shattered.
Her anguish was almost physical pain, and she knew why people said 'my
heart bleeds,' for, of a truth, it seemed to her as though the strength
ebbed away from her heart, leaving an aching, yearning void. Courage! she
would try again. She lifted the waxen taper and held it between her face
and the mirror. Yes, there were lines beneath the eyes; her cheeks were
less full and her chin heavier than of yore, but her lips were soft and
red, her eyes as blue, as vivid as they had ever been. She knew her hair
was streaked with white beneath the powder, but it was still luxuriant.
She was beautiful, desirable--but would he desire her? She replaced the
taper, glided into the statue gallery, and opened the door leading to
his Highness's room. She listened; Eberhard Ludwig was asleep; she could
hear the long, even breaths. Noiselessly she pushed aside the arras and
entered. The moon shone into the room, and again she could have vowed
that a white-shrouded woman's figure stood in the wan light, but, as
before, the faint vision vanished when she looked more searchingly.

'Eberhard, beloved,' she called gently, 'are you ill?' The old witchery
was in her voice, and the sleeping man answered to it.

'I come, sweet love; I come, Philomele!' Serenissimus appeared on the
threshold of the writing-room. He had flung himself down to sleep without
undressing, and was still in his riding-clothes. He looked ghastly in the
pale moonlight, and she hurried to him with outstretched arms.

'You are ill and you do not come to me? Beloved, have I not tended you
that you should thus flaunt me?' She drew him to her. 'What have I done,
my heart, how have I sinned, that you have taken your love from me? See,
I come to you to pray you to forgive me!' The old trick of speech, her
catchword, 'See,' the low voice--the soft, strong arms.

He had doubted her, and why? She had given him all; it was not her fault
if he wearied of her tyranny. No; he alone was to blame, his inconstancy,
his weakness. He poured forth a torrent of self-reproach, and words of
love, and she responded passionately. Once more they were lovers,
thrilling to each other's touch. And the wan moon looked on at their
transports, and perchance the pale wraith of the Countess of Orlamuende,
the White Lady, watched the lovers and smiled, knowing that love's death,
satiety, had them in his chill grip for all their passionate vows.

'I start at nine to-morrow morning for the receptio