antly lighted. Another weary day had
dragged to its close. It was the Tuesday evening--the last Tuesday in
March five years ago. The starosta had not been near the castle all day.
Steinmetz and Paul had never lost sight of the ladies since breakfast
time. They had not ventured out of doors. There was in the atmosphere a
sense of foreboding--the stillness of a crisis. Etta had been defiant
and silent--a dangerous humor--all day. Maggie had watched Paul's face
with steadfast, quiet eyes full of courage, but she knew now that there
was danger.

The conversation at breakfast and luncheon had been maintained by
Steinmetz--always collected and a little humorous. It was now dinner
time. The whole castle was brilliantly lighted, as if for a great
assembly of guests. During the last week a fuller state--a greater
ceremony--had been observed by Paul's orders, and Steinmetz had thought
more than once of that historical event which appealed to his admiration
most--the Indian Mutiny.

Maggie was in the drawing-room alone. She was leaning one hand and arm
on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully into the fire. The rustle of
silk made her turn her head. It was Etta, beautifully dressed, with a
white face and eyes dull with suspense.

"I think it is warmer to-night," said Maggie, urged by a sudden
necessity of speech, hampered by a sudden chill at the heart.

"Yes," answered Etta. And she shivered.

For a moment there was a little silence and Etta looked at the clock. It
was ten minutes to seven.

A high wind was blowing, the first of the equinoctial gales heralding
the spring. The sound of the wind in the great chimney was like the
moaning of high rigging at sea.

The door opened and Steinmetz came in. Etta's face hardened, her lips
closed with a snap. Steinmetz looked at her and at Maggie. For once he
seemed to have no pleasantry ready for use. He walked toward a table
where some books and newspapers lay in pleasant profusion. He was
standing there when Paul came into the room. The prince glanced at
Maggie. He saw where his wife stood, but he did not look at her.

Steinmetz was writing something on half a sheet of notepaper, in pencil.
He pushed it across the table toward Paul, who drew it nearer to him.

"Are you armed?" were the written words.

Paul crushed the paper in the hollow of his hand and threw it into the
fire, where it burned away. He also glanced at the clock. It was five
minutes to seven.

Suddenly the do