urely be detected by her shrewd companion. "I do
not wish to lay too much stress upon that particular phase of the
matter," she said at last. "It was only one of many. In itself it might
have been surmounted; but when the church, a large section of the army,
and nearly all the higher officials of the State are ready to combine
against Alec's uncompromising sincerity of purpose, it was asking too
much of me knowingly to provide the special excuse for his downfall."

There was silence for a little while, and Poluski's keen gray eyes still
dwelt searchingly on the girl's sorrow laden though resigned features.
She did not flinch from the scrutiny, and there was a certain sadness in
the Pole's next comment.

"What you say, _ma petite_, sounds very like the dry-as-dust utterances
of some podgy Minister of State; they are far from being the words of a
woman who loves, and so they are not yours."

"Perhaps you are right, Felix," she said wearily. "Perhaps, had I told
Alec these things, he might have silenced my doubts and persuaded me to
dare everything for his sake."

"Yet, knowing this, you are here!" he cried, his conscience stinging him
at the memory of that forsaken King mourning his lost bride.

"Yes, and no consideration would induce me to return."

"Ah, then there is something that you have not yet told me."

"Yes, and it can never be told, Felix. Be content, my friend, with that
assurance. There is nothing that can happen which has the power to
change my decision. Heaven help me, I can never marry Alec!"

"The true cause must remain a secret!"

"Yes."

"A woman's secret?"

"Yes, my secret."

His eyes sparkled. He bent nearer and sank his voice to a deep whisper,
for there were others in the carriage, and that which he had to say must
reach her ears only.

"Not yours, Joan. Oh, no! Not yours. Another woman's. Ha! Blind that I
was--now I have it! So that is why you are running away. They threatened
to drag Alec headlong from the throne unless you agreed. My poor girl,
you might have told me sooner. The knowledge has been here, lurking in
the back of my head for years; but I never gave a thought to it. Why
should I? Who would have dreamed of such a tragicomedy? Joan, to-day in
the cathedral I could have bound you with ropes if that would have
served to keep you in Delgratz; but now I kiss the hem of your dress. My
poor girl, my own dear Joan, how you must have suffered! Yet I envy
you--I do, on my soul! Li