o you mean?" she said, calmly.

"Your husband," he said, regarding her somewhat anxiously.

"Yes," she said, without betraying any emotion.

"Well, you understand, we had not the power to release your English
friend unless there had been injustice--or worse--in his being
appointed. There was. More than that, it was very nearly a repetition of
the old story. Your husband was again implicated."

She merely looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"And the Council," he said, more embarrassed than ever, "had to try him
for his complicity. He was tried and--condemned."

"To what?" she said, quite calmly.

"You must know, Natalie. He loses his life!"

She turned very pale.

"It was not so before," she managed to say, though her breath came and
went quickly.

"It was; but then he was pardoned. This time there is no hope."

She stood silent for a second or two; then she said, regarding him with
a sad look,

"You think me heartless, Stefan. You think I ought to be overwhelmed
with grief. But--but I have been kept from my child for seventeen years.
I have lived with the threat of the betrayal of my father hanging over
me. The affection of a wife cannot endure everything. Still, I
am--sorry--"

Her eyes were cast down, and they slowly filled with tears. Von Zoesch
breathed more freely. He was eagerly explaining to her how this result
had become inevitable--how he himself had had no participation in it,
and so forth--when Natalie Lind stepped quickly up to them, looking from
the one to the other. She saw something was wrong.

"Mother, what is it?" she said, in vague fear. She turned to Von Zoesch.
"Oh, sir, if there is something you have not told me--if there is
trouble--why was it not to me that you spoke?"

She took hold of her mother's hand.

"Mother, what is it?"

"My dear young lady," said Von Zoesch, interposing, "you know that life
is made up of both bitter and sweet--"

"I wish to know, signore," she said, proudly, "what it is you have told
my mother. If there is trouble, it is for her daughter to share it."

"Well, then, dear young lady, I will tell you," he said, "though it will
grieve you also. I must explain to you. You cannot suppose that the
happy news I deliver to you was the result of the will of any one man,
or number of men. No. It was the result of the application of law and
justice. Your--sweetheart, shall I call him?--was intrusted with a grave
duty, which would most probably have co