red at least warmly into all your thoughts; you were sure
of me--sure of my support--certain of justice. Tell me, tell me again,
that I have helped you."

"Nay, madam," he said, "you made me. In everything you were my
inspiration. And as we prepared our policy, weighing every step, how
often have I had to admire your perspicacity, your man-like diligence
and fortitude! You know that these are not the words of flattery; your
conscience echoes them; have you spared a day? have you indulged
yourself in any pleasure? Young and beautiful, you have lived a life of
high intellectual effort, of irksome intellectual patience with details.
Well, you have your reward: with the fall of Brandenau the throne of
your Empire is founded."

"What thought have you in your mind?" she asked. "Is not all ruined?"

"Nay, my Princess, the same thought is in both our minds," he said.

"Herr von Gondremark," she replied, "by all that I hold sacred, I have
none; I do not think at all; I am crushed."

"You are looking at the passionate side of a rich nature, misunderstood
and recently insulted," said the Baron. "Look into your intellect, and
tell me."

"I find nothing, nothing but tumult," she replied.

"You find one word branded, madam," returned the Baron: "'Abdication!'"

"O!" she cried. "The coward! He leaves me to bear all, and in the hour
of trial he stabs me from behind. There is nothing in him, not respect,
not love, not courage--his wife, his dignity, his throne, the honour of
his father, he forgets them all!"

"Yes," pursued the Baron, "the word Abdication. I perceive a glimmering
there."

"I read your fancy," she returned. "It is mere madness, midsummer
madness. Baron, I am more unpopular than he. You know it. They can
excuse, they can love, his weakness; but me, they hate."

"Such is the gratitude of peoples," said the Baron. "But we trifle.
Here, madam, are my plain thoughts. The man who in the hour of danger
speaks of abdication is, for me, a venomous animal. I speak with the
bluntness of gravity, madam; this is no hour for mincing. The coward, in
a station of authority, is more dangerous than fire. We dwell on a
volcano; if this man can have his way, Gruenewald before a week will have
been deluged with innocent blood. You know the truth of what I say; we
have looked unblenching into this ever-possible catastrophe. To him it
is nothing: he will abdicate! Abdicate, just God! and this unhappy
country committed to his charg