ey, these men who had sat
there immobile behind their masks? Did she meet any of them daily in the
Palace? Were the eyes that had regarded her with unfriendly steadiness
that night in the catacombs, eyes that smiled at her day by day, in the
very halls of the King? Had any of those shrouded and menacing figures
bent over her hand with mocking suavity? She wondered.

A hasty preparation at the last it was, indeed, but a careful toilet had
preceded it. Now that she was about to see Karl again, after months of
separation, he must find no flaw in her. She searched her mirror for the
ravages of the past few days, and found them. Yet, appraising herself
with cold eyes, she felt she was still beautiful. The shadows about her
eyes did not dim them.

Everything hung on the result of her visit. If Karl persisted, if he
would marry Hedwig in spite of the trouble it would precipitate, then
indeed she was lost. If, on the other hand, he was inclined to peace,
if her story of a tottering throne held his hand, she would defy the
Committee of Ten. Karl himself would help her to escape, might indeed
hide her. It would not be for long. Without Karl's support the King's
death would bring the Terrorists into control. They would have other
things to do than to hunt her out. Their end would be gained without
her. Let them steal the Crown Prince, then. Let Hedwig fight for her
throne and lose it. Let the streets run, deep with blood and all the
pandemonium of hell break loose.

But if Karl failed her?

Even here was the possibility of further mischance. Suppose the boy
gone, and the people yet did not rise? Suppose then that Hedwig, by her
very agency, gained the throne and held it. Hedwig, Queen of Livonia in
her own right, and Karl's wife!

She clenched her teeth.

Over country roads the machine jolted and bumped. At daybreak they
had not yet reached the border. In a narrow lane they encountered a
pilgrimage of mountain folk, bent for the shrine at Etzel.

The peasants drew aside to let the Machine pass, and stared at it. They
had been traveling afoot all night, and yet another day and a night
would elapse before they could kneel in the church.

"A great lady," said one, a man who carried a sleeping child in his
arms.

"Perhaps," said a young girl, "she too has made a pilgrimage. All go to
Etzel, the poor and the rich. And all receive grace."

The Countess did not sleep. She was, with every fiber of her keen
brain, summoning he