nk with yourself; and this equality of station I shall yet
attain."

"I am sure I shall be the first to congratulate you."

"The prince has promised to be a father to you if, as the result of a
peaceful separation, he ceases to be your husband. A somewhat similar
promise he has made to me also."

"Does he intend to adopt you as his son?" asked Blanka.

"Such is his purpose," replied Vajdar.

"And what, pray, is his motive in this?"

Benjamin Vajdar averted his face, as if contending with feelings of
shame. "Do not ask me," he begged, "to betray the weakness of my poor
mother. Hers was an unhappy lot, and I am the child of her misfortune.
He whose duty it is to make that misfortune good is--Prince Cagliari."

Blanka could hardly suppress an exclamation. "Oh, you scoundrel!" she
was on the point of crying, "how can you dishonour your mother in her
grave, and deny your own honest birth, merely to pass yourself off as a
prince's bastard son?" Instead of this she clapped her hands and
exclaimed: "How interesting! It is just like a play at the theatre. 'Is
not the little toe of your left foot broken?' 'Yes.' 'Then you are my
son.' Or thus: 'Haven't you a birthmark on the back of your neck?' 'I
have.' 'Let me see it. Aha! you are my long-lost boy.' Or, again: 'Who
gave you that half of a coin which you wear on a string around your
neck?' 'My mother, on her death-bed.' 'Come to my arms. You have found
your father.'"

Her listener was convinced that he had to do with a credulous child
whose ears were open to the flimsiest of fairy tales. He proceeded to
entertain her with further interesting details of his story, after which
the princess produced the anonymous letter she had that morning
received. First smoothing it out on her knee,--for it had been sadly
crumpled by a certain hand, and, indeed, even bore the impression of a
man's thumb in oil,--she presented it to her visitor.

"Please read that," said she, "and then explain it to me."

Vajdar had no sooner glanced at the letter than he perceived that the
enemy, by a feigned retreat, had been decoying him over a mine which
threatened presently to explode. Yet his assurance did not desert him.

"A stupid bit of play-acting!" he exclaimed, throwing the letter down on
the table.

"But whose interest could it have been to indulge in play-acting at my
expense?" asked Blanka.

"I can tell you, for I recognise the handwriting. The Marchioness
Caldariva wrote you that l