ll do it."

"You will break your engagement?"

She laughed at him scornfully.

"I am Idiale," she declared. "I keep no engagement if I do not
choose. I will sing no more to this people whom I hate. My friend
David, I have suffered enough. Their applause I loathe--their
covetous eyes as they watch me move about the stage--oh, I could
strike them all dead! They come to me, these young Austrian
noblemen, as though I were already one of a conquered race. I keep
their diamonds but I destroy their messages. Their jewels go to
my chorus girls or to arm my people. But no one of them has had a
kind word from me save where there has been something to be gained.
Even Von Behrling I have fooled with promises. No Austrian shall
ever touch my lips--I have sworn it!"

Bellamy nodded.

"Yes," he assented, "they call you cold here in the capital! Even
in the Palace--"

She held out her hand.

"It is finished!" she declared. "I sing no more. I have sent word
to the Opera House. I came here to be in hiding for a while. They
will search for me everywhere. To-night or to-morrow I leave for
England."

Bellamy stood thoughtfully silent.

"I am not sure that you are wise," he said. "You take it too much
for granted that the end has come."

"And do you not yourself believe it?" she demanded. He hesitated.

"As yet there is no proof," he reminded her.

"Proof!"

She sat upright in her chair. Her hands thrust him from her, her
bosom heaved, a spot of color flared in her cheeks.

"Proof!" she cried. "What do you suppose, then, that these wolves
have plotted for? What else do you suppose could be Austria's share
of the feast? Couldn't you hear our fate in the thunder of their
voices when that miserable monarch rode back to his captivity? We
are doomed--betrayed! You remember the Massacre of St. Bartholomew,
a blood-stained page of history for all time. The world would tell
you that we have outlived the age of such barbarous doings. It is
not true. My friend David, it is not true. It is a more terrible
thing, this which is coming. Body and soul we are to perish."

He came over to her side once more and laid his hand soothingly on
hers. It was heart-rending to witness the agony of the woman he
loved.

"Dear Louise," he said, "after all, this is profitless. There may
yet be compromises."

She suffered her hand to remain in his, but the bitterness did not
pass out of her face or tone.

"Compromis