went down stairs and opened the little door at the back of the castle.

It was, of course, the starosta, shivering and bleached in the chilly
dawn.

"They have watched my cottage, Excellency, all night. It was only now
that I could get away. There are two strange sleighs outside Domensky's
hut. There are marks of many sleighs that have been and gone.
Excellency, it is unsafe for any one to venture outside the castle
to-day. You must send to Tver for the soldiers."

"The prince refuses to do that."

"But why, Excellency? We shall be killed!"

"You do not know the effect of platoon firing on a closely packed mob,
starost. The prince does," replied Steinmetz, with his grim smile.

They spoke together in hushed voices for half an hour, while the
daylight crept up the eastern sky. Then the starosta stole away among
the still larches, like the wolf whose cry he imitated so perfectly.

Steinmetz closed the door and went upstairs to his own room, his face
grave and thoughtful, his tread heavy with the weight of anxiety.

The day passed as such days do. Etta was not the woman to plead a
conventional headache and remain hidden. She came down to breakfast, and
during that meal was boldly conversational.

"She has spirit," reflected Karl Steinmetz behind his quiet gray eyes.
He admired her for it, and helped her. He threw back the ball of
conversation with imperturbable good humor.

They were completely shut in. No news from the outer world penetrated to
the little party besieged within their own stone walls. Maggie, fearless
and innocent, announced her intention of snow-shoeing, but was dissuaded
therefrom by Steinmetz with covert warnings.

During the morning each was occupied in individual affairs. At luncheon
time they met again. Etta was now almost defiant. She was on her mettle.
She was so near to loving Paul that a hatred of him welled up within her
breast whenever he repelled her advances with uncompromising reticence.

They did not know--perhaps she hardly knew herself--that the opening of
the side-door depended upon her humor.

In the afternoon Etta and Maggie sat, as was their wont, in the
morning-room looking out over the cliff. Of late their intercourse had
been slightly strained. They had never had much in common, although
circumstances had thrown their lives together. It is one of the ills to
which women are heir that they have frequently to pass their whole lives
in the society of persons with whom th