les accomplished by pilgrimages to the
shrine of Our Lady of the Angels, in the mountains. Could the old King
but go there, she felt, he would be cured. Or failing that, if there
should go for him some emissary, pure in heart and of high purpose, it
might avail. Over this little book she prayed for courage to make the
suggestion. Had she thought of it sooner, she would have spoken to
Father Gregory. But the old priest had gone back to his people, to his
boys' school, to his thousand duties in the hills.

Sometime later she heard bitter crying in the royal bedchamber, and the
King's tones, soothing now and very sad.

"There is a higher duty than happiness," he said. "There are greater
things than love. And one day you will know this."

When she went in Hedwig had gone, and the old King, lying in his bed,
was looking at the portrait a his dead son.

CHAPTER XXII. AT ETZEL

The following morning the Countess Loschek left for a holiday. Minna,
silent and wretched, had packed her things for her, moving about the
room like a broken thing. And the Countess had sat in a chair by a
window, and said nothing. She sent away food untasted, took no notice of
the packing, and stared, hour after hour, ahead of her.

Certain things were clear enough. Karl could not now be reached by the
old methods. She had, casting caution to the winds, visited the
shop where Peter Niburg was employed. But he was not there, and the
proprietor, bowing deeply, disclaimed all knowledge of his whereabouts.
She would have to go to Karl herself, a difficult matter now. She would
surely be watched. And the thousand desperate plans that she thought
of for escaping from the country and hiding herself,--in America,
perhaps,--those were impossible for the same reason. She was helpless.

She had the choice of but two alternatives, to do as she had been
commanded, for it amounted to that, or to die. The Committee would not
kill her, in case she failed them. It would be unnecessary. Enough that
they place the letter and the code in the hands of the authorities, by
some anonymous means. Well enough she knew the Chancellor's inflexible
anger, and the Archduchess Annunciata's cold rage. They would sweep her
away with a gesture, and she would die the death of all traitors.

A week! Time had been when a week of the dragging days at the Palace
had seemed eternity. Now the hours flew. The gold clock on her
dressing-table, a gift from the Archduchess, marked