once and wait, some one will see you there as
soon as possible." She put her hand on his arm. "Don't be foolish
and proud," she said. "She is sorry about last night, and she is very
unhappy."

The light faded out of Nikky's eyes. She was unhappy and he could do
nothing. They had a way, in the Palace, of binding one's hands and
leaving one helpless. He could not even go to her.

"I cannot go, Countess," he said. "She must understand. To-day, of all
days--"

"You mean that you cannot leave the Crown Prince?" She shrugged her
shoulders. "You, too! Never have I seen so many faint hearts, such
rolling eyes, such shaking knees! And for what! Because a few timid
souls see a danger that does not exist."

"I think it does exist," said Nikky obstinately.

"I am to take the word to her, then, that you will not come?"

"That I cannot."

"You are a very foolish boy," said the Countess, watching him. "And
since you are so fearful, I myself will remain here. There are sentries
at the doors, and a double guard everywhere. What, in the name of all
that is absurd, can possibly happen?"

That was when she won. For Nikky, who has never been, in all this
history, anything of a hero, and all of the romantic and loving
boy,--Nikky wavered and fell.

When Prince Ferdinand William Otto returned, it was with the word that
Miss Braithwaite still slept, and that she looked very comfortable,
Nikky was gone, and the Countess stood by a window, holding to the sill
to support her shaking body.

It was done. The boy was in her hands. There was left only to deliver
him to those who, even now, were on the way. Nikky was safe. He would
wait in her boudoir, and Hedwig would not come. She had sent no message.
She was, indeed, at that moment a part of one of those melancholy family
groups which, the world over, in palace or peasant's hut, await the
coming of death.

Prince Ferdinand William Otto chatted. He got out the picture-frame
for Hedwig, which was finished now, with the exception of burning his
initials in the lower left-hand corner. After inquiring politely if
the smell of burning would annoy her, the Crown Prince drew a rather
broken-backed "F," a weak-kneed "W," and an irregular "O" in the corner
and proceeded to burn them in. He sat bent over the desk, the very tip
of his tongue protruding, and worked conscientiously and carefully.
Between each letter he burned a dot.

Suddenly, Olga Loschek became panic-stricken. She could not sta