, and telegrephed to me from de frontier to say det he was gone. He also informed de police of de metter, and dey suspect me of intendink to kidnep an heiress—me! Dey would hef detained de yacht, I beliefe, if I hed stayed here lonker. Det iss why I kidnep you.”

“But really, you know—How am I to be sure that it’s all right?”

“My dear sir, you shell hef a prifate interfiew wid de bridegroom before de ceremony—wid de Queen also, if she will consent to receife you. But I am forgettink. De Count’s broder, de Marquis off Caerleon, iss comink on board at Brindisi wid his femily, to assist et de weddink. If you are not setisfied when you hef seen dem, you shell leafe de ship at once. Now are you confinced off my bona fides?”

“Quite,” said the clergyman politely. He did not mention that during his theological course at Latimer Hall, he had met Lord Usk two or three times on Sunday evenings at the Principal’s, but the recollection afforded him a distinct gratification. If his host had provided another trap for him, he had at any rate the means of turning the tables.

But it was undoubtedly the genuine Usk who came on board at Brindisi with his parents and sister, and showed himself as delighted to meet a fellow-Man (in the Cambridge sense) as Mr Judson was to see him. Thus reassured, the curate was quite satisfied to fall in with the arrangement so unceremoniously made for him. The Chevalier treated his guests with princely hospitality, and the voyage was pleasant and uneventful. The only cloud on the horizon appeared at Larnaka, where the Chevalier found waiting for him at his agent’s some news that perturbed him considerably. He discussed it at length with his secretary and two or three of the chief Jews of the place, then sent off several long telegrams to Damascus, and returned to his guests with his usual cheerfulness restored.

“I hef put it all in your broder’s hends, my lord,” he said gleefully to Lord Caerleon, who expressed a hope that he had not received bad news. “I hef thrown it upon his shoulders, and I feel safe. He will not fail me.”

The Chevalier’s telegrams were opened by Paschics, who rode into Damascus daily in order to keep the office-work from falling into arrears, and now returned immediately to Brutli with a peremptory demand for Count Mortimer’s presence in the city, since a fresh crisis had arisen with which he alone could deal. Cyril’s disinclination for work was as marked as it had been when his illness began, but he allowed himself to be dragged from his pleasant lotos-eating existence by the ruthless Paschics, and swept with his whole train down to Damascus. The imperious summons was all the more distasteful, since Ernestine was intending to leave Brutli for the city the next day. The house, which had been placed at her disposal by a wealthy German merchant who had married a former deaconess, would not be ready to receive her until the time originally fixed, so that she would be deprived of Cyril’s escort on the journey. Paschics saw, or thought he saw, that he had incurred his leader’s deep displeasure by his persistence in demanding his return, and as soon as the cavalcade was out of sight of the Institution, he pressed forward to Cyril’s side.

“Indeed, Excellency, it is absolutely necessary. There is——”

“Oh, don’t din the whole thing into me just now, Paschics. When we get to Damascus will be time enough. I can’t think when I am riding.”

Paschics fell back to his former station, trying to remember whether he had ever heard his employer object hitherto to thinking in any circumstances. He himself was thoroughly alarmed by the crisis, and he half feared that Cyril failed to realise its seriousness. As soon as they reached the house he hurried him into the room where they had been accustomed to work; and while Mr Hicks sat down to examine a series of urgent telegrams which had arrived for him, and Mansfield uncovered the typewriter in readiness to begin operations, he summarised as tersely as possible the state of affairs described by the Chevalier’s correspondents.

Ten days before, the readers of all the more important papers throughout Europe had found themselves confronted by an advertisement bidding them to “Look out for the Yellow Pamphlet!” The advertisement appeared each succeeding day in a different position and in different type, and a week after its first insertion the Yellow Pamphlet burst upon the world. The newsvendors were laden with it, the bookstalls groaned under it, and it was sent gratuitously to vast numbers of prominent people everywhere, especially among the Jews. Printed in English, French, German, and Jargon, it made its appearance simultaneously all over Europe, Egypt, and Algeria; and it was a significant fact that the Anti-Semitic papers, together with a good many journals which were not supposed to share their views, devoted a large portion of their issue on the day of its publication to quoting from its contents and drawing inferences from them. Enormous as the cost of production must have been, the brochure had sold, said the telegrams, in such numbers that it was probable it would bring an appreciable profit to its proprietor. Its title was “The Syndicate and its Hero,” and it was addressed to all honest men. With an affectation of judicial impartiality which rendered its statements all the more damaging, it set out to prove that the United Nation Syndicate, despite its professedly philanthropic object, was in reality nothing less than a scheme for rendering the Jews absolutely masters of the world. The steps by which, under Cyril’s leadership, the Syndicate had coerced one government after another, until it had borne down all opposition to its Palestine scheme, were traced with as much minuteness as was requisite to vouch for the writer’s knowledge of his subject. Then came the application. Practice had made perfect, and there was no room for doubt that the machinery, tested by means of these various trial trips, as they might be called, would quickly be used for larger ends. The world lay helpless at the feet of the Jew, but—it was for the Jew to consider whether this triumph was not likely to be too dearly bought.

Having exposed the real nature of the aims of the Syndicate, the pamphlet proceeded to deal with its hero—Cyril. Between Count Mortimer and the Jews there existed an unholy alliance, by virtue of which he was to be raised to a position commensurate with his ambitious designs, in return for his betrayal of Christendom. His first attempt to make himself Prince of Palestine had been balked by the address of the lady to whom he had confided his schemes, and the sturdy honesty of Dr Texelius; but he had found a more adaptable tool. Another lady, whose former history was not unconnected with his own, and who, on his fall, had quitted society in a fit of pique at her loss of political power, was willing to return to it in any capacity that might offer her a scope for a fancied talent of intrigue. Thus worthily supported, Count Mortimer had proceeded, in the most barefaced manner, to force himself upon the world as the only possible ruler of Palestine, as a conjurer forces a particular card upon his audience. He had openly assumed the title of Prince of the Jews, and in that name had traversed Palestine and the surrounding countries from end to end, making treaties on his own authority, and organising a plébiscite which was designed to give his usurpation the semblance of legality. This desirable end effected, he would continue to play into the hands of the Syndicate, with the added prestige of place and power to assist him, while they would maintain and strengthen his position by virtue of their command of the world’s finance. The position would be a proud one for him, no doubt; but was it worth while for the Jews to drive Europe to desperation, and bring upon themselves universal hatred, which was only too likely to lead to universal reprisals, merely in order to provide a throne for Count Mortimer?

Thus far the Yellow Pamphlet. The telegrams added that on the afternoon of the day of publication representatives of the press had interviewed a number of the prominent personages in various countries to whom it had been sent. On the subject of the revelations contained in it, the utmost horror and detestation was expressed by one and all of those appealed to. Everywhere the timid, cowering before the prospect of popular fury, sought to save themselves by sacrificing some one else, and the bold rejoiced cynically in the chance of ridding themselves of a severe master. The scapegoat was the same in both cases. All the Hebrews who conceived themselves to have any grudge against Cyril—Texelius, the theoretical republican Rubenssohn, the English Jews, the schemers he had disappointed at Jerusalem and Alexandria—displayed the most engaging ignorance of any political designs on the part of their nation. It had never entered their minds that the Syndicate could have any but a purely philanthropic object; but if they had been misled, let it be summarily crushed as soon as its work in acquiring Palestine was done. In any case it was clear that Count Mortimer must be thrown overboard. He had traded upon the guileless simplicity of the Hebrew community in order to secure his own advancement, and corrupted the innocence of its keenest minds. There would be justice as well as policy in flinging him to the wolves that were clamouring for Jewish blood.

This prompt repudiation of Cyril and all his ways had proved so convincing to the general public that the mob which had set out to wreck the Jewish houses remained to acclaim their owners, and Semite and Anti-Semite were exchanging pledges of eternal friendship all over Europe. Before the joint influence of fear and interest, the United Nation collapsed like a house of cards. The kings of finance, who had no sentimental care for Palestine—Paris, rather than Jerusalem, flaunting herself as the Holy City of their gilded dreams—had at first yielded unwillingly to the Chevalier’s enthusiasm, backed up by the monetary pressure he had contrived to exert, and now welcomed the opportunity of throwing off the yoke. The orthodox Rabbis, who, with a few exceptions, had used all their influence in opposition to the Zionist movement, and had viewed its progress with fear and aversion, as likely to transfer their power to the hands of the free-thinking Jews and such enthusiasts as Rabbi Schaul, gloried openly in the exposé. The rank and file of the Children of Zion alone remained faithful. Thus the Jewish world was split in two, and the unanimity demanded by the Emperor of Pannonia was absolutely unattainable.

Paschics laid down the last telegram, and looked expectantly at his employer.

“This is the sort of thing that only a woman would do, and there is only one woman who could have done it,” said Cyril. He was playing idly with a paper-knife as he sat at the table.

“But what is to be done, Excellency?” demanded Paschics, with anxious eagerness. Cyril buried his face in his hands without replying, and sat silent for some time. When he raised his head his face was haggard.

“Leave it for a while,” he said. “Mansfield, get out the chessboard, and we will have a game.”

The others stared at him in bewilderment, but Mansfield obeyed. It had become rather unusual for them to play, since Cyril invariably won, which deprived the contests of all their interest. This time, however, Mansfield won easily. To his astonishment he saw great drops standing on his employer’s brow when he looked up.

“Another!” said Cyril hoarsely.

Mansfield set the board afresh, and perceiving from his antagonist’s keen anxiety that he attached some special importance to this particular game, determined to play so carelessly as to make it impossible for him not to win. Perhaps he was in the mood to regard a victory here as a good omen for his success with regard to the larger issues at stake. But Cyril saw the intention, and dashed his fist down on the board.

“For heaven’s sake, Mansfield, don’t humour me as if I was a child! I haven’t come to that yet. Play your hardest.”

Rearranging the pieces, Mansfield obeyed, and won the game with ludicrous ease, not daring to glance at his opponent’s face. Cyril sat for a moment playing with the pieces, then pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I believe my brain’s gone,” he said unsteadily. “I can think of nothing. The game is up, Paschics. It must all go.”

“Land’s sake, Count!” cried Mr Hicks, “bluff it out. You’ll be all right in a day or two. Bluff will carry you through yet.”

“It may, but I feel pretty certain it won’t. No, Hicks, I’m cornered. Do your best with it, Paschics. Oh, to be for one hour—for ten minutes—the man I was a month ago! But that’s all over now.”

“Say, Count, you’re sick yet,” Mr Hicks cried after him as he went out. “You bet you’ll be as spry as ever some time soon. Mr Mansfield,” he added hastily, “if I were you I guess I’d give Dietrich the word to keep an eye on his master, and not leave any shooting-irons lying around.”

Mansfield rushed out with frantic haste, and Mr Hicks and the horrified Paschics put their heads together and drew up a document which might help to postpone the need of an explanation for a day or two. Count Mortimer was still suffering from the effects of the dastardly attack made upon him at Jericho, but he left his character and his cause confidently in the hands of Europe, in the full assurance that, until he was able to vindicate them himself, judgment would be suspended. When this had been despatched, there was no more that they could do. If Cyril did not regain his former powers of mind, all, as he had said, was lost.

He returned to the room after about an hour of restless pacing up and down upon the house-top, with Mansfield, who fondly believed himself unseen, dogging him from behind the trellis the whole time. He seemed to have shaken off for the present the horror which had seized him in its grip, and apologised for his agitation, after approving the steps which Paschics had taken.

“I must see a specialist,” he added carelessly, “and no doubt he will be able to put me right. Not a word of this, please, especially to the Queen. And, Mansfield, you will be interested to know that I don’t intend to commit suicide just at present, so that you need not devote your leisure hours to keeping me in view.”

“Ernestine, are you on good terms with your cousin Prince Ramon of Arragon?”

“He and his wife called upon me this afternoon—before we were at all settled, indeed. I think they mean to be friendly. But were you thinking of inviting them to the—the wedding, Cyril?”

“Not for a moment. I was wondering whether Prince Ramon would object to my consulting him professionally?”

Don Ramon of Arragon was the representative of one of those junior branches of the Pannonian Imperial house which have been deprived of political power by the changes of the nineteenth century. Far from murmuring over his loss of sovereignty, he had accepted the inevitable with marked satisfaction, and devoted himself to the study of medicine, giving his services freely to all who chose to consult him. He was now well known as a specialist in diseases of the brain, and rumour said that even his pious intention in visiting Palestine was not unmixed with the desire of investigating certain forms of madness supposed to be peculiar to the East.

“Oh, I’m sure he would not mind,” said the Queen eagerly. “But, Cyril, you said you were so much better.”

“My head doesn’t feel quite as clear as it ought, that’s all.”

“You are sure it is nothing worse—quite sure? What a comfort it is that the Ramons should be here just now! We are not to expect their sympathy or countenance for our betrothal, I could see that; but I think Ramon will be quite ready to meet you privately, in any case. Cyril, do you mind my asking whether you are going to this entertainment of the consuls’ to-morrow night?”

“I was not intending to go, but I will, if you wish.”

“No, I don’t. I could not bear to see Ramon put before you. Oh, my beloved, you don’t know how I long to see you really Prince of Palestine, unquestionably first on your own soil. I feel quite wicked on state occasions. I want to go down and take your hand and lead you up beside me, and say to every one, ‘Yes, he is your king, and mine too. Don’t dare to offer me any honours that you would refuse to him!’”

“My dear child, actually tears! If you only knew how little I care for all that sort of thing.”

“But I care. I want every one to recognise, as I do, how great you are. It hurts me when they show me all kinds of honour because I happen to wear a crown, and leave you in the background, when every man there ought to be on his knees before you. You pretend not to feel it, for my sake, but I know you do. It makes me tingle with shame. When we are married, I shall be only your wife and nothing else, and no one shall put me before you.”

“Then I hope for both our sakes that the Emperor Sigismund will not pay another visit to Palestine—during our reign, at any rate.” Cyril smiled rather unsteadily.

“As if I cared for him, or anything he could say! Cyril, I want you to bring your brother and his family to dine with me to-night, if they arrive in time. Your relations are to be mine, and I want to know them all—the little girl whom Michael loves, and the rest as well. It shall be purely a family party. I remember your sister-in-law, she had such a beautiful face, and your brother looked so thoroughly English—so reliable. Do you think they will be willing to love me?”

“Madame, it doesn’t become your Majesty to fish for compliments. Your commands shall be obeyed,” and Cyril bowed himself out of her presence backwards in the orthodox manner.

Whether the Queen’s anxiety was real or not, it proved to be wholly unnecessary. Her guests that evening took her to their hearts with one accord. She was so beautiful, so gracious, so devoted to Cyril, that, to use their own expression, Usk and Philippa “simply grovelled” at her feet from the first moment they saw her. It was no more possible that she had ill-treated Cyril than that he had ill-treated her, and Philippa fell back on the theory of a misunderstanding, for which both might perhaps be slightly to blame, but no more. Her parents took an equal delight in the reconciliation, for they knew, as Philippa could not know, the true story of the long waiting-time during which the Queen’s hair had grown grey, and of the broken engagement which had made such a grievous blank in her life.

After dinner it was decided that the mildness of the season justified the seeming rashness, and the Queen led her guests out into the marble-paved courtyard. There was a good deal of happy talk about the future as they sat under the carved arcades of curious inlaid work, and watched the fountains springing up among the orange- and lemon-trees. The rest remembered afterwards that Cyril refused, with some impatience, to discuss the probability of his obtaining the governorship of Palestine. It was in the hands of the Powers, he said, and the less it was talked about the better were his chances. He changed the subject almost irritably, but there was no other cloud upon the brightness of the evening. Even Mansfield was happy, although he was not included in the party. He had been dining with the household, and now, as he stood leaning against the pillars at the other end of the courtyard, smoking with M. Stefanovics, he could feast his eyes upon what seemed to him the most beautiful sight in the world. The blue and silver wrap which Philippa had thrown about her had fallen back, and the moonbeams lighted up her crown of golden curls. Not even the fact of his exclusion from the Queen’s table could sadden Mansfield, for Philippa had been disappointed about it, Philippa had said it was a shame, Philippa had refused to see reason in the matter until she had appealed in vain to her uncle himself.

But while at one end of the courtyard Philippa, sitting beside the Queen, painted glowing pictures of the future, and Mansfield, at the other, watched her and dreamt delicious dreams, a loud shouting became audible. The sound came from the street, which was separated from the inner court by an outer one, occupied by the Queen’s suite and the servants. Some one was demanding admittance, and with no uncertain voice. The group under the arcade turned and looked at one another, as the porter was heard inquiring who the late arrival might be, and Cyril felt himself growing pale. Was there at hand the announcement of a new crisis, with which he must again confess his incapacity to deal? It was not, however, Paschics or the Chevalier, but General Banics, who appeared at the entrance of the passage leading to the door, and taking three strides across the courtyard, announced—

“Madame, his Majesty!”

“How dare you, Banics? I forbade you to announce me!” cried a voice, and King Michael, casting a scathing glance at his former tutor, stepped out into the moonlight after him. “I hope, madame, there is a welcome for me in this delightful gathering?”

The Queen had grasped Cyril’s arm involuntarily as her son entered. Now she loosed her clutch, but her fingers closed round his as she stepped forward. “Any reconciliation with me must include him,” was the announcement conveyed by her attitude, and King Michael read it aright.

“You will not refuse to allow me a share in your happiness, mother? My sole desire is to stand beside you on this auspicious occasion, and do honour to your choice. Count, I will tell you frankly that there is no man I would welcome into my family more heartily than yourself.”

“No reason whatever to doubt that statement!” thought Cyril grimly, while the Queen, her eyes full of tears, raised her son and kissed him as he stooped to kiss her hand.

“This is the crowning point of my happiness, little son,” she murmured, employing the old tender diminutive.

“You have stolen a march upon me, mother,” pursued the King, quite at his ease. “I hoped to have the honour of presenting the Lady Philippa to you myself, but you have been before me.” Philippa crimsoned with indignation as she yielded her finger-tips unwillingly to be kissed. “My friend Usk, too! And these—I have no need to ask—these must be the honoured parents of the Lady Philippa.”

Having saluted Lord and Lady Caerleon with marked distinction, King Michael took a chair, and signed affably to the rest to be seated. “I must apologise for appearing in this dress,” he said, looking at his mother, but including Philippa, as he indicated the undress naval uniform he was wearing, “but I have had no opportunity of changing my clothes. I have made no attempt to secure rooms at a hotel, as I hoped my mother might be able to find a corner for me here. I have only two or three people with me—that is all I could bring, since I came as far as Beyrout on a ship of war.”

This explanation was ample for those who knew that the Thracian sea-going navy consisted of a single gunboat of moderate size, and the Queen summoned M. Stefanovics and gave him the necessary directions. The King continued to converse with the greatest affability, “patronising the whole show,” as Usk complained to Mansfield afterwards, but the pleasantness of the evening had vanished with his entrance. That the Queen felt this she showed when she rose as the signal for her guests to depart. She had meant this family party to be free from the trammels of Court etiquette, but how could she carry out her intention when her son made evident in every word and action the intense condescension with which he was prepared to behave towards her new relations?

CHAPTER XXII.
THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING.

“I did not expect to see you here to-night, Mr Mansfield.”

“I had no idea of coming, madame, but his Excellency insisted upon it. M. Paschics is here too.”

“Do you know whether Prince Ramon of Arragon has visited Count Mortimer yet?”

“Yes, madame, this afternoon.”

“You don’t happen to have heard what he thought of his health?”

“No, madame, I did not like to ask; but his Excellency seemed quite cheerful this evening. When I left the house, he was busy with his servant, looking over his things, I think.”

“I am glad he was in good spirits, but I should like to know exactly. Might I trouble you to ask Prince Ramon to come and speak to me?”

“I am honoured, madame.”

In order to welcome the illustrious visitors to Damascus, the Pannonian, Hercynian, and Thracian consuls had joined forces, determining to provide an entertainment that should throw into the shade everything of the kind that had been hitherto attempted in the city. Strings of bright-coloured lamps, rich draperies, and a profusion of greenery, had transformed the inner courtyard of the Pannonian Consulate, which was covered in for the occasion, into a fairy palace, and the display of dazzling uniforms, Parisian gowns, and gay national costumes, was not unworthy of its frame. Cyril was the only person of note at present in Damascus who was not to be seen, and although the Queen had begged him not to come, she felt vaguely uneasy at his absence. She welcomed Don Ramon with an anxious smile as he approached her, not in the best of tempers. Mansfield had disturbed him in the midst of a deeply interesting conversation. It was the Prince’s habit to carry his scientific researches even into his hours of ease, and the sight of a magnificent-looking old Syrian with a venerable white beard had proved an irresistible temptation. A request to be allowed to call upon him and take some measurements of his head had terrified the old man, and it was with the utmost relief that he took advantage of Mansfield’s approach to break away from this alarming stranger, quite regardless of his feelings in the matter. Moreover, like most of the Queen’s relations, Don Ramon had decided to ignore her intended marriage altogether. Ernestine might disgrace herself by an alliance with a mere noble if she liked, but her family were unaware of the existence of any such presumptuous person as her future husband. The Prince had visited Cyril at her request that afternoon, not as her fiancé, but as a former valued servant of the Thracian crown. His outraged family feelings combined at this moment with his scientific preoccupation to make his manner more than usually brusque.

“You have seen Count Mortimer, cousin?” the Queen asked him timidly. “I hope your opinion is favourable?”

“Favourable, my dear cousin? The man’s case is hopeless!”

“Hopeless!” she grasped at a pillar to support herself. “But what is the matter with him?”

“If I describe the injury in technical language you would be no wiser than before. The brain has ceased to perform one of its functions.”

“You mean that he will be—mad?”

“No, no; how you ladies rush at conclusions! There is no trace of mania whatever. The man is as sane as I am. He has simply lost the power of connected thought, of planning—plotting, if you like.”

“But how can this be? What has happened to him?”

“Over-strain after long and continued fatigue has done the mischief, by what he says.”

“But it is only temporary? Rest will cure him?”

“My dear cousin, this is not like the loss of sight or memory which has taken place as the result of a shock, and may be restored by another shock. The power is gone. He says that he felt as though something snapped in his brain, and that will serve very well as a popular description of what has occurred. The connecting-cord is broken, and he is incapable of carrying on a train of thought.”

“Oh, what will he do? what will he do?” moaned the Queen.

“Pray do not distress yourself, cousin. Many very worthy persons are born without the faculty of connected thought, and live happy lives, unconscious of the defect.”

If they were born without it, perhaps. But Cyril, who had possessed and lost it?

“You told him, cousin?”

“Naturally. He is not a child. He received the news with the utmost coolness, and conversed cheerfully as he escorted me to the door. But, my dear cousin, you are ill—about to faint. Allow me to call my wife, or one of your ladies.”

“No! no!” Ernestine seized his arm and held him back. “Take me to the cloakroom, that is all, and fetch Lord or Lady Caerleon. I want no one else. Don’t let people make a scene.”

She sank upon the couch to which he led her, and sat there with clenched hands and staring eyes until he returned with Philippa, the only member of the family whom he could find disengaged at the moment. Receiving another fervent entreaty to say nothing of Ernestine’s indisposition, he withdrew, and she turned frantically to Philippa.

“Will you come with me to your uncle, at once? He has had bad news, there is something wrong with his brain, and he has been told it too suddenly. His friends are away, and the shock——” Her voice failed her, but Philippa read in the piteous eyes the unspoken fear which had seized herself as she listened, and she grasped the two trembling hands in her own.

“Oh yes, yes; let us come this moment. Usk or Mr Mansfield will help us.”

But Usk was the centre of a group of laughing Greek girls, who were teaching him to pronounce their language properly, and Mansfield, having failed to get a word with Philippa all evening, had wandered away disconsolately with Mr Judson. Even Mr Hicks, engrossed in subjecting a Latin bishop to an informal interview, was so busy that Philippa could not catch his eye.

“There is only that elderly officer who belongs to your suite, madame, that I can see,” she said, hurrying back to the Queen.

“Banics? Oh, fetch him—he can be trusted.”

Philippa obeyed, and Ernestine addressed the astonished General with feverish eagerness. “Find us a carriage, Banics. I must go at once to Count Mortimer’s lodgings—at once, at once.”

“At this hour, madame? Allow me to request his Excellency to wait upon you instead,” was the sole protest General Banics permitted himself, but his mistress waved it aside wildly.

“You will kill me with all this delay! Find a carriage quickly. I tell you we must go at once.”

He hurried out, and Philippa wrapped the Queen in a dark cloak, drawing the hood over her head. They stood waiting breathlessly until General Banics reappeared, having taken forcible possession of the first carriage he came across. It belonged to a private individual, but a bakhshish to the servants, added to the awe-inspiring effect of the General’s uniform and his manner, enabled him to hire it for a short time, and he helped the ladies in and took his seat upon the box in disapproving silence. A short drive, during which the Queen and Philippa held each other’s hands in an agony of fear, brought them to the Hebrew quarter. To Philippa’s intense relief, although she could hardly have told why she felt relieved, the door of Cyril’s Jewish host stood open, and the porter was lounging on the threshold talking to a friend, so that the commotion usually needed before entrance could be obtained was not called for. Earlier in the day, Philippa and her parents had partaken of coffee with the family, in a scene that might have come straight from the pages of ‘Tancred,’ but now every one was away at the consuls’ entertainment, with the exception of the aged grandfather, who was roused from his slumbers by the servants, and came forth blinking and bewildered. Fortunately he recognised Philippa, but precious time passed while he lamented the unfitness of his poor house to receive the exalted young lady, wringing his hands the while. She cut him short at last in desperation.

“I must see my uncle at once, please. It is most important that this lady should speak to him. No, no; you are not to say that we are here!”

Fairly dashing past the servants, who were already starting off to announce her presence, she dragged the Queen in the direction of the staircase which led to Cyril’s rooms on the upper floor, leaving the old man still wringing his hands and murmuring feebly something about coffee. No one guessed who the elder woman was who followed Philippa so closely as she crossed the courtyard, although General Banics thought it well to station himself at the foot of the staircase, in case curiosity should be roused as to her identity. Entering the passage from which the rooms opened, the two ladies were confronted by the valet Dietrich, who appeared to have been placidly smoking a huge pipe in the dark.

“Where is Count Mortimer, Dietrich? I want to speak to him.” Philippa lowered her voice involuntarily.

“At work, gracious one. He must not be disturbed.”

“You know he never meant you were to keep me out. Let me pass, please.”

“Alas, gracious one! I have his Excellency’s orders to admit no one.”

“Dietrich!” Ernestine threw back her hood, and the flash of her diamonds dazzled the valet’s astonished eyes; “you must let me through. It is a matter of life and death for your master.”

“Pardon, Majesty, I dare not. I have my orders.”

Ernestine clasped her hands wildly. Philippa drew her aside.

“Slip round by the verandah while I distract Dietrich’s attention here,” she whispered hurriedly, and pushing past the servant, almost succeeded in gaining the door. While he sprang forward to stop her, the Queen slipped away and ran round to the window. It was open. Cyril was standing with his back to her, looking narrowly into something which he was holding up close to his eye.

“Cyril!” she shrieked, bursting into the room. He started violently, but as he turned to her he thrust what he was holding under a piece of paper lying on the table.

“Ernestine! how you startled me! You here—at this hour? What is the matter?”

“Give it to me! give it to me!” she cried, rushing to the table. As she had expected, a pistol lay under the paper. Cyril’s hand came upon hers with a firm grasp as she snatched it up.

“No, no, you shall not! Before my eyes, Cyril!” she screamed, trying to wrest the weapon from him. How it happened she could not tell, but as she struggled with him there was a sudden explosion, and a bullet whizzed close to her head, singeing her hair in its passage. Dazed and deafened, she loosed her hold of the pistol.

“There!” she cried, laughing hysterically. “Better me than yourself!”

Cyril, with an ashy face, picked up the pistol, which had fallen to the ground. The door opened impetuously, and Philippa’s horrified face looked in. Seeing that neither was hurt, she closed the door again, and meeting General Banics at the top of the stairs, assured him, in a voice which she vainly tried to render steady, that there was nothing wrong, A pistol had gone off by accident, that was all.

“Are you hurt, Ernestine? How came you here?”

“I wish I was hurt! I wish I had been killed!” she cried frantically, “for then you might have been sorry. Cyril, Cyril, I thought you loved me, and you don’t.”

“You are talking wildly, my dearest.”

“You don’t, and there is the proof of it.” She pointed to the discharged pistol. “It is cruel of you. What have I done that you should kill yourself to be rid of me?”

“Be reasonable, Ernestine. This is an old pistol that I came across in turning out my things. Am I to blame if it should happen to be loaded? Accidents with fire-arms are not, absolutely unheard-of events.”

“Oh, that was what the world was to believe, was it?” She swept him a superb curtsey. “Many thanks! But it is unnecessary to try to deceive me. I have spoken to Ramon, I know all. Cyril, my beloved,” her voice took a tone of the most poignant reproach, “have I deserved this? Am I such a fair-weather friend that you can’t trust me to cling to you in trouble as well as in prosperity?”

“My dear Ernestine, it is because I know you would cling to me that I decline to drag you down with my wretched self. I thought I should have a kingdom to offer you; I find I shan’t have even an independence. Therefore——” he pointed to the pistol.

“But you know that I only cared for the kingdom for your sake. Oh, Cyril, it is you I love, you I want. Your life is mine; you cannot—dare not—rob me of it. Think of the many years you made me suffer in loneliness. You owe me all those.”

He was silent, and she crept closer to him.

“Beloved, you don’t regret that I came in? that you have been held back from taking your life like a coward? I would never have believed any one who told me that you were afraid to face any future. You will be greater in adversity than in success. God is sending you this trial that your true strength may be shown.” Cyril shifted his position impatiently. “You would not, in a moment of despair, refuse the trial, fail under the test, and destroy your soul for ever?”

“Really, Ernestine, this kind of argument has no weight with me.”

“Then perhaps this will weigh with you.” Stung by his tone, she tore the diamond cross from her neck and held it towards him. “Whatever you do not believe, you know that God and Heaven and eternal judgment are realities to me. Understand, then, that if you take your own life, either to-night or afterwards, I swear that I will do the same, solemnly believing that my soul will be lost for ever in consequence of the deed. Oh, what am I saying?” She paused and trembled, but as he tried to wrest the cross from her, her fingers tightened upon it more firmly. “Yes, I will do it, without hesitation. God forgive me—no, I dare not ask Him to forgive me—God forgive you, if you drive me to it.”

Cyril dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. She stood beside him, awaiting his decision with perfect calmness.

“If you die, I die,” she said again. At last he looked up.

“I give in, Ernestine. But I think you will often repent this evening’s work.”

“Never, even if you do.”

“I? I shall repent it every day—every hour—of my existence.” It was the bitter cry of the man who sees every interest and every pleasure in life snatched from him in a moment. “I am a useless, brainless log, and you force me to live.”

“Dearest, there is still so much that you can do.” The woman’s unselfishness led her to try to comfort him in his own way, instead of resenting the little value he set upon her love. “You never even discovered your loss until a very momentous crisis arose. If Philippa marries Michael, you can return to Thracia, and become Premier again.”

“Are you trying to tempt me to sacrifice poor Phil? Don’t you see that I could never go back to office as a humdrum, routine, red-tape Minister, incapable of effecting combinations or making bold strokes? I could not face a horrible monotony of that sort.”

“Then we will settle down in England, near——”

“And add another specimen to the British collection of political failures from the Continent? Hear myself continually pointed out as an awful warning of the dangers of leaving the beaten track? Never!”

“Well, then, we will go back to Sitt Zeynab. You shall reign there in peace, and no one can come near you against your will. Wherever you are, there I shall be happy.”

“My poor Ernestine, I am not worth it. You had better let me die, dear.” His eyes sought the pistol longingly. “I am a miserable, broken wretch, with no hope and no contentment left, and I shall lead you a terrible life.”

“No life with you could be terrible to me. To be near you is joy enough. It was not your success I loved, it was you, and you are the same still. I love you, Cyril, I love you.”

The passion of the tone, the eyes shining into his, the trembling hands laid upon his shoulders, stirred Cyril with a stronger emotion than he had ever known, and words came to his lips,—echoes, perhaps, of others heard long before in his childhood—he knew not how or whence.

“God do so to me and more also, Ernestine, if I ever forget what you have done for me to-night. Dearest, you understand. Some women would have upbraided me for despising their love, but you are not like that. And you will have your reward. Politics will never again separate me from you, at any rate.” He kissed her gently on the forehead, and wrapped her cloak round her. “You must go back, dear, or you will be missed. A curious little interlude in the evening’s entertainment, isn’t it? Well, your coming here has saved me, such as I am.”

Ernestine choked down her sobs as she clung to him. “You will live because I want you,” she said. “Perhaps you can’t rule the world, beloved, but you can make one woman very happy. You have done it already, and she is grateful.”

She went out, and found Philippa waiting anxiously in the passage.

“It’s all right, Phil. We have saved him,” she said, holding the girl’s hand tightly in hers as they passed down the steps and across the courtyard.

“But what had happened to him?” asked Philippa breathlessly, when they were in the carriage again.

“Something has given way in his brain. He will never be able to plan again.”

“He can’t plan? Oh, poor Uncle Cyril!” cried Philippa, appalled.

“Phil, you must help me to keep it a secret—at any rate until after we are married. I know they will part me from him if they can. Once I am his wife I don’t care what happens. Only his real friends must know of this terrible trouble, such as your father and the Chevalier Goldberg. And we must keep Michael in a good temper. My child, you see why he has come here? His manner in addressing you last night showed that sufficiently. Is there any hope for him? You know how I should rejoice to welcome you as a daughter.”

“I would do anything else in the world for you and Uncle Cyril,” burst from Philippa, “but not that. I don’t love him in the least. I don’t even—like him,” she was about to say, but changed it, feebly enough, into—“care for him.”

“It is not your fault, Phil. I ought to be the first person to know that love is not at one’s own command. But oh, dear child, if you could abstain from refusing him until after the wedding is over! I don’t mean that you should deceive him, of course, but if only you could prevent his proposing to you——”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Philippa doubtfully, but she felt that if King Michael had determined to propose to her, it was probable that he would do so, in spite of any obstacles she might put in his way. That this intuition of hers was a correct one she discovered as soon as she re-entered the assembly-room with the Queen. Her father was standing not far from the cloakroom door, and stepped forward to meet her.

“Why, Phil, I have been looking for you everywhere! I could not think what had become of you until the Prince of Arragon told me that he had left you with her Majesty.”

“Yes; I was seized with a sudden faintness, and Philippa was kind enough to remain with me until I felt better,” said Ernestine graciously, bestowing one of her rare smiles on Philippa as she turned towards the Thracian consul, who was anxious to present a relative to her.

“Phil,” said Lord Caerleon, taking his daughter aside, “the King has been speaking to me about you.”

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Philippa, in dismay.

“I suppose I ought to feel honoured,” continued her father ruefully, “but that youth riles me—there’s no other word for it. He asked to be allowed to visit me to-morrow at the hotel, graciously intimating that he considered me as in a sort of way a brother monarch, and therefore felt able to dispense with strict etiquette. I guessed what he wanted, and thought we might just as well settle matters without getting your name mixed up with his, so I said I couldn’t think of giving him the trouble. Thereupon he did you the honour to request me in so many words to regard him as a suitor for your hand, this being merely preliminary, as he explained, to a formal proposal through the proper channels. I said I hadn’t had any conversation with you lately on such subjects, but judging from the sentiments you expressed on the last occasion, I couldn’t give him any hope. Upon that he informed me that I wasn’t up to date. He is now a reformed character, father of his country and so on, the condescending patron of everything that’s good. I don’t want to laugh at any man’s reformation, Phil, but the fellow takes himself too seriously. I told him I didn’t see that it was much good bothering you about the matter, and he became very high and mighty indeed. He reminded me that young ladies did not receive offers of marriage from crowned heads every day, and intimated that such an honour ought to be accepted in a proper spirit. In other words, he warns you not to reject his offer without due consideration. I am telling you about it because he insisted I should, and I thought he might turn rusty and make some unpleasantness if I didn’t, but having laid the proposal before you, I can now go with a good conscience and tell him you refuse it.”

“Wait, father, please!” cried Philippa, in an uncertain voice. “I—I think I will take time to consider.”

Her father turned and gazed at her. “Phil!” he said, with more sorrow and disappointment in his voice than she had ever heard in it before.

“I think it’s only proper, as he says,” went on Philippa, with a laugh that was a little hysterical. Don’t you, father? I—I should not like to be too hasty.

“Phil, I wouldn’t insult you by imagining that you could be induced to marry a man you didn’t love for the sake of a crown, but what in the world are you driving at? You needn’t think anything of what I said just now about the fellow’s making himself unpleasant to your uncle and the Queen, for what harm could he do, after all?” Philippa shuddered. Her father did not know what terrible harm King Michael might do if he chose. “But at any rate, don’t give him a moral claim upon you in this way. It’s quite unnecessary to be so tender of his feelings.”

“Oh no, no moral claim,” said Philippa entreatingly. “You can tell him you are perfectly certain that delay will make no change in my feelings, but that if he wishes it, I will consent not to give him a final answer until the day after the wedding. It’s—it’s due to his position, father.” She laughed again. “I’m sure you can make him see it in that light.”

“I can’t make you out, Phil,” said Lord Caerleon doubtfully, as he left her. Presently he returned, pulling at his moustache in a way that showed him to be still puzzled.

“Well, Phil, I have given him your message, and he accepts it as merely his due. I can swear I’ve done my best to choke him off, but he won’t have it. I think he understands that he’s not to come hanging about the hotel, setting people talking, but he may do what he can, without making you conspicuous, to prepossess you in his favour—in conversation and so on. He seems very well satisfied, and I hope you are. I wish with all my heart you were safely engaged to—er—some other fellow.”

“Are you determining to turn me out of doors if I accept King Michael, father? Don’t you think your way of receiving a king as a would-be son-in-law is just a little—original?”

“Why, Phil?” cried her father in distress, catching sight at last of the tears in her eyes.

“Oh, father, I’m so miserable—so frightened—I don’t know what to do!” and Philippa laid her golden head on his shoulder, and sobbed there comfortably, as if she had gone back ten years, and been a little girl again.

“Do you want me to get rid of the fellow for you, Phil? I’ll do it like a shot. King or no king, I won’t have him making you cry with his silly nonsense.”

“No, no, it’s not that. Lend me your handkerchief, father dear. This lace thing is no good. Don’t you think mother would come home now?”

“I’m sure she would. I’ll go and ask her,” and poor Lord Caerleon went away thoroughly puzzled. Hitherto nothing had ever interrupted the perfect understanding between Philippa and himself, but now he was realising miserably that his little daughter had become a woman, and Lord Caerleon had always confessed that he did not understand women.

“Mansfield,” said Usk abruptly, when he and his friend were leaving the Consulate in company a little later, “that idiot is after Philippa again.”

“What, that Thracian beast?” Mansfield’s language was far from choice, but he was not without provocation. “Well, your father will soon kick him out.”

“That’s what I thought, but there’s no chance of that now. She has taken time to consider her answer, and we know what that means. I thought I’d tell you myself, before—before you could hear it from any one else.” Mansfield gasped, and Usk went on hurriedly, “I wouldn’t have believed it, but the fellow told me himself. Perhaps it’s a lie.”

“No fear!” was the sternly hopeless answer. “What would be the good, when a word with your father would put you right at once? She has been over-persuaded.”

“Yes, I know how it is. He has got round her with the notion that it’s her duty to sacrifice herself to him for the sake of his rotten kingdom, like a girl in a book. I’m awfully sorry, Mansfield—sick, too.”

Mansfield answered only by an inarticulate grunt.

“I wouldn’t have believed Phil was such an owl,” went on her brother. “Every one knows that sort of arrangement is bound to end in an awful smash. But never say die, old man; she may chuck him yet.”

“Not she,” returned Mansfield, with a fixed despair.

CHAPTER XXIII.
MAN AND WIFE.

“This is the irony of fate!” said Mansfield to himself the next morning. The English mail had come in, and the city postman, going his leisurely rounds on his white donkey, was engaged in distributing the letters it brought. A few minutes before, he had placed in Mansfield’s hands that which should have been his passport to paradise. The Right Honourable Geoffrey Forfar wrote to say that one of his secretaries had accepted an appointment under Government, and he had much pleasure in fulfilling his promise with regard to the vacant post. Would Mansfield kindly arrange to take up his new duties as soon as his present employer could spare him?

Mr Forfar would have been surprised to learn that his kindly letter served but to inflict on its recipient torments worse than those of Tantalus. If the offer had only arrived yesterday, Mansfield reflected bitterly, he might have spoken to Philippa in time to forestall her royal suitor—but no, it did not turn up until Philippa was beyond his reach. That was how things always happened, he assured himself, for misfortune was developing in him the usual touch of cynicism. For a short time he had visions of accepting the post and returning to England forthwith, throwing himself into his new work with an ardour that carried all before it. He saw himself entering the House, backed by Mr Forfar’s influence and the prestige of his own reputation as a man with an unusual and practical knowledge of European politics, saw himself, equally famous as a thinker and a debater, accepting office and rising to giddy heights of power—and this was all undertaken for the sake of convincing the faithless Philippa that the true lover whom she had cast off to obtain a throne would have been able to give her something more than the love she despised. Unfortunately for Mansfield’s political future, his heart took fright instantly at the idea of leaving Syria while Philippa remained there. He must be on the spot, even if it was only to witness the complete destruction of his hopes. It is possible, also, that those hopes were not yet quite so absolutely dead as he imagined.

“I won’t answer this at once,” he said, thrusting the letter into his pocket, and turned to some notes which he was to write out for Cyril. He had scarcely sat down when he was interrupted by the Chevalier, who emerged from the inner room in a state of wild disorder. When he had asked to see Cyril, Mansfield had observed that he appeared to be labouring under great emotion, but now he seemed to have been tearing both his hair and his clothes. He dropped into a chair opposite Mansfield, and smote his forehead with his hands.

“De finest brain in Europe, and de stronk defence off Zion!” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mansfield, astonished.

“You do not know? you hef not heard? All we hef done iss in fain, and Israel may return to deir keptifity to-morrow.”

“What has gone wrong?” Mansfield asked the question with great anxiety.

“Your master can plen no more; his brain iss inchured. And we, wid our scheme on de point of fulfilment, are left desolate.”

“That break-down the other day!” cried Mansfield.

“Yes, det must hef been de first menifestation off de melady. Ach, Mortimer, my frient, I could always trust in you! While you lifed, Zion was safe. And now you life still, but your mind iss dead. No, no,” as Mansfield started up frantically, “dere iss no medness. He can do eferythink but plen, but so can all de rest. Our head iss gone.”

“And now that he can’t help you, you care no more about him?”

“Hef I gifen you reasson to say det?” asked the Chevalier, with real dignity. “Because I lament my country in peril, must I hef lost sight off my frient? It iss de Queen det hess told me de frightful noose. Ah, dere iss a woman! de Count hess much left still since he hess her. She dessired to point out to me de risk. You see it? Efery nation and efery statesman hess somethink against him. He hess played dem all off against one anoder, and only his wits hef safed him again and again. Now he iss powerless, and when dey find it out, dey will come about him like birds off prey. A week ago de influence off de Syndicate, exerted through me, would hef presserfed him from all annoyance, but now de Syndicate iss split in two. Until we discofer how far de disaffection extends, I dare not trust efen my broders. Your master must not remain here, nor would he be safe in Europe—efen in America. De Queen propoces det immediately upon deir merrich dey shell go to dis estate off hers in de desert, where dey will be in safety until efents hef defeloped demselfs. We shell soon see what frients he hess left. I need not ask wheder you are true. Do me de fafour to beliefe det I am so also, efen dough my nation hess profed ungrateful to its benefector.”

“I am sorry,” said Mansfield. “I had no business to say what I did.”

“Det iss well. Trust me, and help me to do what I can for him, det iss all I ask.”

He went away, and Mansfield took Mr Forfar’s letter out of his pocket again. “This settles it!” he said, and sitting down at the table, dashed off a grateful refusal of the Prime Minister’s offer. As soon as it was finished, he went out and posted it.

Having thus burnt his boats and cut himself off from every hope of Philippa, he felt that he had done all that could be expected of him, and owed himself a reward. It is needless to say that the reward took the shape of a sight of Philippa, and when he had dutifully attended Cyril to the Queen’s house in the afternoon, he betook himself forthwith to the Caerleons’ rooms in Spyridion’s hotel, where he was able to watch Philippa pouring out tea, and to luxuriate in absolute misery. The excitement of the night before had left Philippa white and tired, and her hand shook as she lifted the teapot, but Mansfield decided that her exhaustion was due to the mental struggle she must have undergone before she could bring herself to contemplate marrying King Michael, and he steeled his heart against her. Her father attributed her obvious unhappiness to a very different cause, and when Mansfield took his leave he walked a little way with him.

“I suppose you heard nothing from Forfar by the mail, Mansfield?” he asked. “I saw him just before we left England, and he hinted that Jowell would probably go to the India Office, so that he would soon need a new assistant secretary.”

“Yes, I heard from him,” replied Mansfield, his heart beginning to beat with uncomfortable speed, “and he offered me the post. But I refused it.”

“Refused it!” cried Lord Caerleon, with unconcealed dismay.

“You see,” Mansfield went on, “I—I felt there was no particular reason why I should go back to England,” he looked straight at his companion, “and it would take a great deal to make me leave Count Mortimer in the present state of his affairs.”

“But come, Mansfield—I have a right to ask, after what you said to me early in the year—have you changed your mind?”

“How dare you——” began Mansfield furiously, then his tone altered. “I beg your pardon, I’m a sulky brute; but—well, imagine that you were in my place, Lord Caerleon, forbidden to speak to Lady Phil, and then finding that another fellow had stepped in and cut you out.”

“But he has not cut you out. We are all on your side. Phil’s only reason for taking time to consider her answer is that she may not hurt the King’s feelings. I am certain she doesn’t care a rap for him.”

“Well, at any rate, I’m not such a cad as to cut in and spoil the other fellow’s game,” and Mansfield marched on with an air of superior virtue which Lord Caerleon found extremely irritating. He could not well say that he particularly wished to see the very thing done which Mansfield regarded with such righteous disapprobation, but he felt that he was being treated with scant justice. True, he had banished Mansfield originally for his own good—here he stopped; was it not rather because he did not want to lose his daughter? Still, it was not his fault that this second suitor had appeared, and nothing had been farther from his thoughts than to drive Philippa into a loveless marriage by separating her from the man whom he now suspected that she liked. It was hard to throw the onus of rejecting the King’s suit entirely on Philippa and himself, and things would have been much simpler if it could have been refused on the ground that she was already engaged to some one else. However, since Mansfield chose to consider that he had been ill-used, and could hardly be commanded to propose to Philippa against his will, the plan was not practicable.

Lord Caerleon made no further attempt to alter the course of events, and Mansfield, grimly resolute, continued to torment himself with the sight of Philippa and her royal suitor. King Michael was following Prince Mirkovics’ advice, and endeavouring to enlist Philippa’s sense of duty upon his side. Since his coup d’état of the summer, he had developed an abnormal interest in affairs of State, and he recounted his plans, hopes, fears, failures, successes, and aspirations to Philippa at suitable length. The recital bored her extremely, but she would not have been her mother’s daughter if she could have brought herself to throw cold water on any man’s good intentions, and she honestly did her best to sympathise with the King. Her task was not made easier by Usk, who continued to regard his would-be brother-in-law with unmitigated aversion. King Michael sought his acquaintance in the most flattering way, and extended the same honour to Mansfield and Mr Judson, never perceiving that his gracious determination to put people at their ease had the invariable effect of making them uncomfortable. The three Cambridge men were quite ready to overlook his position, which was, after all, not his own fault; but he could not forget it, and the consequence was that the friendship languished, and that among themselves they accused him of “putting on side,” and stigmatised him as “wretchedly bad form.” It is true that Usk once expressed in private a wish that the King was his brother; but only, as he explained immediately, that he might feel justified in punching his head.

While Philippa’s affairs were in this unsettled state, the time of her uncle’s marriage was rapidly approaching. The wedding had been fixed for New Year’s day, and it had been the secret design of the Chevalier and his party that after the ceremony a deputation from the Jewish provisional government should wait upon the newly married pair and offer them the crown, if such it might be called, of Palestine. But this was now recognised to be out of the question. When the sensation caused by the appearance of the Yellow Pamphlet, and the subsequent repudiation of Cyril by half the Jewish world, had a little subsided, the journalists of the Continent held their breath for a time, realising what they had done. The man whom they had helped to vilify had never been known to forgive an insult, and the issue of that brutum fulmen, the message framed by Mr Hicks and Paschics in order to gain time, threw them into a state approaching panic. What blow had Count Mortimer in preparation?