Carrick was far behind. Overhead the tattered roof of leaves made a lacework of the sun. Birds were singing; their bright eyes turned curiously on the young couple passing beneath their verdant bowers. Tiny feathered brides nodded dainty heads, urging the great, stupid, human fellow to sing the love song in his heart to the girl by his side. "Mate now," they chirped, "in leaf time, in flower time, while fields are warm and nature yielding. The great mother, herself, commands it."

The impulses of nature were astir in the breasts of both Trusia and Carter, awakening in each a silent rebellion against a destiny which was forcing them to talk of trivial nothings which add naught to the greater issues of life. So far they had bowed to the dictates of destiny, but were growing more and more restive under the self-imposed restraint.

The horses stopped to drink from a stream which crossed their path. Carter, glancing in the direction of its source, saw that a heavy limb had fallen from a dead tree, blocking the passage of what had otherwise been but a wavering string of water. Restrained, however, it had mounted higher and higher, until at last, broadened, strengthened, and deepened, it had swept triumphantly over the dam and kept on its way. He felt that he was undergoing the same process in restraining the natural expression of his love for Trusia. Unconscious of his comprehension, she, too, had grasped the lesson of the stream. Their satiny nozzles dripping sparkling drops of water, the horses resumed their progress beneath the forest colonnade.

Trusia turned to him. Her resolution had been difficult to reach.

"When Krovitch is free," she said, "you must still remain with our army." She observed him covertly as she awaited his reply. The hopefulness, which at first drew him erect, gradually disappeared, leaving in its wake the bending lines of despair. There was a drawn look in his face as he turned to answer.

"No," he said, and moodily turned his eyes away again.

"That means you will return to America." A subtle sensitiveness could have construed this to embrace a query, a request and a regret. The slightest quiver inflected her voice as she had spoken, but she bravely finished without a break. Poor girl, she, too, was suffering. She was sending away her ideal lover with only a meagre taste of maiden romance to make life all the more sorrowful for the having. All this he felt. As he recognized what it must mean to her—to any woman—deprived of man's right of initiative in declaration, he was tempted to gather her roughly in his arms and carry her away from duties, friends, country even, to fulfil her own happiness, which was his. The maxillary muscles ached with the strain his restraint put upon them.

"I must go. I must," he replied. "Pride, honor, sanity demand it."

"It is better so," she said softly as she bent her head. She, a Jeanne D'Arc to her people, was inured to sacrifice. Above all, sweet and clean, she saw Duty shine through Love as the sun shone through the leaves above her head. So was the royal duchess fortified for her future. Then Trusia, beautiful and desirable, Trusia, the woman, rebelled that destiny should have ignored her in the plans for Trusia the princess.

"I will never see you again—as a dear friend—after you have gone. But I—but Krovitch will never forget you." Then in her royal pride that felt no noble confession could shame her womanhood, she turned almost fiercely upon him.

"Oh, why was I chosen for the sacrifice? Why couldn't I be as other women? Natalie need not drive her friends away. Alone; I stand alone." Her breath came in short, sobbing gasps which she fought courageously to silence.

Carrick was far behind. Forgetting everything except the quivering heart of the girl beside him, Carter leaned over and drawing her gently toward him, patted the convulsive shoulders with awkward masculine solace. Like a child in the shelter of maternal arms, the glossy head, forgetful for the instant, nestled against his shoulder, soothed and at peace. While Duty had manacled the queen, the woman had been justified. Then she sighed. With a weary gesture of renunciation she sat upright in her saddle, looking directly to the front. A single tear hung quivering on her lashes.

"Another dream for the Queen to sigh over," she commented with a quick laugh, flavored of wormwood.

"Why must it be?" he queried. "You do not love the King." Then all the tide of courage flooding past his lips, he asserted against all denial,—"You love me."

The regal head drooped as she turned from him.

"'I would not love you, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more,'"

she quoted sadly.

"But it is not honor; it is sacrifice," he argued.

"What duty is not?" she questioned sadly.

"It is madness," he fumed impotently.

"Think of my people." She shook her head in magnificent self-abnegation, putting aside the tenderer visions which were thronging her heart, picturing her life with the man at her side. "Their welfare demands it."

He leaned across to plead with her. The loose flying tresses of her hair touched his cheeks in elusive salute. They beckoned him closer and ever closer. His heart could be heard, he feared, so loudly did it beat. He could feel the great red surges being pumped through arteries, too small for their impulsive torrents. They choked him.

"Trusia," he cried hoarsely, for the first time using her Christian name. The entire soul of the man, every particle of his entity, had entered into the saying of that name.

Startled, she turned to learn the reason for his vehemence; that voice had spoken so compellingly to her eyes, ears, heart and body, and had sought out every resistance and overcome it. Her eyes, held captive to his gaze, were wide with question.

"I love you," he continued with quiet masterfulness, as one who, staking all on one throw of the dice, dispenses with pretense and braggadocio in the face of despair. "Listen to me. I would make you happy. I'd be your devoted slave, till white-haired, aged and blissful, life should pass from us gently as the echoes of a happy song of spring."

"You make it so hard for me," she said pleadingly.

"Forgive me, sweetheart, but love will not be denied," he answered. "Let the King have Krovitch, and you come with me." His face was close to hers, his heart was slowly, strongly closing on her own fluttering heart.

She felt that, unless she could at once throw off the spell, in another minute she would be limply lying in his arms in complete surrender to his plea. For a long eternity it seemed that, strive as she would, she could not conquer herself. Then she sat erect; the victory was won.

"I cannot; I cannot," she replied tensely, the last modicum of will summoned to resist what he sought and she desired. "The King"—she began, bethinking her of her reason; "you know that he is not always prudent. Mine is a hot-headed though loyal people. I must be by to guide him—for Krovitch. But, ah, 'twill be with a heavy heart!"

He leaned across from his saddle. "I care not for Krovitch so much as you do. Tell me that you love me."

She turned away her face that the eye of the man might not see and be blinded by the white light of the woman's love which shone in her own countenance.

"Say it, Trusia," he urged; "say it for my soul's peace."

With a royal pride in the confession, she turned her head, meeting his regard with level eyes.

"I love you, Calvert," she responded simply.

Carrick was far behind. Though she struggled faintly, he drew her to him. Her face was turned up to his. Her eyes shone misty, dark and wonderful, like the reflection of stars on the shimmering waters of a lake. They illumined his soul. Her lips for the first time received a kiss from any lover. Then cheek to burning cheek, they passed the crest of a little hill and rode slowly down its thither side.

Like an accusation, from some place behind them, rang out the unmistakable clang of sword on sword. They reined in their horses to listen.

"Carrick," hazarded Trusia, voicing the premonition paralyzing both. Then, forgetful of self, in the chivalrous creed of her race, she pointed back in the direction of the noise. "Go," she commanded, "he needs you."

"But you?" he demurred, his first thought, lover-like, being for her safety. His eyes fell approvingly upon the thick covert by the roadside. He nodded suggestively toward it.

"Yes, I'll be safe—I'll hide," she promised eagerly; "now go." He fairly lifted his horse from its feet as he swung it around. In mighty bounds it carried him over the crest of the hill.

Two hundred yards away, Carrick could be seen defending himself gamely against the combined attack of three mounted men. Something, even at that distance, about their uncouth horses and absurdly high saddles, sent a shiver of recognition through Carter. He had seen thousands of their ilk along the Neva. The trio of strangers were Russian Cossacks. How had they passed the Krovitch outposts some miles back? The boldness of their onslaught argued the presence of reinforcements in the neighborhood. Could it be part of a reconnoissance in force? The sudden memory of the passing of the invisible army in the darkness came back to Carter with sinister meaning. He realized that it had been an invasion by a Russian army. Krovitch had been betrayed—by Josef. Carrick was in danger.

He roweled the horse's side. The animal, smarting under the punishment, plunged forward like some mad thing. Settling firmly back in his saddle for the crash to come, Carter drew his sabre with the yell that had swept the Americans up San Juan Hill and the Spaniards out of Cuba.

One Cossack, startled at the unexpected shout, turned his head for an instant in the direction of the approaching succor. It served for Carrick. Like a tongue of lightning his nimble sword entered the tough brown throat. Even from that distance the American could distinguish the "Ht" of the brute as he fell, lifeless, in the road. In order to make short work of the agile swordsman, the other two closed grimly in. The Cockney had had some difficulty in disengaging his blade from the falling man, permitting his adversaries to push their ponies so close to his sides that he could work only with a shortened blade. Appreciating what terrific additional handicap this would be to Carrick, Carter was yet scarcely prepared for the immediate tragedy that followed. Like the phantasmagoria of dreams, he saw the Cockney, cut, slashed, and pierced, fall heavily from his horse.

Just a second too late, he burst upon them. With the yell of a baffled animal Carter hurled himself upon the nearest Cossack. His fury was volcanic. Terrified by such titanic rage the pair gave way as to something superhuman, wielding an irresistible sword. Blood-lust made him see everything through a mist, red and stinging. He was a Cave Man. His opponents were pigmies who shrank back, appalled, by his murderous might. One Slav saw death beckon him, so fell, wild-eyed, to the ground, his neck spurting a fountain of blood. The other, too paralyzed with terror to fight or flee, stood irresolutely in the mid-road, his ugly face twitching with an idiotic grin. Carter, hell in his heart, rode fiercely against his horse. The Cossack raised a futile blade. Carter battered it down with vengeful satisfaction, driving its point through the fellow's heart.

The last of the Russian trio lay dead upon the ground, but Carter, in short nervous excursions, rode back and forth as he searched for new prey. The mood for killing—and killing—was upon him. He was a primitive savage.

His horse shied violently and stood still. Blinded with rage, the rider would have wreaked his unreasoning hatred on the animal who, even for a second, had stopped the ceaseless, prowling movements inseparable from the man's strange jungle mood. With a curse he drove his spurs deep. The poor brute quivered, but would not budge. Carter looked ahead of him to ascertain the cause, determined if it was a living obstacle, to batter, slash, and cut it into nothingness.

He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving to regain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes and sanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.

"I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his hand heavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sob choked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urged as a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterly against him.

Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does exist between men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of the dying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.

"But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved her life." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.

"Her Grace is safe, then?"

Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, nodded affirmatively.

"It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.

"Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the other shook his head in resignation to the inevitable.

"She's a lydey—you understand—but would it be too great a shock—to 'er—for me to speak to 'er—before—before—I croak?" he stammered wistfully.

"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to a dying man.