aul never quite knew how he retraced the distance to the Vseslavitch mansion. The combined effects of the blow he had received at the hands of the treacherous servant, the fall at the gate, and the long hours of mental anguish he had undergone, were quite enough to befog his brain. He rode back reeling in his saddle, and once in his bed he stayed there for two days before he was himself again.

When he joined the others at last he found that the household had recovered its equanimity. They had feared at first some serious consequences as a result of the fight at the chÂteau, with three people lying dead there. But the Frenchman had apparently decided that his own precious skin would be safer if the matter were hushed up with as little ado as possible. He did not know, it appeared, that Baxter had not been killed by the shot from Boris's revolver, and he had no wish to admit any connection with that affair. Accordingly, as Peter learned later, Virot had reported to the authorities that Boris had shot Madame Estelle and Michael during a fit of jealousy, and then, seized with remorse, had taken his own life.

The whole bearing of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch and her brother had changed—Paul noticed that immediately. Now that with Boris's death the cause of their former disquiet had been removed forever they were two entirely different persons. It made Paul's heart glad to hear the buoyant note in Natalie's voice as she talked with them gaily. And his own spirits rose as well, for now, he thought, the obstacle to his suit had been brushed aside.

That day passed quickly, for there was much to talk about. Alexis Vseslavitch was still there, for he had refused to leave while Paul seemed in any danger. And the four discussed at length the events of those two memorable nights.

That night Paul went once more with Natalie to the garden. As the soft night received them in its warm embrace, it seemed to Paul that in that spot lay all the glory of the earth, and a whole Heaven besides. For very joy, he could have died while looking into her eyes. How madly he loved her! How beautiful she was! As he gazed at her pale face, shining forth from her dark tresses, it seemed to Paul like the very moon above, gleaming from the dusky clouds. He took her cool hand and pressed it to his eyes, till the ringing in his heart was still. All nature seemed enchanted. For a time, Paul could not speak. He only knew that God had created men to admire the glories of the world, and that here was a wonderful night—and a no less wonderful woman.

Once more they sat down upon the bench where they had talked two short days before—but what a difference! Then his heart was sorely troubled—now all was peace.

Like a sea of life, Spring covered the world. The snowy blossom-foam fluttered on the trees; all was bathed in a wondrous hazy glow. Everywhere miracles were working. And then Paul awoke from his dream and spoke.

"Natalie!" he said, "I cannot part from you. I have told you that I love you." And then with moist eyes and flaming lips he cried: "Be mine—and love me!"

Oh! then fell the evening gold upon Paul's soul! Like a fairy bell came the sound of her voice upon his ears:

"My Knight of Love," she said, "what wouldst thou have more?"

And at those words, Paul folded her within his arms.

Later as they sat there in the moonlight, she told Paul more of the unworthy marriage which had been so nearly forced upon her; how Boris being heir-apparent of a Balkan state—Sovna—had been able to enlist the help of the Tsar in coercing her. Many of the Sovnian subjects were Slavs who had emigrated from her own province and the Tsar felt that such a union would do much toward cementing the friendship between the two countries. As for Boris, political reasons had little to do with the suit. Her fortune was all he cared for. And at the thought of his perfidy, so nearly triumphant, she trembled anew with horror.

And then as Paul comforted her, he told her with amusement how he had interpreted the note that she had written him in Paris—that he had thought her a secret agent of the Dalmatian government.

The lady laughed at that.

"And when, pray, were you disillusioned?" she asked him. "Two days ago you called me 'Princess'—in the garden here. How did you know that?"

Paul looked at her in amazement.

"Princess!" he repeated. And then he remembered that he had used the word—as an endearing name, that seemed so well to fit his love.

"What do you mean, my Natalie?" he cried. "Are you really of royal blood?"

"Yes, Paul," she answered. "You did not know it then? I wanted to appear to you as a commoner—just a normal, every day woman. And see! you loved me when you thought I was a mere servant! That is the wonderful part of it all to me."

Yet Paul's heart sank as the possible meaning of the news started forth to his consciousness. Was not her rank an impassable barrier between them? he asked himself. Must he again return to England to drag out the rest of life alone, with his love the width of a continent away?

He asked these things with a rush of words that fell from his trembling lips.

"Ah, Paul!" the lady said, caressingly, "fear not. I am tired of being only a princess! The world sees but the glittering show of royalty, and does not know it for the sham it really is. The trappings, the gorgeous robes that kings and queens assume when they are crowned hide bleeding hearts and sorrowful breasts. I have seen too much of the cares of state—the awful tragedy—the bitter grief. Long since I decided that I would have no more of it. Better a dinner of herbs, where love is, you know. And so Peter and I came here to this quiet spot—the old home of my mother—and took her name. And here we thought to live like simple gentle-folk, till Boris broke rudely into our Arcadia.

"And now, Paul," she continued, looking up at him with the love-light shining in her eyes, "the time has come when you may know all. Forgive me, dear, for the long waiting. But I had to be sure as you will see."

She drew from her bosom a folded paper and placed it in his hand.

Paul opened it, and saw it was a letter. He held it closer, and then, in the white moonlight pouring from that Southern sky—great God!—he saw the writing of his Lady of Long Ago!

And this is what Paul read:

"My Sweet Sister:

Paul sat like one who saw a vision. Unknowingly he plucked the young buds from the rose-tree by the bench—and crushed them. Far away mourned a delirious nightingale; and a weeping willow softly shivered. The moon looked down from the midst of heaven; the infinite celestial vault increased until it became yet more infinite; it burned and breathed; all the earth gleamed with silvery lustre; the air was wonderful, at once fresh and overpowering, full of sweetness; it was an ocean of perfumes.

Divine night! Magical night! The forests, full of shade, were motionless, and cast their vast shadows. The pools were calm; the cold and darkness of the waters lay mournfully enclosed in the dark walls of the garden. The virgin thickets of young cherry trees timidly stretched their roots into the chill earth, and from time to time shook their leaves, as if they were angry and indignant that the beautiful Zephyr, the wind of night, glided suddenly toward them and covered them with kisses.

All the landscape slept. On high all breathed—all was beautiful—solemn. The vastness and wondrousness possessed Paul's soul; and crowds of silvery visions emerged softly from their hiding places. Divine night! Magical night!

Suddenly all came to life; the forests, the pools, the steppes. The majestic voice of the nightingale burst forth again, now in a paeon of praise. It seemed as if the moon, to listen to it, stood still in the midst of heaven. Then the song ceased. All was silent.

Paul and his lady rose then, and hand in hand, walking softly as if in the presence of one that was not dead, but sleeping, they sought the house together. And as they reached the doorway, Paul saw there for the first time, inscribed on the lintel in letters of gold, now strangely silvered in that marvellous light:

THE END.