avnik," she said to me in a low tone, after
we had stood for a long time in utter silence, together.

"No," I replied.

"It is a peaceful scene," she went on in a dreamy sort of manner,
staring into the street, and with a half smile upon her lips. "It looks
as if we might put on our furs and wraps, and go abroad together,
without the least thought of danger, does it not?"

"Yes, Zara."

"And yet----" she raised one hand and pointed--"probably just around
that corner, yonder, or behind one of the others, there are waiting
men, who are intent upon your destruction, no matter what the
consequences to themselves may be. It is awful to contemplate." She
shuddered. "I cannot bring myself to believe that it is really true;
and yet I know it to be so."

She turned to me with a swift gesture, and continued.

"Oh, Dubravnik, what shall we do? What shall be done to escape the
death that threatens you and me? Tell me! Tell me what can be done? The
condition is not the same, now, as it was. Everything is different
since you kissed me. This world in which we live, is a new world, but
we must nevertheless face the conditions of that old one we have
deserted. What shall we do? What shall be done?"

I was silent, not because I hesitated to answer her, not because I
really at that moment had no answer to give her, but because I was,
myself, intently thinking upon the very problem she had suggested.

"What shall be done?"

Presently, with a slow and methodical motion, she withdrew from me
again, and returned to the divan, which had been the scene of our
awakening love, calling upon me to follow her as she went; and I stood
before her, looking down into her eyes up-turned to mine, waiting for
her to speak. I knew that she had hit upon some solution of the
difficulty, and was about to present it to me. I don't think that it
occurred to me to consider seriously whatever she might suggest, even
then, for I had not for a moment lost confidence in my entire ability
to free both of us from the dangerous environment; but I delighted to
hear the sound of her voice. I loved to drink in her words, as she
uttered them. I was enthralled in watching the play of expression upon
her features while she talked; if she had rendered me a dissertation
upon any theme which absorbed her, my interest would have been the
same; I was overwhelmed in love.

"There is only one way; only one," she said, unconsciously repeating
words she had used once befo