he machine of death
pushed its way through the mass of people, and always the strong arm
sustained her, pushing her, leading her away into a street where there
were fewer people and less noise.

"Come, Countess, he brave," Goritz was saying. "God knows you have done
what you could."

"It is horrible," she gasped brokenly. "A moment sooner, perhaps, and I
should have succeeded. She recognized me--you saw?"

He nodded. "Kismet! It was written," he said grimly.

"But someone must pay--someone--who was----?"

"A Bosnian student--named Prinzep--a man said."

"He was but a boy--a frail boy----"

"He has been well taught to shoot," muttered Goritz.

"Death!" she cried hysterically. "And I----"

"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly. "Lean on my
arm and go where I shall lead. It is not far."

[Illustration: "Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz
sternly.]

The sight of strange, distorted faces regarding her gave Marishka the
strength to obey. Mechanically her feet moved, but the sunlight blinded
her. She passed through a maze of small streets lined with market stalls
where groups of people shouted excitedly; and dimly as in a dream she
heard their comments.

"The police--we have police--where were they? The Government will be
blaming us. We are not murderers! No. It is a shame!"

Marishka shuddered and leaned more heavily upon the arm of her
companion. She was weary unto death, body and spirit--but still her feet
moved on, out of the maze of small alleys into a larger alley, where her
companion stopped before a blue wooden gate let into a stone wall. He
put his hand upon the latch, the gate yielded, and they entered a small
garden with well ordered walks and a fountain, beside which was a stone
bench. Upon this bench at the bidding of Captain Goritz she sank,
burying her face in her hands, while he went toward the house, which had
its length at one side of the garden. She put her fingers before her
eyes trying to shut out the horrors she had witnessed, but they
persisted, ugly and sinister. Over and over in her mind dinned the
hoarse murmur of the crowd, "We are not murderers! No!" Who then----?
Not the frail student with the smoking pistol ... the agent of
others.... The eyes of Sophie Chotek haunted her--eyes that had looked
so often into her own with kindness. She had seen terror in them, and
then--the mad turmoil, the dust, the acrid smell of powder fumes, and
the silent group o