ryly, "has a stanch advocate in you,
Madame."

"It is not unnatural."

"Be that as it may," said Fitzgerald, "she is mine enemy."

"Love your enemies, says the Book," was the interposition of the
countess, who stole a sly glance at Maurice which he did not see.

"That would not be difficult--in some cases," replied the Englishman.

"Ah, come," thought Maurice, "my friend is beginning to pick up his
lines." Aloud he said: "Madame, will you confer a favor on me by
permitting me to inform my superior in Vienna of my whereabouts?"

"No, Monsieur; prisoners are not allowed to communicate with the outside
world. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is not everything being done for
your material comfort? What complaint have you to offer?"

"A gilded cage is no less a cage."

"It is but temporary. The duchess has commanded that you be held until
it is her pleasure to come to the chateau. O, Monsieur, where is your
gallantry? Here the countess and I have done so much to amuse you, and
you speak of a gilded cage!"

"Pretty bird! pretty bird!" said Maurice, in a piping voice, "will it
have some caraway?"

Madame laughed. "Well, I hear the grooms leading the horses under the
porte cochere. Go, then, for the morning ride. I am sorry that I can not
accompany you. I have some letters to write."

Fitzgerald curled his mustache. "I'll forswear the ride myself. I
was reading a good book last night; I'll finish it, and keep Madame
company."

Madame trifled with the toast crumbs. Fitzgerald's profound
dissimulation caused a smile to cross Maurice's lips.

"Come, countess," said Maurice, gaily; "we'll take the ride together,
since Madame has to write and my lord to read."

"Five minutes until I dress," replied the countess, and she sped away.

"What a beautiful girl!" said Madame, fondly. "Poor dear! Her life has
not been a bed of roses."

"No?" said Maurice, while Fitzgerald raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"No. She was formerly a maid of honor to her Highness. She made an
unhappy marriage."

"And where is the count?" asked Fitzgerald in surprise. He shot a glance
of dismay at Maurice, who, translating it, smiled.

"He is dead."

Fitzgerald looked relieved.

"What a fine thing it is," said Maurice, rising, "to be a man and wed
where and how you will!" He withdrew to the main hall to don his cap
and spurs. As he stooped to strap the latter, he saw a sheet of paper,
crinkled by recent dampness, lying on the floor. He pi