lty to the King, that was like a sort of madness, stood between
him and the words he longed to say. It was the habit of his long
soldier's life, unbending as the corslet he wore and enclosing his soul
as the steel encased his body, proof against every cruelty, every
unkindness, every insult. It was better to die a traitor's death for the
King's secret than to live for his own honour. So it had always seemed
to him, since he had been a boy and had learned to fight under the great
Emperor. But now he knew that he wavered as he had never done in the
most desperate charge, when life was but a missile to be flung in the
enemy's face, and found or not, when the fray was over. There was no
intoxication of fury now, there was no far ring of glory in the air,
there was no victory to be won. The hard and hideous fact stared him in
the face, that he was to die like a malefactor by the hangman's hand,
and that the sovereign who had graciously deigned to accept the
sacrifice had tortured him for nearly half an hour without mercy in the
presence of an inferior, in order to get a few facts on paper which
might help his own royal credit. And as if that were not enough, his own
daughter was to live after him, believing that he had cruelly murdered
the man she most dearly loved. It was more than humanity could bear.

His brow unbent, his arms unfolded themselves, and he held them out to
Dolores with a smile almost gentle.

"There is no blood on these hands, my little girl," he said tenderly. "I
did not do it, child. Let me hold you in my arms once, and kiss you
before I go. We are both innocent--we can bless one another before we
part for ever."

The pure, grey eyes opened wide in amazement. Dolores could hardly
believe her ears, as she made a step towards him, and then stopped,
shrinking, and then made one step more. Her lips moved and wondering
words came to him, so low that he could hardly understand, save that she
questioned him.

"You did not do it!" she breathed. "You did not kill him after all? But
then--who--why?"

Still she hesitated, though she came slowly nearer, and a faint light
warmed her sorrowful face.

"You must try to guess who and why," he said, in a tone as low as her
own. "I must not tell you that."

"I cannot guess," she answered; but she was close to him now, and she
had taken one of his hands softly in both her own, while she gazed into
his eyes. "How can I understand unless you tell me? Is it so great a